Chapter 282

Timothy's heart raced as the officers escorted him through the towering corridors of the courthouse. He tried to mask his unease, but the fear that gripped his gut was undeniable. Each step echoed like a grim reminder of his uncertain fate.

He was thrust into a cold, dimly lit holding cell. The iron bars slammed shut behind him with a jarring finality. Timothy's eyes swept the room, taking in the bare walls and the hard, wooden bench in front of him. A bag with a change of clothes was thrown his way, and he’d barely gotten a grip on it before being shoved backward.

"What's going on? Why am I here?" Timothy demanded, his voice edged with frustration as the cell doors slid shut. His pulse thrummed in his temples as he looked at the two officers standing behind the steel bars.

"We don't need to explain anything to the likes of you," sneered one of the officers before they departed, leaving Timothy as he gripped the bag of clothes in one hand and sighed.

He changed into the dull, prison-issued attire, the fabric coarse against his skin. He wondered how many men had worn it before him, and how many of them actually had blood on their hands. He paced the confined space, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and outrage.

"Why me?" he muttered, his voice barely audible over the distant echoes of clinking chains and muffled conversations from neighboring cells.

Timothy's mind raced through memories, searching for any trace of an explanation. How could he have been accused of such a thing? His thoughts lingered on the events leading up to his arrest, searching for a flicker of insight that could provide a shred of hope.

The chorus of murmurs and laughter from the other inmates began to seep through the barriers of his spiraling thoughts. Their mocking tones sliced through the air, aimed squarely at him.

"Hey, look who's joined the party! Timothy, the lady-killer!" one jeered, his voice dripping with malice.

The words struck Timothy like a physical blow. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he struggled to maintain composure. He approached the bars and attempted to peek out at the other cells beside his.

"Shut up," Timothy spat, his jaw clenched in defiance. But his retort only seemed to stoke their amusement further. He wanted so badly to challenge them to their faces, but they seemed content with speaking ill of him while hidden away.

"Aw, what's the matter, Timothy? Afraid your reputation's finally catching up with you?" another taunted, the words echoing cruelly in the confined space.

Timothy fought to drown out their taunts, to retain a semblance of dignity in the face of their scorn. He pressed himself against the cold bars, his eyes fixed on a desk near the far wall.

"I'm not what you think," he muttered to himself, though he knew it was useless arguing against people already biased against him. He hadn’t seen the news yet, but he could just imagine the picture they were painting of him

Minutes stretched into agonizing hours as Timothy wrestled with his thoughts, each passing moment amplifying the weight of his predicament. The suffocating uncertainty clawed at him, threatening to consume his resolve.

He started to wonder if Evie had seen the news. Only she and Mr. Fitzgerald knew about Timothy going to see Stella, as far as he knew. He had told Evie is justifications for going there, but it certainly looked suspicious.

In the darkness of the cell, amid the chorus of mocking voices, Timothy clung to the idea that Evie would believe him. He wanted to call her as soon as he got there, but they’d denied him any outside communication. He couldn’t know for sure if she had even attempted to call him.

"This can’t be happening," he whispered fiercely, squeezing his eyes shut as the tension crept into his temples. He began pacing again. "How the hell am I supposed to get out of this?"

Timothy’s restless pacing came to an abrupt halt as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the bleak corridor. He glanced up, his heart pounding in hopeful anticipation. Maybe it was Evie, here to see if he was okay.

However, the bars of his cell clanked open to reveal not the face he longed for but the stern countenance of his father. Timothy's hopes deflated as quickly as they had surged, replaced by a mix of frustration and resignation.

“Dad?” Timothy’s voice wavered, more surprised than nervous that his father had actually taken time out of his day to come see him.

Kamran looked into the cell at Timothy, and the wrinkles on his forehead deepened. “How did all this happen, Timothy? What’s going on?”

Timothy straightened, his resolve oddly rekindled by his father’s presence. “I don’t know. I think someone’s setting me up. I didn’t even touch her.”

Kamran's furrowed brow betrayed his disbelief. “Set up? By whom?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out!” Timothy’s frustration spilled into his words. “But they won’t tell me anything. Just threw me in here without a shred of evidence!”

“I’ve already taken steps.” Kamran’s voice cut through Timothy's agitation. “I’ve arranged for a lawyer.”

Timothy’s eyes widened in surprise. “Already? Who?”

Kamran paused, meeting Timothy’s gaze with an intensity that left no room for argument. “I’ve taken care of it, Timothy. You need legal counsel, and I’ve made sure someone capable is representing you.”

“I don’t trust anyone else,” Timothy retorted, a flicker of defiance in his voice. “I want Evie. She’ll understand the situation.”

Kamran's expression hardened. “That's not possible. There would be a conflict of interest, given your relationship.”

Before Timothy could protest further, the officers reappeared, their presence just as scrutinizing as before. Officer Dixon narrowed his eyes and smirked.

“You want to talk?” he said as he rested a hand on his belt. “Let’s talk, pretty boy. You’re coming with us.”

Timothy and Kamran exchanged glances. “What for?” asked Timothy before his father could.

“We’re just going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to give us answers. Sound simple enough?” said Officer Murphy. They unlocked his cell and cuffed him before he could object.

“Remember, Timothy,” Kamran’s voice carried a fatherly urgency foreign to Timothy’s ears, “Don’t say anything until your lawyer arrives. Understand?”

Timothy nodded, still at a loss for words. He followed the officers, his steps heavy with the weight of uncertainty.

The interrogation room greeted Timothy with a stark contrast to the confines of his cell. Cold steel furniture contrasted with the sterile walls, creating an atmosphere of intimidation. Another two officers stood at the ready, their gazes fixed upon him as he was ushered inside.

“Sit down,” one of the officers commanded, gesturing toward a rigid chair opposite them.

Timothy complied, his hands trembling with a mix of nerves and suppressed anger. He met their gaze with a steely determination, refusing to cave under their accusatory stare.

"Mr. Timothy, you're here today to answer some questions regarding the recent murder of Stella Fitzgerald. We need your cooperation," one of the officers stated in a cold, detached tone.

Timothy swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He glanced around the room, feeling the weight of their stares. "I demand to speak to my lawyer," he declared, trying to assert his rights.

"You'll get your chance, but for now, we need you to answer a few preliminary questions," the other officer interjected, a note of impatience creeping into his voice.

Timothy's pulse quickened and his palms grew. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to blurt out his side of the story. But his father’s words echoed in his mind—wait for the lawyer.