“Yes, sir. I’m a clerk at federal court in Washington, so please let me know if there’s anything I can do…to help Charlie,” he says, trying to show off his credentials. I shrink a little, embarrassed for him when I see how amused Brian is by him. Trevor’s so out of his element in Louisville—Brian’s from a camp of guys who take care of business by shooting cans out behind old man Wheeler’s barn. But he’s nice to Trevor, smiling and thanking him for his assistance before turning to me and rolling his eyes.

I follow Brian up a flight of stairs, and we go down a narrow hall to a small room with the lights off. I know this room—I’ve been in here before. And every time, I’ve failed. I haven’t been here since high school, but the chairs are the same. The posters on the wall, with clever safety messages—all the same. And I know the protective glass in front of me is the same, too—but I let Brian explain it all again anyhow, because I like hearing it, and it calms my nerves.

Another officer comes in to get Trevor and Cody, to take them into a side office across the hall. I know the drill—there will be a team of officers in here, along with the chief, who again, is a longtime friend of Mac’s. The prosecutor’s office will send someone down, too, just to witness and make notes, shoring up their case. From this point forward, I know I have to be careful of my words—and I have to be sure…of everything!

The men walk in slowly. I start at their feet—I always do. Jeans, slacks, sweats, all on top of white tennis shoes. Dirty sweatshirts, jerseys, and sometimes an over-sized button down—it all feels the same, like I’m replaying this scenario, over and over. I suck in my top lip and breathe in the stale air, which almost makes me gag.

I move to their faces; I’ll know if this entire trip is pointless in seconds. I start at the left and work my way through them all. The first one is almost comical, his cheeks round and rosy—I can tell they just grabbed him off the streets or from the local pub. Number two is about 30 years too old, and the guy next to him is about 15 years too young.

He’s next.

I can almost sense it before I get to him, like I’m purposely avoiding looking, like I’m saving him for last. I swear he can see me through the glass, his eyes forward and lacking focus, but directed at me. He looks f**king high off his ass, just like he did the night he shot Mac. The right side of his face is covered in pockmarks, and his lips are pink and puffy. His blonde hair is shaved—it was longer then—but I can see the earring, the same small silver hoop he wore that night. There’s a cross tattoo on the left side of his neck and marks all over his arms. His T-shirt drapes on his skinny body, and his jeans are sagging below his butt, held up by a belt that he has to tie.

My fingers are digging into the wood grain of the table, and I want to bust through the glass and choke the life from him, feel him slip away at my hands, make him pay for taking my father away from me.

“Is there anyone you see that you think might fit your description, that you think might be the guy you saw at the convenience store that night?” Brian says, looking up at the camera to make sure it’s capturing everything, and then looking around the room at the faces of his fellow officers. They all know—they’re all on the edge of their seats, just waiting for me to say it.

“It’s him,” I say, my voice hiccupping as I start to shake. “Number four; that’s him. I can see it all, everything from that night. It’s him, Brian. That’s him!”

Brian puts his arm around me, just bracing me to keep me from shaking more. “Okay, Charlie. I need you to be sure,” he says, and a woman leans forward and requests the men to stand to their side. Then she asks numbers two, four and six to step forward—she wants me to get a better look at him.

He moves close to the glass, and I stand up and walk around the table, right up to the glass before him—we’re eye-to-eye, my reflection masking his. “You swear he can’t see me?” I say, forcing my hands to stay down at my sides, my fists balling.

“He can’t see you, Charlie. He can’t hear you, either,” Brian says, giving me permission.

“You mother f**ker! I hope you rot in hell!” I scream, and I actually spit at the window. I feel Brain’s arm around me again, and he backs me around the table and then leads me out of the office.

Cody rushes up to me as soon as he sees me, and I’m quivering, barely able to stand. I tumble to the sofa in the small office, and Cody runs out into the hall. Trevor is leaning along the wall opposite of me, his hand covering his mouth, but his eyes full of sympathy.