Chapter 43
Landon
ONE YEAR LATER
Brett sits at the defense table, flanked by suits that cost more than my truck.
I stare at him for three full seconds before recognition clicks.
The man who once haunted Marcy’s nightmares has shrunk inside his court-mandated button-down, collar hanging loose around a neck that’s lost its bulk.
His once-styled blond hair now lies cropped against his skull, tinged the color of old pennies beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights.
When our eyes meet, his spine jerks upright—a marionette yanked by memory—before gravity reclaims him.
His shoulders curve forward like they’ve forgotten how to hold themselves any other way.
It would be a lie to say I don’t find satisfaction in his disheveled appearance.
But I don’t let myself dwell on him as I give my testimony about the morning I was shot.
Instead, I think about her. Marcy. She’s the only reason any of this matters.
Me getting shot? I couldn’t care less. I’d do it all again if it meant protecting her.
Marcy squeezes my fingers once, pulling me back to the moment.
We wait outside the courtroom for her name to be called.
It’s her turn to testify. Her hand is warm, damp with nerves.
The engagement ring I gave her two months ago catches the harsh fluorescent light.
Every time it does, my chest feels too full for my ribs.
She grips my hand tighter while her other hand rests over the small swell beneath her dress.
It’s subtle, only obvious if you know to look.
I know. I brush that hand with my thumb—a quiet I’m here.
Marcy couldn’t be there when I testified yesterday. But now that I’m done, I can be there for her in the courtroom today. I can be another solid presence in her peripheral vision when everything else in here feels designed to erase her—formal voices, cold processes, polite cruelty.
She’s brave. I know that in my bones. But it’s different watching courage gather itself in the person you love.
The Crown calls Marcy.
My heart kicks like it’s hitting a cold start.
She releases my hand and steps toward the doors.
They swing open, and she enters the courtroom.
For a second, she sways but no one but me would notice that tiny shift of balance—then she squares her shoulders and moves forward.
Her boots click against the tile as she walks to the witness stand.
She doesn’t even glance in Brett’s direction.
His eyes track her every move, but she acts like he doesn’t exist.
I follow behind, sliding into the pew next to Wes and Joon, my knee bouncing against the wood.
Her palm presses flat against the Bible’s worn cover, her “I do” slicing through the courtroom’s silence.
For hours, she sits alone in that chair while the Crown guides her through that night—question by careful question.
The defense attorney rises, all slick confidence, firing rapid questions meant to tangle her timeline.
But Marcy’s voice never wavers, even as her fingers twist her engagement ring in slow, deliberate circles.
By the end, I can see her exhaustion. She sags back in her chair, still twisting the ring. Her eyes find mine, and I nod.
“You’re okay,” I mouth, and she nods back.
When she’s excused, she steps down slowly.
I rise without realizing I’m moving. She reaches the aisle, and I meet her there.
We make it outside the courtroom before she folds into me like a held breath finally released.
I smell her hair—vanilla and lavender shampoo—and the world tilts back to level under my feet.
“You were perfect,” I whisper into the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.
“I was terrified,” she whispers back.
“Terrified and perfect then.”
Her parents slip out of the courtroom behind us and hesitate in the hallway.
“Marcy,” her mother breathes, pressing fingers to her throat at the sight of us embracing. “Oh, sweetheart.”
Marcy goes still beside me. It’s a small stillness, but I feel it ripple through her.
Her father clears his throat. “We’re proud of you,” he says, the words sounding like he borrowed them from someone who knew how to say them sooner. “You were very… composed.”
Composed. I bite the inside of my cheek until the copper taste fills the edge off my temper.
Her mother’s gaze drops—one, two, three seconds—to the slight swell under Marcy’s dress. When she looks up, her eyes glisten. “You’re… expecting,” she says. Not a question.
Marcy lifts her chin. “Yes.”
Her father notices the ring at the same time. He reaches toward her hand like he’s studying something behind museum glass. “And this…”
“We’re engaged,” Marcy says. “We’ve been engaged for a couple of months.”
Her mother makes a broken sound. “Why don’t you come home for a while? We can reconnect and help you prepare for the baby.”
“No, Mom,” Marcy says. “I appreciate you coming. You didn’t have to. I know it’s a long trip. But I’m not coming home. I have a home now.”
She turns slightly into me, her shoulder brushing my chest, and I understand she’s not hiding behind me. She’s standing with me. There’s a difference that makes my throat tight.
“I have a family,” she adds, touching her belly with a palm that knows too much about survival. “In Black Pine Ridge. With people who believed me when I told them I was scared—and who defended me. I’m not willing to give that up.”
Her mother shakes her head, tears spilling over. She doesn’t speak as she turns and walks away. Marcy’s father hesitates and looks at me. “Take care of her.”
“I will,” I say.
We push through the courthouse doors, and I squint as sunlight hits my face, warming one cheek while the early spring air bites the other.
Marcy’s breath clouds between us. Behind her, the Rockies cut a jagged line of white against blue, their peaks catching light like struck matches.
Three camera shutters click in rapid succession from the sidewalk across the street.
Marcy’s fingers tighten around mine. We keep our eyes forward, descending the steps in silence until Wes appears at the bottom, flanked by Joon and Beckett.
They fall into step around us without a word—Beckett’s broad shoulders blocking the reporters’ view, Joon’s hand briefly touching Marcy’s elbow, Wes scanning the parking lot ahead.
“You good?” Beckett asks.
“We’re okay,” I assure him. And we are. We’ve been good for a long time.
“Proud of you, Marce,” Wes says, hugging her carefully like she’s made of porcelain and dynamite—which isn’t far from the truth. “Come on, I made a lasagna the size of a transmission. We need to fatten you and that baby up.”
Marcy laughs, a real laugh that sends electricity up my spine. We head toward the truck.
“You okay?” she asks, glancing up at me through lashes that still knock the wind out of me.
“I am now.” My shoulders drop three inches, like something heavy has finally rolled off them.
She steps closer, the zipper of her coat catching against mine with a soft metallic whisper.
For a moment, we just breathe together. The chalky scent of mint drifts between us—those Tums she stashes in every pocket since the baby started.
Mixed with courthouse dust and sharp spring air, it smells like victory.
At the truck, she rises on her toes and finds my lips—quick, fierce. A camera clicks somewhere across the street. Her fingers tighten on my collar, holding me there a beat longer, her eyes locking with mine in pure defiance.
I pull open the passenger door. She climbs in, one hand gripping the handle, chin raised high. Before I close the door, she catches my jacket and tugs me down until her lips brush my ear.
“Let’s go home,” she whispers.
So we do.