I tucked Paige comfortably into bed and stayed with her until she fell asleep. I was so exhausted from the hectic day that all I wanted to do was lay down in my own bed, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to put myself to sleep wondering if Paige was tossing and turning. She assured me that her stomach pains were gone and urged me to get some rest.

As I slowly staggered towards my bedroom, I could see Franco lying on the bed, watching television. I knew he was going to attempt intimacy, but I was nowhere near the mood, even though an orgasm could be the cure I needed. As I slipped into my pajamas, he turned the television off and embraced me from behind. He began rubbing my shoulders while he kissed the back of my neck. A cool rush of relaxation shot up and down my spine, as I arched my back in acceptance to his caress. It has been over 3 months since we last made love and although I was tired and weak, I allowed him to take me.

He laid me down gently on the bed and slowly removed my clothing. I expected him to be in a hurry but it made it more enjoyable that he wasn’t. I was never much into foreplay, even more so that I was tired, but it was so hot the way he licked circles around my nipples, as he squeezed my breast with his working hands. He thrust himself inside me, moaning at the immediate pleasure. It hurt me at first, but the slight pain was quickly replaced by satisfaction. I tried to keep my voice down, so I would not wake up Paige, but feeling Franco inside me felt too good to hold in. As I howled like a wild animal, Franco covered my mouth with his hand, also aware of Paige sleeping down the hall.

As we both neared climax, I began seeing flashes of murder pass through my mind. Images so vivid, they crippled me. I saw a man with no face; however I could tell he was in his late 50’s or early 60’s by his posture, towering over a defenseless woman, bound and gagged with an old, tattered cloth. He sadistically laughed, as she begged for her life, tears streaming down her face and flowing onto her beaten and bruised naked body. Three inch gashes scattered her bare chest, producing rivers of blood which gathered below her on the cold, concrete floor. I could feel her pain rush through my body as four chilling words echoed powerfully through my mind.

“Stop, stop, stop,” I pleaded with Franco, as I pushed him off of me. “Please.”

“What is it now?” he asked, trying to mask his obvious frustration with a half-hearted attempt of concern.

“I just need a minute.”

            Franco violently threw the covers back and stormed into the bathroom, probably to “finish” himself off, as he left me lying on the bed, trembling. I felt terrible for stopping him but this was bigger than him or I. Besides, I had my own demons to answer to.

            I plugged in my CPAP and carefully applied the nasal pillow over my face. The shivering worsened, as I lay alone in my bed while the images of another murder raced through my mind. When Franco came back from the bathroom, he simply sat down on the bed, turned away from me and fell asleep without saying a word.

            The early morning sun beamed through the bedroom window, nearly blinding me, as my alarm clock beeped annoyingly. I couldn’t recall falling asleep, and the puddle of sweat that accumulated underneath me, was a clear indication that the little sleep I may have gotten was restless. My head was pounding as I slammed my fist down on the alarm clock and sat up. As I removed my breathing tube, I noticed that Franco was gone, probably getting up in the middle of the night in search of a more peaceful resting place.

            I went through my daily routine of getting ready, and as I showered, I realized what I needed to do. Although it would have been impossible for a man locked up, on Death Row no less, to continue committing murders, I knew I needed to speak to Miguel Sanchez. He might not have all the answers I was looking for but I was positive that he would be able to shed some light on the subject, especially when it came to Nona Flores. I went to my computer and quickly located the prison he was being held at.

            As I walked into the living room, I found Franco sitting on the couch, eating a bowl of cereal and watching cartoons with Paige, who was all ready for school.

            “How are you feeling this morning?”

            “Much better,” Paige chirped.

            I embraced her, and as I held her petite body tight against mine, I caught a glimpse of the clock. “Come on honey, we’re gonna be late.”  

            “It’s ok, mommy,” she assured, “Franco’s taking me.”

            I looked at Franco, as he nodded in agreement. “Thanks.” I moved closer to him so the next words I spoke only he could hear. “I’m so sorry about last night. I promise you, when I get home from work, I’ll make it up to you.”

            He smiled, which made me smile in return. “I’m looking forward to it.” He kissed me on the lips.

            I gave him a hug and kissed Paige once more, and then I grabbed my briefcase and headed out. As I backed out of the driveway, I called Methra to inform her I was going to be a little late. After five rings, the answering machine picked up, which was weird because Methra was adamant about answering her cellphone. I didn’t think much of it at the time as I left my message, making up an excuse for my tardiness. I refused to tell her what I was really doing, as I did moments earlier with Franco, knowing that the two of them would have tried to stop me.

            I drove in silence the entire way, alone with my thoughts, as I jotted down questions I wanted to ask Miguel neatly on my yellow legal pad. ‘What was your relationship with Nona Flores?’ ‘Do you know who killed her?’ ‘Were you aware of the sign found around her neck?’ I felt like Clarice Starling on her way to interview Hannibal Lecter.

            I arrived at Sun Valley a little after 9 o’clock. The prison yard was silent, other than a few guards patrolling the perimeter. I properly parked my car in the visitor’s lot and strolled up to the main door. I was nervous, which was evident by the way I tightly clutched my briefcase underneath my right arm. After going through three waves of security, I finally reached the visitor’s desk. I stood patiently waiting for the young woman behind the desk to acknowledge my presence.

            “Name?” she asked directly.

            “A-Adara,” I stuttered, “Adara Davis.”

            “Not your name.” Officer Ramero impatiently informed. It was easy to tell by her bluntness that she was near the end of her shift. “Prisoner’s name?”

            “Oh,” I said, embarrassed. “Miguel Sanchez.”

            Officer Ramero tossed a clipboard, stacked with sheets of paper, onto the counter in front of me.

            “Sign in please.”

            As I printed my name on the sheet, another name, written only three lines above mine, jumped off the page: Timothy Preston. I knew immediately that it was Father Preston. I followed my finger across the page; half expecting him to have visited another prisoner, although my intuition knew that it was Miguel, which was quickly confirmed. I thought about asking Officer Ramero if she had an idea what they spoke of, but I didn’t want to bring any more attention to myself, besides, I was about to speak to Miguel, I could just ask him. 

            Officer Ramero politely told me to wait, as they brought Miguel to the visitor area. Two guards went to his cell to fetch him. After about 3 minutes, one of the guards frantically ran towards the sign in desk.

            “Ramero, get the paramedics up here!” the guard demanded.

            “What happened?”

            “Now!” the guard screamed.

            Once again, my intuition kicked in. I knew it had something to do with Miguel Sanchez. As they buzzed the door to open, I made my move and slipped in.

            “Hey!” Officer Ramero yelled. “You can’t go in there!”

            I ran down the corridor, passing numerous cells holding murderers and rapists, as they banged on their cages and yelled obscene comments in my direction. I saw the other guard standing in front of a cell and knew it was Miguel’s.

            “Stop her!”

            The guard turned to me, just as I approached. He made a valiant effort to stop me, but my full head of steam wasn’t enough to keep me from witnessing what they tried to prevent me from seeing.

            Miguel Sanchez’s naked body dangled from his bed, his stained white sheet wrapped tightly around his neck. As his lifeless body swayed, streams of fresh blood spewed out of gashes in his chest and rolled down his body, dripping off his toes, which were mere inches from the cold, concrete floor, and forming a rather large pool of blood below him. As everything around me became motionless, I focused on the self-inflicted wounds on his chest. I fell to my knees as I realized that the multitude of three inch slices, carved from a melted down toothbrush handle, formed a phrase that would forever be imbedded in my memory. ‘THOU SHALT NOT KILL’