Chapter 3 - THE SCAR AND THE TIMELINEOne of the supervising guards stepped forward, his boots clicking sharply against the concrete. He placed a heavy hand on his belt, his eyes narrowing. "Hey! Keep your hands where we can see them, kid. No physical contact beyond authorized greeting protocols."
Caleb didn't look at the guard. He didn't blink. His eyes remained locked on the pale, raised tissue of the scar against my weathered skin.
"What are you pointing at?" the guard demanded, his tone hardening.
"The scar," Caleb said, his voice ringing with absolute, unshakeable certainty. He looked past the guard, fixing his eyes directly on the review administrator, a middle-aged woman named Ms. Vance who had accompanied the file transfer and was sitting at a folding table nearby to monitor the interaction. "He already had that scar when he found me at the bus station."
My breathing slowed down, turning into a heavy, measured rhythm in my ears. The world around us seemed to narrow, the distant sounds of shouting inmates and rattling gates fading into a dull, unimportant hum.
Ms. Vance frowned, setting down her pen. She stood up from her chair and walked closer, her heels clicking rhythmically. "What did you say, young man?"
"I asked him about it," Caleb said, looking directly at her, his posture rigid with an intensity far beyond his fifteen years. "When he found me crying under the bench at the downtown terminal, I was scared. I wouldn't stop crying. He sat with me for a long time, trying to calm me down. I noticed that mark on his neck. I touched it with my finger and asked him if it hurt."
Ms. Vance’s expression shifted from professional curiosity to sharp, analytical suspicion. "Do you remember when that happened, Caleb?"
Caleb didn't even hesitate. He recited a specific date and time with terrifying precision. "October 14th, ten years ago. It was a Tuesday. It was pouring rain, and my parents had lost me in the crowds during the evening rush hour."
The yard became utterly, terrifyingly silent. Even the guards stopped shifting their weight.
Ms. Vance pulled a small digital tablet from her leather briefcase, her fingers flying across the screen as she pulled up the master records of my original trial bundle. Her eyes scanned the digital pages, moving down with mechanical speed until they stopped dead.
"It's the same night," she murmured, more to herself than to us.
"What?" I asked, my voice barely a rasp. "What is it?"
"It's the exact same night," Ms. Vance repeated, looking up from her screen, her face completely drained of color. "According to the prosecution's closing arguments during your trial eight years ago, Adrian Mercer was documented breaking into a jewelry store across town, assaulting a night watchman, and fleeing the scene between 6:00 PM and 9:30 PM on October 14th."
My pulse hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Yes... that's what they claimed. That's why I was convicted. They said I had no alibi for that window."
Ms. Vance turned her gaze back to Caleb. "Are you absolutely certain of the date, son? People's memories of childhood events can be hazy, especially ten years down the line."
Caleb reached inside the front pocket of his track jacket and pulled out a thick, slightly battered manila envelope secured with a rubber band. He laid it flat on the wooden table between us.
"My parents called the police the second they realized I was missing," Caleb said firmly, his eyes burning with a fierce intelligence. "Officers came to the bus terminal. They took a report. Adrian stayed right there with me the whole time until the patrol car pulled up and handed me back to my mom and dad. My mother kept a binder of every single police report, medical document, and insurance paper from my childhood. She never throws anything away."
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My hands shook. I wanted to reach out and touch the envelope, but my wrists were locked in the heavy leather waist chain.
Ms. Vance reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she snapped the rubber band and slid the contents out onto the table.
