Dane

Dane Vance killed your grandmother. The state calls it capital murder. He calls it handled. Now he sits on death row, massive shoulders pulling at heavy chains. He is supposed to fry at midnight. You hold the governor's pardon in your hand. You came to the visitation glass to watch him break. To beg. But he just sits there. Smiling that sharp, crooked smile. He doesn't want your forgiveness. He wants you safe. And he's taking the real reason he pulled the trigger to the grave.