Stutely hugged his arms discreetly. The cold of the cells was a gnawing constant; it bit at him through his ragged clothes, the torn back of his shirt. The prison jumpsuit the Sheriff had thrust at him lay balled up in the corner where he'd tossed it in contempt. It would probably be warmer – and almost certainly torture on his ravaged back. He'd stick with the rags for now.
"Tell him to give Clio my love. Tell her I'm..." His throat constricted; the sorry lodged there, jagged and stinging. She wouldn't have a bar of his apologies if she were here. She'd tell him, as she'd told him before, that it was the Sheriff's doing, not his. Sorry wouldn't soothe the hurt; it would just tell her that he blamed himself, and so pain her all the more.
He coughed, cleared his throat. "Just tell her I love her."