Chapter 308

Nyla

I feel the cold metal of the handcuffs bite into my wrists as a guard escorts me down a long, fluorescent-lit corridor. The ec+ho of my footsteps seems impossibly loud, matching the thudding fear in my chest. I’ve been stuck in the county jail holding area for forty-eight hours—waiting to be arraigned and assigned. Now, it’s happening: with a sharp rap of the guard’s baton against metal, the heavy door clangs open. On the other side is the women’s block of the prison—my new and dreaded reality.

I’ve never heard a sound quite like the giant metal door sliding shut behind me. A shudder of finality ripples through my body. The cell block smells of disinfectant and stale air. Uniformed correctional officers stand at intervals along a wide hallway lined with barred cells. Somewhere farther down, I hear a burst of shrill laughter that dissolves into angry cursing. A knot tightens in my stomach.

“Name,” barks the short, stocky guard leading me, even though he’s reading my file on a tablet.

I clear my throat. “Nyla Thomas.”

He taps the screen. “Cell 16. Let’s keep it moving,” he says, motioning for me to walk ahead. His tone is dismissive—neither cruel nor kind, just weary, like new inmates are all the same to him. For me, however, nothing about this is routine.

As I make my way down the corridor, I feel countless eyes on me. Inmates peer through the bars of their cells. Some of their faces are curious or show something like pity; others look downright predatory. Whispers follow me:

“…That’s the one who—” “I saw her on the news—” “Rich murderess, right? Watch your back, girl!”

I force my gaze forward, determined not to react. My chest feels tight, and I try to focus on breathing steadily.

At last, we reach Cell 16. The guard takes out a massive ring of keys, finds the right one, and shoves it into the lock. With a screech and a bang, the barred door slides open. Inside, I see a single bunk bed, a small, scratched metal table attached to the wall, and a combined toilet-sink unit in the corner. A thin rectangle of light from a barred window slants across the floor.

A woman already occupies the cell, sitting on the lower bunk with her arms crossed. She’s tall and lean, with cropped black hair and a face that looks carved from stone. Tattoos line her forearms, their designs peeking out from the rolled sleeves of her prison jumpsuit.

Without missing a beat, the guard points at her. “Nyla Thomas, meet Josephine ‘Jo’ Merrell. You’ll be bunkmates.” Then he turns on his heel and heads off, the clang of the cell door echoing in my ears.

Jo gives me a once-over, eyes brimming with distrust. “So, you’re the new one,” she mutters. “Heard you’re a Stone princess or some shit. Big fancy house, big fancy job. Thought you had a fancy fiancé, too.”

My pulse stutters. I part my lips to speak, but my mouth feels like sandpaper. “I— I’m not sure you’ve got the right idea,” I say softly, stepping closer to the bunk bed.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jo replies with a sneer. “Long as you stay outta my way.”

I nod, swallowing any hint of pride. Explaining my actual background seems pointless. Here, rumors and tabloids have cast me as a rich, manipulative murderer. There’s no benefit in trying to argue with that tonight.

Gingerly, I perch on the top bunk and set down my small sack of prison-issued toiletries. My palm brushes the thin, scratchy mattress, and a wave of exhaustion nearly overtakes me. I haven’t truly slept since I got dragged into that holding cell. The tension in this grim new environment feels crushing.

“You can’t talk your way out of here,” Jo says, her voice echoing from below. “We’ve all done something, or they say we’ve done something.” She lets out a harsh laugh. “Get used to it.”

I press my lips together. I’m fully aware that any show of weakness might cost me. The truth is, I feel utterly lost. I manage a quiet “Thanks,” though I’m not even sure what I’m thanking her for. She doesn’t reply. Resigned, I lie back and stare up at the stained ceiling, my mind replaying the horrors of the past few days—my arrest, the humiliating strip search, the endless swirl of accusations in the media.

It’s like the entire world collapsed under me, and now I’m left to pick up what’s left in a prison cell.

That night, I can’t sleep. Shouts, clangs, and occasional sobs ricochet through the block. Every so often, I hear a guard’s heavy footsteps stomp by. The harsh fluorescent lighting never really goes dark, throwing jagged stripes of brightness through the bars.

I close my eyes and see Jacob’s face as I remember it last—a worried expression, promising to do anything to clear my name. It feels so distant now. I wonder if he still trusts my innocence or if doubts have crept in, as they have for everyone else. I whisper a silent prayer that somehow he’ll prove I didn’t commit murder.

The hours drag, and the distant screams of someone in crisis force me to clamp a pillow over my ears. A few tears slide out in the darkness—tears of desperation. Eventually, I drift off into a shallow, restless sleep that brings no comfort.

I jolt awake to the metallic bang of a baton on bars. A guard calls for headcount. Disoriented, I climb down from the top bunk, every muscle aching from tension. I follow Jo out to the corridor alongside the other inmates, forming lines while guards hover with clipboards.

A tall female guard zeroes in on me. “Name?”

“Nyla Thomas,” I say, noticing how a few of the women glance at me. Some definitely recognize me from the sensational headlines.

She gives a curt nod. “Move along.”

We shuffle to the cafeteria next. The line yields a scoop of something resembling oatmeal, a stale slice of bread, and a small carton of milk. My stomach churns, so I barely manage a few bites. Groups of prisoners jockey for spots at communal tables, forming alliances or exchanging wary looks. The tension is a physical thing; I feel it pressing on my chest. In the end, I sit alone and do my best to ignore the stares from across the room.

Less than 24 hours in, I’m already overwhelmed by the bleakness. My thoughts race: When will I see a lawyer? Has Jacob hired someone? Has Stone Hospital’s board spoken out or do they all think I’m guilty too? Headlines flash in my memory: “Nyla the Black Widow,” “Stone Wife Murders for Millions!” My hands shake recalling it. Everything is so, so wrong.

Four grueling days later—each one a copy of the last, from headcount to meager meals to mind-numbing chores—my name crackles over the PA system. “Thomas, visitor!” a guard shouts, and I nearly drop the broom I’m holding. My heart thumps wildly. Jacob? I dare to hope.

But the guard leads me out of the cell block, down more corridors, and into a cinderblock visitation area. Rows of plastic chairs line up behind a Plexiglas partition. I step forward, scanning the faces. That’s when I see Lori—my best friend, with her hair in a messy bun. The moment our eyes meet, I want to cry from relief.

She’s with someone else—a woman in a crisp navy suit, obviously an attorney. And there’s no sign of Jacob. I feel disappointment twist in my stomach.

I pick up the phone on my side of the glass partition. Lori and the lawyer sit on the other side.

“Hey,” Lori says gently, pressing the receiver to her ear. “I’m so sorry it took me this long. They made me jump through hoops to get approval.”

I swallow hard, tears threatening. “I’m just glad you’re here. Where’s…” The words catch in my throat, because I already know.

Lori’s eyes darken with sympathy. “Jacob can’t come right now. Reporters are on him 24/7. Even stepping outside draws a media mob. But—” She musters a wobbly smile. “He wants me to tell you he’s on it, working around the clock. He says, ‘Tell Nyla I’ll get her out, no matter what.’”

I shut my eyes, a mix of relief and sorrow coiling inside me. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I was so scared he’d… given up.”

Lori shakes her head emphatically. “Never. He’s just… under a ton of pressure. The board, the media—everyone’s breathing down his neck. He’s trying to hold everything together.”

I nod, trying to keep my composure. “I get it.”

At that moment, the attorney clears her throat. She’s a wiry, no-nonsense type with glasses perched on her nose. “Nyla, I’m Margaret Ross, your defense counsel,” she says in a calm, low voice. “Jacob Stone retained me for your case. We need to go over the details.”

I nod, biting my lip. I give Lori a grateful look. “How bad is it out there?” I ask softly, glancing between them.

Lori sighs. “Worse than bad. The media’s crucifying you—calling you a gold digger, a murderer, you name it.” She winces. “Protestors are outside the courthouse every day. Some want the death penalty. It’s… intense.”

My breath catches. “Marcus,” I murmur, bitterness flooding me. “He’s behind all this. He framed me somehow. All the evidence—”

“Let’s get into that,” Margaret interrupts, leaning toward the glass. “The evidence is considerable. The police say they found bank documents linking you to Cayman accounts—money reportedly stolen from Stone Hospital. They found your prints on the car. Plus a note in your handwriting—”

“It’s forged!” I burst out. “Marcus has the money and the resources to fake that. He probably hired a forger—”

Margaret lifts a hand to calm me. “I understand what you’re saying, but we can’t prove it. Forensics concluded the note is genuine. The accounts, apparently, are in your name. Unless we find a smoking gun, the prosecution feels confident. And they’re pushing for the maximum penalty.”

My head whirls. “So… I have no options?”

Margaret gives me a measured look. “I wouldn’t say none. But the best strategy might be a plea deal.”

My throat goes dry. “A plea deal? For a murder I didn’t commit?”

She sighs. “If we fight at trial, and the jury decides you’re guilty, you could face life without parole. With a plea, we might secure a lesser charge—maybe second-degree or manslaughter—and you might be out in twenty years or so on good behavior.”

I can barely comprehend it. Twenty years. I glance at Lori, who’s teary-eyed. “No,” I say firmly. “I refuse to spend twenty years for something I never did.”

Margaret exhales. “I won’t force you. I just need you to understand how bleak it looks.”

“Then we fight,” I insist. My voice quivers. “I won’t let that monster Marcus walk away victorious.”

Lori leans in, her voice shaking a little. “I believe you, Nyla. Jacob does too. We’ll figure this out.”

Before I can answer, the guard at the door steps forward. “Time’s up,” he snaps. “Wrap it up.”

Panic claws at me; I want more time to ask about everything—the hospital, the boards, any new leads. But I just tighten my grip on the phone.

Lori presses her palm against the glass. “Don’t lose hope. I’ll be back soon, okay? Hang in there.”

I match her gesture, tears stinging. “Thank you. And tell Jacob…” My voice trembles. “Tell him I’m trusting him.”

“I will,” she promises.

Margaret gives me a short nod, scribbling on a pad. “Keep your head down,” she advises. “We’ll meet again as soon as I can. Think about the plea, at least.” Her tone is grim.

My jaw locks. “Goodbye.” I can’t bring myself to say more.

The guard leads me out, and I catch one last glimpse of Lori’s anxious face behind the Plexiglas, the lawyer’s brow furrowed. That image stays with me all the way back to my cell.

Once I’m locked into Cell 16, I climb to the top bunk, my chest so tight I can hardly breathe. Tears well up, slipping through my fingers as I press my palms over my eyes. Twenty years? More? Life? The magnitude feels crushing, especially when I’m innocent.

I’m so wrapped in misery that I don’t notice Jo’s voice at first.

“Bad day, princess?”

A humorless laugh escapes me. I wipe my wet cheeks. “You have no idea.”

She snorts. “I saw your friend show up. Must be nice… Did you get good news?”

I chew my lip, not sure how much to say. “Not really. My lawyer thinks the case is strong. She wants me to take a plea.”

Jo lets out a sharp exhale. “Lawyers always push pleas—makes their job easier.”

Silence hangs in the air, broken only by distant clanging in the corridor. I notice the dim overhead light flicker. Everything feels hopeless.

After a long pause, Jo speaks again, softly this time. “I know you didn’t do it.”

That shocks me. I lean over the bunk’s edge. “You… do?”

She sighs. “I don’t get that vibe from you. You’re too… I don’t know. You’re scared. The ones who kill for rage or money walk different.”

I swallow, sudden emotion burning my throat. “I—I’m not sure what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Maybe I’m wrong.” She shrugs. “But we’re stuck here, so I won’t hassle you, if that’s what you were worried about.”

Relief floods me. “Thank you,” I murmur, genuine gratitude trembling in my voice. “That means more than you know.”

She grunts in acknowledgment, and conversation ends. Still, I feel a flicker of solace. I’m not entirely alone, even if it’s a tentative acceptance from my cellmate.

Late that afternoon, an inmate from another block returns from cleaning staff offices and spreads fresh gossip. Apparently, the news channels are broadcasting nonstop coverage of “the Stone case.” They’re labeling me a “Black Widow,” a “gold digger nurse,” and worse. Some pundits are even calling for capital punishment, with dramatic lines like, “She took a life out of greed. She deserves no mercy.”

I listen, my stomach in knots, my head throbbing as I lean against the cold metal bars. So this is how the world sees me now?

I try not to let it break me. I remind myself Jacob won’t let me fall. I repeat the words Lori passed on: “He’ll get you out, no matter what.” I cling to that like a lifeline in the dark.

And under my breath, I whisper the name: Marcus. My anger flares, hot and unwavering. I’ll find a way to expose him.

A day later, a guard calls me to a small, enclosed room for another meeting with Margaret Ross. The guard stays outside while we sit at a tiny table. She sets a manila folder in front of her, her expression grim.

“I’ve compiled the recent coverage,” she says. “It’s… not good. You’re public enemy number one.”

My heart flutters with dread, but I make myself look at the headlines. Pictures of me fill the page, accompanied by phrases like murderess, cunning nurse, millions on the line. It’s like a punch in the gut.

“I’m telling you,” I say, gripping the table, “Marcus is the puppet master. He has resources. He set me up.”

She purses her lips. “Even if that’s true, we have no proof. And the prosecution is relentless. They’re pushing for a quick trial because they say the public demands swift justice. The public will think you killed defenseless people..”

“I’m not lying,” I insist, my voice quivering. “I’d rather die in here than falsely confess.”

Margaret sighs, pressing her fingers to her temple. “Alright. Then we have to build a defense from scratch—disprove the timeline, attack the evidence. Is there an alibi for the night William died? Video footage, maybe?”

I blink, recalling that awful sequence of events around Jacob’s poisoning, losing his memories and then Hida and William’s death. “I went home alone, I was exhausted—maybe the apartment lobby had cameras. But that was a while ago. And I don’t even know if they keep footage that long.”

She nods, jotting notes. “We’ll check. Also, about the Cayman bank accounts—maybe we can prove your signature was forged or show a different IP address. But that’s no small task if your opponent covered his tracks.”

My shoulders sag. “Marcus’s network is huge. He’s not careless.”

Margaret folds up her notes. “We’ll do what we can. But you need to be prepared. If the judge denies bail, you could stay here until the trial is over.”

A tear slips down my cheek before I manage to brush it away. “I… I won’t give up,” I say, my voice small but determined.

She stands, regarding me with an odd mix of pity and respect. “If Jacob or his investigators find anything useful, we’ll use it. Until then… brace yourself.”

I watch her leave, a hollow ache filling my chest. The guard motions me back to the block. My mind spins with the nightmare scenario—months or years of prison time, a vicious trial, everyone believing I’m a murderer. But as I shuffle through the dim corridor, I clutch a single truth to my heart: I’m innocent, and I won’t let Marcus win.

That promise is all I have left.