Page 16 of Into These Eyes
I know every intimate detail about the page I hold. Every crease, every word, every letter.
She wrote to me. I can still barely believe it as I stare down at her crisp, cursive style. It’s simple and to the point. And it fills my soul with hope and dread in equal measure.
Gavin Lake,
I wish to request a session with you under the government’s Restorative Justice program. Face to face. Unless you oppose my request, a meeting will be arranged as soon as possible.
Jamie Evans
Of course I accepted. For two reasons: To tell her what really happened that night so she can understand that her mother’s killer is still out there. And to see her again. In the flesh.
In less than half an hour, I’ll be in a room with her.
Apart from the trial, this feels like the most important moment of my life. No one ever listened to me before. No one believed me. No one cared. Soon, Jamie Evans will be my captive audience. And once I’m face to face with her, I’m certain I can convince her of the truth. As long as she looks at me, she’ll see it.
She has to.
Folding her note into the small square that fits neatly in my pocket, I lie back on my bed and stare at the two sketches of her eyes taped to the wall. Eyes I’ve sketched whenever I felt the struggle of injustice bubbling to the surface, making me want to lose control and destroy everything. I’m positive, if it wasn’t for those arresting eyes, I might have actually committed murder in here. As time passed, I began drawing those eyes in different ways. In ways I wanted to see her look at me. I drew them with sympathy. I drew them with sorrow. And I drew them with love.
She’s saved me so many times, yet she has no idea. I don’t care that she hates me. It’s a hatred based on a lie.
Today, that lie ends.
I stare at the first drawing and, next to that, the most recent. Hate and love. Side by side.
I can’t wait to see how she looks at me today. When I tell her the truth.
As I imagine her eyes locking with mine, the only other reason I’m still alive walks into our cell.
Benny Carter. My long-term cellmate. He’s an old, cranky goat on the outside, but inside, his heart knows no depths. At sixty, he’s been in prison for almost forty years. First for killing his stepfather after coming home to find the bastard beating his mother, then again for killing an inmate only a year before he was due for release for his first conviction.
He took me under his wing when I was transferred from remand to Goulburn’s supermax security prison after my sentencing. He taught me how to survive without ending up like him. And he became my surrogate father. Benny’s done more for me than my own ever did. For one, he believes me. Out of all the inmates who say they’re innocent, he actually believes me. For that reason alone, I’d do anything for the guy.
Only thing is, Benny’s the type who won’t let me. I’ve wanted to step in and protect him with my fists on many occasions, but he’s always refused, giving me that look that tells me I’ll be on his shit-list if I even think about it. So, I’ve listened to him, I’ve taken his advice, and I’ve managed to stay clean and out of trouble right up to this moment.
“You swoonin’ over those bloody eyes again?” he asks, leaning against the doorjamb.
“There’s no swooning going on. Unless, of course, you want me to move so you can take my spot.”
He scoffs, but we both know I’ve caught him doing exactly that on a few occasions. Swooning. Nothing else. Thank fuck.
“How long ‘til ya see the princess?” he asks.
Her visit today is one of the few things we don’t agree on.
“Five, ten minutes.”
“And ya still goin’ ahead with that insanity of yours?”
“It’s not insane. It’s the truth.”
We’ve had this discussion ever since I received her letter. But, apparently, here we go again.
“Not ta her, it’s not,” Benny reminds me for the hundredth time.
“Too bad.”
Turning away from the sketches, I find Benny looming above me, his face deadly serious.
