1
ARIA
Holy mother of all things hot and juicy. There’s no way this is real.
I stare at my computer screen, my jaw hanging open as I scan the email confirmation for the biggest interview I’ve scored during the entire span of my short career.
Stone Blackthorne. The most notorious killer to walk the planet, currently serving four life sentences at Hartley Creek Maximum Security Penitentiary for Men, and a bona fide heartthrob.
His case has baffled me for years. I’ll never forget it.
During my recovery from the accident, his case appeared on the small TV in the corner of my stale hospital room. Its brutality made national headlines, and despite not knowing anyone involved, I found myself tuning in every day, invested in a way Ihad never been before. I needed to know every little detail. The hows, whats, and whys of everything that went down.
Stone was charged with the ruthless murder of six men in the span of three minutes, but what really got me was the way he didn’t even try to defend himself. He wasn’t fazed by anything that was going on around him. He looked as though he wanted the judge to hurry up and sentence him so he could be left the hell alone to put his feet up and chill in his new cell.
There were multiple holes in the stories woven by the victim’s representation, and if Stone’s lawyer had half a brain, he would have had every last charge against him dropped. Yet Stone just sat there, accepting his fate. It’s almost as though he wanted to be thrown behind bars.
Stone didn’t speak a single word throughout the whole case. I suppose he was invoking his right to remain silent. Actually, that’s not entirely true. He spoke just long enough to tell the judge and the court security to go fuck themselves, but apart from that? Nada. Not a single word.
When asked if he was guilty, he shrugged. When asked if he wanted to defend himself, he stared straight ahead. And when asked if he had anything to say for himself and the brutal murders he’d committed, he yawned. Yawned! The man yawned like the case was boring him.
There wasn’t a single attempt to save himself. Not a single scoff when they described the brutality of the vicious murders. Not a smirk. Not even a twitch of his lips. He was stone cold, and it was the most terrifying thing to watch. I can’t imagine how it would have felt sitting in that courthouse with him, feeling the wrath radiating out of him. Even his lawyer shrank beside him.
That’s what I’ve been spiraling over for seven long years. Even well after sentencing was complete, and his case had faded out of the headlines, it’s all that’s occupied my brain.
Stone Blackthorne. Occupation: Professional Moron.
I don’t get it. Why not attempt to defend himself, even if he was guilty? Which I’m sure he is. You can tell he’s bad news with one look. He’s the poster boy for Red Flags “R” Us. But why face four life sentences when he could have walked and been free to commit all the vicious murders his fucked-up black heart desired?
Like I said—professional moron. And I’m completely baffled by it.
But what baffles me the most is why now? And why me?
Stone has been behind bars for the better part of seven years, and for the past four of them, I have been so far up the ass of his lawyer begging for an interview that I could tell what he ate for breakfast. I’ve been blocked three times, but nothing is holding me back from this, and every curt blocking is met with a swift new email address, prepped and ready to continue hounding.
Every few months, I request an interview, determined to get to the bottom of this because I know, without a doubt, that Stone is hiding something. There’s his lawyer’s version of the story, the prosecution’s version, and then there’s the truth, which I believe is buried deep inside the mind of Stone Blackthorne. And for whatever reason I can’t seem to shake, I need it.
Without fail, every interview request has been met with a firm no, but I’ve never allowed that to dissuade me. It’s nothing more than a rinse and repeat game I’ve been playing with Stone’s lawyer these past few years. So, imagine my surprise when I log into my newest email account, first thing on this dazzling Tuesday morning, to find confirmation of my interview with the one and only, notorious murderer, Stone Blackthorne.
I think I’m going to wet my pants.
Either that or I’m going to throw up, which is unfortunate because then I’m going to have to swallow it back down to save face in front of my colleagues. That’s not exactly how I planned to spend my morning. My colleagues already look down on mefor being the young new girl, and honestly, I’m not even new anymore. I’ve been here four years already.
When my job was posted online, they were searching for a young and innovative junior to join the team here at Pulse Media, and I couldn’t resist applying. I thought this was my chance to finally make a difference in the world, but the joke’s on me because what they really wanted was a glorified coffee runner who could also do their grunt work. Despite my contempt, I stuck with it, and now, after four years of working my ass off, it’s finally about to pay off.
I stare at my computer in awe, scanning the words from Charles Wentworth, the bigwig at Wentworth Lawyers and Associates. “Holy fucking shit,” I murmur, bracing against my small desk to keep me upright. “There’s no way this is real.”
A laugh tears from the back of my throat, and I lean back in my swivel chair, unable to believe what I’m seeing. “Keep it down, Miss Ashford,” a shrill voice barks from across the room. “Some of us are actually trying to work around here.”
I groan and roll my eyes before sending a sharp glare across the top of my cubicle toward the office dinosaur, Janette, otherwise known as the self-appointed, do-gooder hall monitor, and designated pain in my ass. She and I have never gotten along, and if I cared enough, I’d probably try to mend the burned bridges, but alas, the last fuck that I gave has unfortunately shriveled up and died.
“Suck a fat one, Janette,” I grumble, hitting print on the email and pushing up from my desk, ignoring the audible gasp that sails across the office.
I all but dance across the scratchy commercial carpet and snatch the email off the top of the printer. Pausing to glance over it one more time, elation pulses through my veins like a well-deserved cocktail on a Friday afternoon.
This is actually insane.
I’ve never been one for luck. I’ve always worked hard for everything I have and don’t believe that luck is something anyone possesses. Hard work is rewarded, but this. Surely this is luck. What else could it be? Apart from soul-shattering persistence finally paying off.
