the 13th Hour Read Free Page A

leaned forward.
"I understand the crippling grief you must be feeling. It's horrible that they don't even allow you a moment of mourning before they start trying to steer you into a confession." The man paused. "When did justice start to become about winning and losing, an us-against-them mentality, instead of the revelation and uncovering of truth?"
Nick looked the man up and down.
"Have you seen the file on you, their case?" the man said. "It's detailed; I doubt they'll even offer you a plea deal."
"I didn't kill my wife," Nick finally said.
"I know, but that's not how they see it. They see motive, the weapon," the man said, casting his eyes at the gun sitting in the middle of the table. "They're hoping for a confession to avoid the extra paperwork."
"How do you know?"
"They'll spend twelve hours slowly wearing you down getting you to confess to avoid the weeks of meeting with the DA for months of trial preparation." The man paused. "You'll be convicted, spend the rest of your days in prison, mourning the death of your wife, always wondering what really happened."
"So, if you're not an attorney, why are you here?"
The man's warm eyes remained fixed on Nick as he took a deep breath, his chest expanding before finally exhaling.
"You can still save her."
Nick stared back at the man, the words not making sense. He leaned closer for clarity. "What?"
"If you could get out of here, if you could save her, would you?"
"She's dead," Nick said with confusion, as if the man were unaware of the fact.
"Are you sure?" the man said, looking more closely at Nick. "Things aren't always what they seem."
"Are you saying my wife is alive?" Nick's voice cracked. "How? I saw--"
The man reached into the inner breast pocket of his Ralph Lauren jacket, pulled out a sealed letter, and slid it across the table to Nick.
Nick looked at the two-way mirror.
"Don't worry." The man smiled. "No one is watching."
"How do you know?"
"They're busy with the plane crash. Two hundred and twelve dead. This town, like your life, has been turned on its head."
Nick felt his world spinning, as if he were in that twilight between waking and sleep where the mind is peppered with incongruous images and thoughts that desperately try to coalesce into a coherent notion.
He looked down at the envelope and slid his finger under the glue flap--
"Don't open that now." The man laid his hand upon Nick's.
"Why?"
"Wait until you're out of here." The man withdrew his hand as he leaned back in the chair.
"Out of here?"
"You've got twelve hours."
Nick looked at the clock on the wall: it was 9:51. "Twelve hours for what?"
The man pulled a gold pocket watch from within his jacket and flipped it open to reveal an old-fashioned clock face. "Time is not something to waste, a particularly true statement in your case." The man closed the watch and handed it to Nick. "Seeing you're short one timepiece, and the pressure you're under, you'd best hold on to that and keep an eye on the hour hand."
"Who are you?"
"Everything you need to know is in that letter. But as I said, don't open it until you're out of here."
Nick looked around the room, at the two-way glass, at the decrepit steel door. "How the hell am I supposed to get out of here?"
"You can't save her life if you're in here."
"What are you saying? I don't understand, where is she?"
The man looked at the clock on the wall as he stood up. "You better start thinking how you're getting out; you've only got nine minutes."
"Wait--"
"Good luck." The man tapped the door twice. "Keep an eye on that watch. You have twelve hours. In the thirteenth hour all will be lost, her fate, your fate will be sealed. And she'll have died a far worse death than you already think."
The door opened and the man slipped out, leaving Nick sitting alone. He stared at the envelope, tempted to open it. But he quickly tucked it, along with the gold watch, into the breast pocket of his jacket, knowing that if they were found he would never know what the man was talking