The sunlight gleaming in the coffee shop windows catches my gaze. The sun going down gives me the signal that it’s time to leave. I get out of my seat and walk to the exit, snagging some chocolate-covered pretzels on the way out of the building. I won’t be back in here for a while after pulling this stunt. The door chimes as it’s opened, and I step out into the warmth of the evening. Walking home alone never bothered me much—just one foot in front of the other and stillness in the air. I was always alone; my father left when I was young, and my mother was never home—not even a cat to keep me company since my mother and I are allergic. I would say I like being alone, but it can be unsettling, to say the least. I pass the local shops with my head down, trying not to get anyone's attention. The last thing I need is for people to bother me in this state. The shallow cracks in the concrete have never looked so deep from this angle. The air is getting crisp, and I rush home before I catch any cold-related illnesses.

Walking up the stairs to the white house with black shutters has never felt more daunting. There’s a black SUV parked in the driveway that I've never seen before. I hesitate before I grab the smooth metal door handle. "Prepare yourself," I subconsciously say. The door swings open, and there before me is a police officer dressed in black.

"Sir, you need to come with us." He grabs my shirt sleeve and tries to drag me to his car with the now-flashing lights.

"What’s going on? I didn’t do anything!" Fighting against him, I manage to break free but fall to the ground.

"Get in the car, Mr. Smith." His voice was stern and alarming. Nervously, I complied with his wishes and got into the back seat. The AC was on and blasting at my face. I rub my arms to try and stay warm, but nothing seems to do the trick. The officer gets into the front seat and takes off. No word was said for the entirety of the drive to the station.

The officer puts me in handcuffs that pinch my skin when we arrive and guides me into the station. "Sit here until someone comes to get you." The station smelled old like it hadn't been dusted in years. Everyone has eyes on me; they know something I don’t. What do they know? This question leaves me wondering, Why am I in cuffs? Did they find out I stole pretzels? They were only eight dollars; I’ll pay them back, no worries." Dylan Smith." An officer with bright blonde hair and thin-wired glasses takes me into a room with a long mirrored wall along with a table that has a chair on each side. There’s a yellow folder on the table with a water cup to the right of it. The lights are bright and white; I feel as if they’re focused right on me like spotlights. The officer who brought me into the room sits at one of the chairs and gestures for me to join him.

"Do you know why you’re here?" His face was stone and emotionless.

"Do I look like I know why I’m here?" I was on edge, and this officer wasn’t helping calm my nerves.

"Your mother was allegedly murdered in her home, and well, you are the only one who could have been there. Everyone else’s alibi checks out besides yours, Mr. Smith." Now I know that my mother was murdered, and they think I had something to do with it.

"Why would I harm my mother? She’s my mom, for God's sake. I wasn’t even home today." The officer raises his eyebrow, opens the yellow folder, and starts writing.

"What are you writing down?"

"Just sit quietly until I ask you a question, kid."

"This whole bad cop thing is not working for me, officer; can I get another person?" He slams his hands on the table and stares straight into my eyes. I could tell he wore cologne; it smelled like sandalwood and vaguely reminded me of someone I used to know.

"Just be quiet so I can leave and be on with my day already." I nodded and put my head down so I didn't have to look into his cornflower eyes anymore.

The room got colder the longer I was seated; I figured they mistook the interrogation room for the freezer. As I ponder my new thought, the officer stands as someone new enters the room.

"Nice to meet you, son; unfortunately, we had to meet under these circumstances." The man was tall and had a dark complexion. As he got closer, I could smell alcohol lingering on his breath.

"My name is Sergeant Carrelus; I already know yours, so there's no need to waste your breath. What are your whereabouts from noon till seven o'clock?" This man seemed like he knew what he was doing. His voice was low, but not low enough to not hear him, just enough to be understood.

"Well, Sergeant, I left home around ten to hang out with a friend."

"Mhmm, and the name of this friend is what exactly?"

"His name is Elijah Camacho, and after I left home, we went to go to a movie downtown. Then we went to the coffee shop that's diagonal from the cinema and got coffee." The officer and sergeant were glaring at me.

"You know it’s rude to stare." They both looked at each other and back at me.

"Dylan, be honest with us." Was the officer trying to get me to falsely accuse myself?

"I am being honest; shouldn’t my story be checked out? Bring Eli in here; he’ll tell you the same story."

"Mr. Smith," the sergeant said sternly, "your friend said he never saw you today, and security footage only shows you walking into a coffee shop around five. Alone." I tried to move my hands but forgot about the handcuffs.

"I would like a lawyer." They nodded and left the room.

When they left the room, the air felt more still than before. I tried to imagine the headlines in the newspaper: ‘Josie Smith, killed by son in her own home.' What would people think of me? It’s not like I have a reputation to keep; nobody knew of me in school. I was quiet and only talked when I was spoken to. I needed a lawyer to tell me what to say without giving myself away. For all they know, I didn’t do it; I only got my story wrong, that's all. There was a knock on the door, and I turned around to find a man with a briefcase. This must be the lawyer they set up for me. He had auburn hair and a goofy smile; he didn’t look professional, but then again, who would want to be in a room with a suspected killer?

"Brian Jhonson, nice to meet you, sir." He held out his hand for me to shake but quickly took it away when he noticed I was handcuffed.

"So you’re my lawyer?" "What'd they do, pick the one that would definitely make me seem guilty?"

"Hey, we haven’t even been acquainted yet. Don’t be so quick to judge, sir." He seemed friendly—a little too friendly to be a lawyer.

"So, did you do it?"

"No, I didn’t do it; can you ask them to take me out of these cuffs? They’re pinching me." He eyed my hands and shook his head.

"No can do; for all I know, you’ll try and jump out that window to try and get away." I felt like he knew me too well already. I wonder if he thinks I did it.

"Hey Brian, do you think I did it?" His eyes were now on the papers in the yellow folder. He looked up at me.

"All evidence points to you, kid. I don’t make the rules." He gave a shrug and fell to the seat; his mannerisms were relaxed. As we talked, he told me what to say and what not to say to the judge. The more I got to know him, the easier it was to trust him. We talked until Sergeant Carrelus walked into the room to say the time was up. Brian stood up, gave me a nod, and left the room.

I ended up having to stay the night at the police station in a containment cell that had a small, stiff mattress barely big enough for me and a wall with steel bars blocking my escape. It was too quiet in the building for people to still be wandering around, but I still felt as if someone was watching me. I lay down on the bed and rolled over to face the wall. They gave me a blanket as thin as a sheet to cover up with for the night. The moonlight shone through the window. I wish I could take a picture of how beautiful it was. The moon was a quarter of the way full but still lit up the sky just as brightly.

The night eventually passed, and I was woken up by the banging on the bars. It was the officer from before, with the same hairstyle and the same glasses. "Come with me; the judge and your lawyer are waiting." I got out of bed and stretched; every bone in my body cracked in sync with one another. I could feel the bags underneath my eyes and already tell that my morning breath smelled sour. I sleepily walk from the cell to the courtroom and take a seat in the front row, facing the judge. His plaque on his tall desk said ‘Judge Gerald’ in bold letters.

"Welcome and good morning to the jury." He stood up and greeted everyone in the room with a smile. His hair was graying, and he wore a black robe that revealed a blue polo underneath.

"Case 425 to the stands." Brian nudged my arm.

"That’s us, kid; do you remember what I told you?"

"I think so." I took a deep breath and let out a sigh. I stood and walked to the podium along with Brian and thought carefully of my next words.

"Dylan Smith’s case, 425, is suspected murder in the first degree." The courtroom had eyes on me that were burning holes in the back of my head.

"Mr. Smith, I’ve read your case files, and I would like to know what you plead."

"Sir.” The jury was still, waiting for me to continue my statement.

“I plead guilty." The room filled with gasps as I looked at Brian and mouthed, ‘I’m sorry.' Officers grabbed at my wrists and took me away from the room. As I left, I caught the familiar scent of sandalwood that I had smelled previously, and to my left, I found my father seated in the stands, watching me be taken away.