“I didn’t do it!” a voice cried.
The cell door slammed, fraying the voice with the shards of brittle echoes.
“I don’t know what it is,” the speaker whispered to the silence that followed. He leaned forward against the chains that held him upright, arms outstretched like a martyr fresh from temptation. The rough metal cut into his wrists, and little rills of blood oozed slowly down to his elbows. The tickle of it was worse than the pain. “But I didn’t do it.”
“Coup de Tart”
About the story: The true story of the Knave of Hearts