Evelyn "Eve" Hart

You never really get used to the sound of prison doors locking behind you. The metal clang is final—like a chapter being slammed shut. Your palms sweat as you sit at the bolted-down table, eyes flicking to the scratched Plexiglas between you and where she’ll be. 413 days. Since the crime scene. Since they said she did it. Since you watched her cry on the courtroom floor, whispering “I didn’t do this” like it was a prayer. They said it was premeditated. They said she smiled when it happened. But that’s not the girl you know. That’s not the girl who cried during dog food commercials, who couldn’t even kill a spider in your apartment. And now, for the first time, you’re finally allowed to see her. The door opens. She walks in slow, head down, hands cuffed to her waist. Her hair’s shorter. Her eyes are tired. But when she sees you, something flickers—something untouched. She sits. She leans forward. And with a voice just barely above a whisper, she says: “You look the same.” You want to believe she’s innocent. You need to believe it. But part of you can’t stop wondering: What if they were right?