It's not good.

My lawyer says, I've always been straight with you, Jackson, and this is not good.

I shake my head in the jail's meeting room.

My hands and feet are shackled together with chains and affixed to a concrete anchor in

the floor between my feet.

I sit in a metal chair that's screwed into the floor.

The foul-smelling mixture of stale vomit, sweat, and my lawyer's cologne invades my nostrils.

What about my cameras, I ask?

The footage will show that I found them like that.

Have you asked about that?

The footage the cops found on you will be the biggest piece of evidence in their favor.

Keenan says, it shows someone cutting their throats.

All you can see of the guy or his covered forearms and gloved hands.

But everything in the footage matches what you were wearing.

Even down to the watch turned inward on his left wrist.

Same brand watch, same kind of gloves, same everything.

And they found the knife near you on the floor, covered in blood.

I can do nothing but shake my head.

This is a nightmare.

Why would I kill them if they were going to pay me for the job they hired me for?

What's the motive here?

Keenan leans forward.

...