Sleeping Truth

The iron gates of Riverside State Penitentiary groaned open at exactly 6:30 AM, and I stepped into what they call freedom.

The March morning was cruel—spring pretending to arrive while winter still had its claws in everything. Mist clung to the razor wire like ghosts refusing to let go.

I dragged my canvas bag behind me, the same one I'd carried in eight years ago.

Everything I owned fit in there: a few worn clothes and a yellowed piece of paper that had kept me alive through the worst nights.

The sunlight hit my face like a slap. After eight years of fluorescent bulbs and concrete walls, the world felt too bright, too real.

Freedom? I thought, squinting at the parking lot ahead. This wasn't freedom. This was just the beginning of my real prison sentence.

The memories came anyway—they always did. Day one, when I was nineteen and stupid enough to believe the truth mattered.

The judge reading my sentence: eight years for arson and manslaughter. The letter from my neighbor three months later: [Your parents couldn't take the shame anymore.]

Eight years of learning that the world didn't care about your truth when everyone else's lies were prettier.

I was still adjusting to the light when I heard the rumble of an engine. A red Dodge pickup—freshly washed, chrome gleaming—pulled into the lot like it owned the place. My stomach dropped even before I saw him step out.

Jake Morrison. Still playing dress-up in his fire department uniform, still thinking a badge made him a hero. The sight of him made my hands clench into fists, muscle memory from countless prison fights where showing weakness meant getting hurt.

He walked toward me carrying ninety-nine red roses like some romcom prince, and I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Maybe both.

"Lisa!" He dropped to one knee right there on the cracked asphalt, pulling out a ring box like this was some fairy tale instead of the parking lot where my life had officially ended eight years ago.

"I've waited 8 years for this moment!" he said.

The diamond caught the morning light—two carats, probably.

He continued, "Lisa, I've got everything planned. St. Mary's Church for the wedding, and I booked us a honeymoon in Hawaii! We can start over!"

I stared at him. Same pretty-boy face that had convinced a jury I was guilty. Same earnest expression he'd worn when he lied under oath about seeing me light that fire. Same hands that had touched me, loved me, then destroyed me without blinking.

"Jake," I said, my voice coming out flat and cold. "Do you think eight years can wash the smell of blood off someone?"

His face faltered.

That's when the Porsche Cayenne pulled up.

Amanda has a sick sense of timing. She stepped out like she was walking a red carpet, all flowing blonde hair and a white Chanel suit.

She looked exactly like successful entrepreneur, self-made woman, inspiration to young girls everywhere. What a fucking joke.

"Lisa, darling!" Amanda rushed toward me, arms outstretched, and I had to fight every instinct not to step back. Her hands were soft when they grabbed mine, manicured nails perfect.

The Cartier bracelet on her wrist could have paid for my parents' funeral. The wedding ring on her finger—Jake's ring—made my throat close up.

"Prison life must have been so difficult," she said, voice dripping with fake concern. "Don't worry, Jake and I will take care of you."

Take care of me. Like I was a stray dog they'd found by the roadside.

Then she stumbled. A perfect, theatrical stumble that sent her sprawling toward the ground, making sure to grab at me as she fell. I saw it coming—I'd had eight years to think about Amanda's little performances—but I was too tired to dodge.

"Ow!" she cried out, loud enough for the small crowd of onlookers to hear. "Lisa, why did you push me?"

Jake was beside her in seconds, helping her up, his face darkening as he looked at me. "Eight years in prison made you this violent? Amanda's been sick, she can barely stand, and you push her?"

The old Lisa would have apologized. Would have stammered explanations and begged them to believe her. But that girl died somewhere between the guilty verdict and my parents' suicide note.

I looked at the roses scattered around Jake's feet, at Amanda's crocodile tears, at the little audience eating up this drama. Then I started picking up the roses, one by one.

And I tore them apart.

Petal by petal, I shredded those perfect red roses and let the pieces fall like blood drops on the concrete. Jake's mouth hung open. Amanda's performance faltered.

"Lisa, what are you—"

I dropped the diamond ring and brought my heel down hard. The crack echoed across the parking lot.

"Listen carefully, Jake," I said, my voice steady as a scalpel. "The Lisa who loved you died in prison eight years ago. What's standing in front of you now? She's just here for revenge."

Jake called out, "Lisa, you can't do this to me! I waited for you for eight years!"

I pulled out my phone and called a cab, not looking at either of them. "Then keep waiting. But I promise you won't like how this story ends."

The taxi arrived faster than I expected. As I slid into the backseat, I pulled out that yellowed piece of paper I'd carried for eight years—a marriage contract between Lisa Mitchell and Michael Crown.

"Where to, miss?" the driver asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

"Crown Manor," I said.

His eyebrows shot up. "The Crown estate? Miss, that young man's been in a coma for five years now."

Through the rear window, I watched Jake and Amanda grow smaller and smaller.

I smiled. "I know."

The taxi wound through half a mile of perfectly maintained gravel driveway, past manicured rose gardens.

It was time to meet my future husband.