The heat broke the next day — a hard rain pounding the rooftops and turning Alcolu's dusty roads into slow rivers of mud. But inside the jailhouse, the air felt heavier than the storm outside.
Deputy Thomas Croft sat behind the desk, staring at the half-empty mug of stale coffee in front of him. He could hear Ikrist's small cough echo down the hallway, that thin boy voice drifting out like a ghost no one wanted to claim.
For weeks, Croft had told himself he was just doing his job. Just keeping order. Just following the sheriff's word. But each night, the weight of that "confession" sat on his chest like a stone he couldn't shake off.
He remembered his own boy at home — six years old, curls soft like Ikrist's when the boy still had a mama to smooth them. Croft pictured his son behind those bars. And that thought made the stone shift, crack, tumble.
---
By dusk, Croft made his move.
He found Elijah Carter at the church, where the lawyer had taken to working after dark, surrounded by Reverend Paulson's stacks of old hymnals and borrowed legal books.
Croft stepped into the back door, dripping rain onto the wooden floor. Elijah looked up from his notes, his eyes narrowing when he saw the deputy's badge glint in the lamplight.
"Mr. Carter," Croft said, voice low and rough. "I got somethin'. Not on paper. But I can say it."
Elijah didn't wave him in. He just sat back, arms crossed, waiting.
Croft pulled off his hat, squeezed the brim until the leather creaked. "Sheriff's confession ain't worth spit. Boy never said it. They made it up. Typed it later. Told me to sign it 'witness' so it'd stick."
Elijah's jaw tightened. "You'll swear that in court?"
Croft looked like he might spit on the floor, like he might run. But instead he nodded. "I will. God help me, I will."
---
Back at the jailhouse, Croft took the long way to the cell block. He stopped by Ikrist's barred door, where the boy sat awake in the dark, humming under his breath.
Croft cleared his throat. "You got your mama's fight in you, boy. Don't lose it."
Ikrist looked up, his eyes wide in the gloom. "You believe me now?"
Croft didn't answer. He just slid a piece of stale cornbread through the bars. The same stale scraps he'd brought his own son when the boy had been sick, years ago.
---
Later that night, Croft found Sheriff Hammond asleep in the chair outside his office — a whiskey bottle knocked over on the desk, the faint sound of rain drumming on the roof.
Croft stared at him, the big man who had taught him how to twist the truth to keep their jobs safe and their necks free. But Croft knew he was done keeping the wrong man safe.
He turned, slipping back out the door before Hammond could wake to see the storm he'd just let loose.
---
At the Raya house, Elijah arrived just past midnight, rain dripping from his coat collar. Anna cracked open the door, lamp in hand.
"Elijah?" she whispered, fear clutching her voice. "What's wrong?"
He stepped inside, eyes shining for the first time in days. "Croft flipped. He's ready to talk. The truth's not alone anymore."
Anna pressed her hand over her mouth, her breath caught between a sob and a laugh. Caleb rose from his chair by the stove, nodding slow — the first sign of real hope glinting through the thunder outside.
---
And in the jail, Ikrist lay back on his thin cot, crumbs on his blanket, the hum of his mama's song still warm in his ears.
Outside, the rain kept pounding — a promise that sometimes storms don't drown the truth; they wash the dirt away so the truth can breathe.