They all said I did it. The neighbors, the newscasters, the jury - hell, even my own lawyer - believed it. When your daughter is found with a bullet in her, a bullet that matches your gun exactly, you might as well have pulled the trigger. Even if you didn’t. But essentially, I did, didn’t I? That good-for-nothing, entitled boyfriend of hers did it, Zander - what kind of name is that anyway? I know it was him. I shouldn’t have been so hard on Callie, stubborn as she was. “Not as stubborn as you,” she’d have said to me. Of course a stubborn sixteen-year-old girl will fight her father about her first boyfriend. I didn’t approve; it drove her right to him, I see that now. Even at only three years old, standing too close to the edge of the pool. “Don’t stand so close,” I told her. But that word - “don’t” - seemed to spark some sort of fire in her, like a challenge. Of course she fell in, and of course I dove right in the save her. My baby girl - blonde hair wet as a dog, with her blue ruffled dress all wilted. She came out giggling and screaming with glee, while my fear spewed out as anger. I put her in swim classes the next day, but I couldn’t put her in boyfriend classes. “Hey, Bridges, time for dinner,” Officer Kixton motioned, unlocking my cell much less callously than usual. The handcuffs felt just as cold as they did thirty-four years ago. He brought me into a larger cell, with a table already holding my request. I looked at Kixton. “Cheeseburger, medium, extra pickles on a seeded bun. Side of extra crispy fries, and ketchup with a dollop of mayo,” he confirmed, “weird choice, man. Oddly specific.” I nodded. We called it ‘The Callie Special,’ and ate it every Friday night until she a teenager. We’d swirl the ketchup and mayo together with the fries to create this condiment eddy, and we’d ‘ooo’ and ‘awe’ at the swirling patterns. Once I bought potato buns instead. “Don’t knock it til you try it,” I told her. There was that magic word again, “don’t” - and she never ate a potato bun again. If she liked it, she’d never admit it to me. I dipped a fry in the center and made circles until I reached the edge. A tear splashed in, adding a watercolor effect to my whirlpool. The flavors kick-started memories like an old movie reel from Callie’s childhood: swinging too high and jumping too far, running over all covered in dust. I squawked at her for being too dirty - why was I always squawking at her? I tried to focus on the happy dinners where we laughed outside at the picnic table, eating burgers and giggling ‘til the stars came out. We’d count them as they popped into the sky, until it became so filled we lost track. But my mind waded back to the last time. Callie’d been spending all her time with Zander, skipping school and getting caught drinking in his car. I picked her up from the police station to learn that Zander hadn’t been arrested, and they’d stolen my booze. I should’ve known better than to argue with a stubborn, drunk teenager. “Callie what the hell were you thinking? Drinking? Driving around with that -“ “That what, Dad? Go ahead, what are you gonna call Zander today?” “You’re throwing your life away for him!” “Well when we’re married,“ she slurred, holding up an empty ring finger to everyone in the station, “he’ll protect me from people like you, just like his Daddy protected him today! No wonder Mama ran away when she did, you can’t protect me - I wish she took me with her!” I’m not proud of what I said to her after that; I don’t like to play it back. I cursed at her, called her an ungrateful bitch who deserved someone as lousy and pathetic as Zander. We drove home in silence. I sent her to her room to sleep off the whisky and - “Don’t think you’re ever seeing Zander again,” I yelled. That was my biggest mistake - “don’t.” I made The Callie Special while she napped; words don’t come easy to me, it was the only apology I could muster. I waited for her in the yard at the picnic table; I ate the burgers cold when she didn’t come out. I guess I thought I was getting the silent treatment. I checked on her when the stars appeared to find she was gone. She’d snuck out at some point and I never noticed. But no one believed me. I went to sleep, angry as all hell that she’d run off just like her mother. Only the next morning I found her in her bed, cold as ice and covered in her own blood. During the investigation, they found her blood in my truck, the bullets matched my gun, and the cops even witnessed our fight. Case closed. Even after they discovered she was pregnant. But I know Zander did it. She must have run off in my truck, and he brought my baby’s body back to frame me. I’ll never know if the cops truly believed his story, or if his rich daddy paid them to believe it. “Bridges, it’s time,” Kixton knocked, leading me to the room. It was much like the dining cell, only this table was empty, waiting for me. They strapped me in. “Any last words?” “I didn’t do it.” They had said my thoughts would fade away in an instant from the injection. But now I didn’t think I would be able to close my eyes ever again. How could I, when my beautiful Callie stood next to me holding my hand all ethereal-like? How did she get here? “It’s okay, Daddy,” she whispered, “you can come with me now.” “Jonathan Bridges. Time of death: 9:08 PM.”