Chapter 1 - The Touch of Cold Iron
The corridor smelled of industrial wax and stale grease. Leo knelt on the concrete floor of Cell 104, knuckles aching against the cold roundness of the painted iron. Outside, barely reaching his waistline, two-year-old Toby stood in his oversized olive jacket and miniature scuffed work boots, sobbing without restraint. Toby's tiny fingers clamped around the metal, desperate to pull the bars apart. Officer Miller stood three paces back, his arms crossed over his chest, face carved from sandstone. Leo pushed his fingers through the gap until his skin scraped against the metal, brushing the boy’s tear-stained cheek. The warmth of his son's breath shattered whatever fragile stoicism he possessed. ""I'm right here, buddy,"" Leo whispered, his vocal cords tightening. Toby looked up with swollen, red-rimmed hazel eyes and sniffled, his voice breaking into the silent hall: ""Please come home."" Leo closed his eyes, fighting the tremor in his jaw. When Miller cleared his throat, signaling time was up, Leo caught something glittering at Toby's neckline—a key chain he had never seen before, bearing an insignia that belonged to the man who framed him.
