...
"Sign here," the man in the dark glasses said. He jabbed at the paper with a cheap plastic pen, the top nibbled by teeth.
I took the pen, and my hand shook as I held it over the statement. Should I really sign it? My statement would condemn me to a prison term; I was certain of it. But it would set the one I loved free. And didn't I deserve to be punished? Not for the crime, I was confessing to, that was true. But one that was almost as bad. In my eyes.
And certainly in hers.
"Sign it," the man said again. "And you can go home."
We both knew that was a lie. That line probably worked with more vulnerable people - the young, the old, the tired, the mentally vulnerable. I took a deep breath and put pen to paper, and scribbled. I threw the pen down on the table and sat back, closing my eyes.
It was done.
I could live with the consequences, I thought. I couldn't live knowing I had not done all I could to save her.