Page 9 of Into These Eyes

Gavin

T he letter came ten days ago.

Holding it delicately, I run my fingertips over the lined white paper, its texture now resembling velvet, the fibres upright and soft after repeating the same action over and over again.

The paper remains completely silent as my fingers work on muscle-memory, unfolding it for the one-hundredth or ten-thousandth time.

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.

“You think, after sixteen years, she’s gonna listen ta you, nod her head, and thank ya? That, my friend, is fuckin’ delusional. As in, insane .”

“It’s my only chance,” I remind him. Again.

“If that intelligent brain can absorb anythin’ through that thick skull of yours, it’s this …

She doesn’t give a fuck about the truth.

All she wants is ta know the cunt who killed her mother has paid the price and he’s sorry.

You don’t act all remorseful when ya in that room with her, she’s gonna walk away hurt and gunnin’ for ya at your next parole hearin’. ”

“I know. You’ve told me all this before, remember?”

“I’m tellin’ ya again, because even though ya got your degree in that psycho-babble-bullshit, ya still don’t fuckin’ get it.”

“I’m not letting this opportunity go to waste.

I never got to tell my side on the stand.

No one’s ever heard it. Today, she’s going to hear it.

And I don’t give a shit whether she likes it or not.

The truth isn’t about how it makes us feel.

” I don’t usually lie to Benny, but now I’ve just told him two lies in one breath.

I do care about her reaction to the truth.

And I know the truth can really fuck shit up.

“You don’t wanna get outta here, is that it?” Benny presses.

“Of course I fucking do. But she needs to know what really happened. She’s living a lie. The real killer got away with it. Why wouldn’t she want to know that?”

“Cause all she wants is closure. She didn’t request this Restorative Justice crap ta listen to your side of things. She requested it so she’d feel better, not you. Why the fuck can’t ya see that?”

As I open my mouth to argue with him, I slam it shut.

Deep inside, I know he’s right. Trying to convince her of the truth will probably sentence me to another year, but I don’t think I can live with the truth locked away any longer.

If I follow Benny’s advice and show remorse, I might gain my freedom, but will I really be free if everyone still believes I’m guilty?

“Let’s go, Lake.” Raising my head, I find Janson, one of the friendlier correctional officers, standing in the doorway.

I rise and look the best man I’ve ever known in the eye. “The truth’s about to come out.”

As I skirt around him, Benny grabs my bicep and squeezes. A little too fucking hard.

“Don’t do it, Gav. Ya deserve ta get outta here. Tell her you’re sorry, you regret it, you’re as remorseful as fuck. Stick to the plan.”

The plan.

The fucking plan I’ve lied to him about for years. But I can’t let him know that.

I wrench out of his grasp, take a step back and shake my head. When I walk out of the cell, he yells after me, “When have I ever steered ya wrong?”

Never.

Fucking arsehole. Just has to rub it in, doesn’t he?

Following Janson down the metal steps and through the prison, a war rages within me. I know Benny’s right. But I also know, as insane as it is, I need to do this for my own sanity, my own integrity.

A year ago, I applied for my first parole hearing. I refused to admit I committed the murder I’d been charged with. Which in turn meant I refused to accept responsibility. On top of that, a statement from an anonymous victim of the crime demanded I remain incarcerated.

I’m certain that anonymous victim was Jamie Evans.

I never saw the same passionate hatred in her father’s eyes the few times he showed up at my trial. I’m pretty certain he wouldn’t make an effort to keep me in here.

It was her.

After Janson leads me into the room, I greet Chris, the counsellor I became close with while studying for my degree, and take a seat so I’m facing the door.

He’s already briefed me on how these meetings usually go.

He’ll only get involved if things get heated, otherwise, he’ll simply sit and listen.

He has no idea what I’m about to tell Jamie Evans.

Though he’s a great guy, I’m sure he’d never allow this meeting to take place if he knew. He doesn’t believe I’m innocent either.

But I’ve made up my mind. Even if it means failing my upcoming parole hearing, I’m going to blast her with the truth and pray that she can find it somewhere within herself to believe me.

When I hear the door unlock with a loud clack, my pulse goes haywire. As my breathing accelerates, sweat prickles my skin, my mouth desperate to spit out my story.

I sit up straight and run a hand over my bald head, suddenly remembering I don’t look like the nineteen-year-old kid she stared daggers at in a courtroom long ago.

I look like a scary motherfucking criminal.

The door swings inward. Janson enters first, eyeing me as he holds the door open and waits.

Then in she walks, heels clicking on the lino floor, shoulders squared, her gaze focused on Janson.

I devour her in an instant. That fiery auburn hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, the professional pencil skirt and silk top hugging the curves of her figure to perfection.

I avoid her legs, because, hell, I’m already losing the ability to think. But I might be too late.

Even from here, her scent wafts over me, filling every cell with the sweet, flowery fragrance of her perfume, awakening something deep inside me that’s been dormant for a long damn time. That distinctive feeling of coming alive .

Jesus. I’d forgotten all about the amazing scent of a woman, and my body’s responding like a fucking freight train.

As I sit there, drawing in a deep breath, she turns.

The moment her eyes lock with mine, I know I’m fucked.