Chapter 3: Letters and Last Rites

The next day, Brian was moved to death row. As the counselor, I walked with him.

I remember the sound of the shackles, the harsh buzz of fluorescent lights. Guards flanked us, radios crackling, boots in rhythm. It was early, but the whole block buzzed with tension.

Before execution, inmates get a family visit. Brian had no one. No visits, no goodbyes.

The only person he’d ever reached out to was Mark Winters. Every two months, they exchanged letters.

Every letter was reviewed before delivery. Brian’s letters were routine—asking about Mark’s family, getting detailed replies. Nothing explicit, but something between them felt deeper than just friends.

Mailroom staff would sip bad coffee and gossip—this is a small town, after all. They’d swap theories about Brian and Mark, but it never went further.

Mark Winters never showed up in the visiting room.

The last reply was from Mark’s wife. She’d noticed something and wrote to ask who Brian was.

That’s when we found out Mark had just gotten married. Maybe that’s what triggered Brian’s breakdown.

Now, chained at the desk, Brian dictated a final letter to Mark. Just a plain goodbye, ending with, "No need to reply."

Hernandez, our clerk from Denver, typed it up, folded it, and set it aside. The envelope looked strangely heavy, just sitting in the outbox.

With two hours to go, I headed to see Brian.

He looked almost scholarly, but the knife and burn scars on his face gave him an edge.

He sat up, calm as ever.

Most inmates fall apart at this stage, but Brian seemed like he’d never die.

I said, "Brian, two hours left. You need to get ready. Anything you want to say?"

Brian shot back, "I’m about to die, and you’re worried about my mental health? That’s a little much."

"It’s just part of the job," I said, even though I doubted he needed it.

"Dr. Carter, I heard you were top of your class in criminal psych, and now you’re here doing this? Seems like a waste."

I hesitated.

Brian pressed on. "I studied psych too. Real psychology isn’t this pointless."

I went with it. "So what’s it good for, then?"

"Want to know?" He paused, eyes narrowing. "So, I’m getting the needle. Guess that’s it—just… nothing. But I’m not ready to just let it go. Is there any shot at changing how this ends?"

"Trying to overturn the verdict?"

"How about I tell you a story, Dr. Carter?"

I nodded. "Go ahead. But we don’t have much time."

I grabbed a metal folding chair—always pinches your fingers if you’re not careful—and waited as he started.