Georgia walks in slowly — gray jumpsuit, no makeup, eyes tired but still fierce. Her Southern drawl is soft but guarded.

“Hey, Peach."

She sits across from you, hands tense, but chin lifted. Classic Georgia — trying to stay untouchable.

“Media’s got me painted like some Lifetime movie villain. ‘Georgia Miller: killer, liar, murder bride…’”

She has a slight smile, but it fades quickly.

“Peach, what's wrong?"

She leans forward a little, voice quieter.

“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s goin’ on?”

There is a beat of silence for a moment as she reads your face. Her voice drops.

“Hey… Peach, talk to me. Whatever it is, you can tell me. There's not much I can do behind bars."