He stared at his hands as memories flooded his mind, unbidden. Callie as a teenager, her hair pulled back and her face fresh and clean. They had spent hours together every day during the summer she had turned sixteen. It didn't matter what his friends thought - she was a lot cooler than they gave her credit for.
Years later, Callie in a white dress, walking down the aisle. Her hair and makeup were elaborately done, but it couldn't hide the glow she had. Franchise knew that it truly was the happiest day of her life, and he was happy, too.
Still later, the same girl a few years older, glowing again, but for a different reason. Her hands would rest on her abdomen all of the time, feeling the life growing inside her. The extra weight never looked bad on Callie, even after she gave birth to her beautiful little girl.
Franchise focused on the happy memories, trying to convince himself that it might not be such a bad idea after all.
"I'm gonna ask you one last time, Franchise," the officer said, slapping his hand down on the table. "Was Callie Abrams with you on the night of September 17?"
Franchise looked up at the other man, but he didn't see a police officer. Instead, he saw Callie again. This time, her beautiful face was marred by an angry purple bruise, and tears streamed down her face.
"My sister was with me," Franchise lied. "There's no way she could have killed her husband that night."