At first, I only acted like I cared.
Then I stopped acting.
I started reading his case files at night. Missing signatures. Dates that didn’t match. A witness who left the state after testifying.
When everyone else called Jonah a thief, I stood outside courthouses with folders in my arms, begging lawyers to take another look. Jonah never asked why.
By then, I loved him.
Three years after our prison wedding, the truth came out. His cousin had moved the charity money, forged Jonah’s name, and let him take the blame.
The day Jonah walked free, I thought he would run into my arms. Instead, his face tightened, as if freedom itself had bruised him.
Then he took my hand and said, "Come home with me."
For one week, I believed we had survived the worst of it.
Then, on the eighth night, Jonah placed a black box on our kitchen table.
"What is that?"
"Now it’s my turn to be honest."
I tried to smile. "Jonah, don’t scare me."
His expression shifted, and my skin went cold.
