Chapter 49
Chapter Forty-Nine
The air in the courtroom smells like old wood and paper. It’s the kind of room where lives are reduced to reports, and names are spoken like accusations.
My wrists are shackled. The metal bites into skin already rubbed raw from the hospital restraints.
Because I was under arrest, they had cuffed me to the bed in case I tried to escape.
The fact that anyone looked at me and thought there was even the remotest possibility of that had me questioning their intelligence, but I hadn’t argued with them.
I’d been dying. The doctors confirmed that.
If I’d left it any longer, they wouldn’t have been able to save me.
Now I’m just a ghost of that wreckage, not completely healed.
It’ll take more than a week for that. The pain is still there from Dan’s beating, and the damage he caused.
The withdrawal from the painkillers isn’t finished with me either.
My skin crawls, muscles twitching constantly, and nausea rolls through my gut in waves.
But when I walk into that courtroom, I don’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing my discomfort. The whole town has turned out for the show, and I can feel their eyes crawling over me.
I keep my gaze on the floor, and don’t look at anyone. Not when the judge speaks, or the defense attorney the state assigned me sits down. And definitely not the people whispering behind cupped hands, recounting a version of me they crafted long before I set off the alarms at Feldman’s store.
But mostly … not at her.
I knew she’d be here. Even before I stepped inside.
Lily.
Her name in my blood was the last thing I wrote on the white tiles inside Feldman’s store before they arrested me.
My fingernails dig into my palms. It should help me focus, but all it does is remind me how fucking stupid I am.
Someone starts reading the charges.
Breaking and entering.
Intent to commit theft.
Possession of a controlled substance.
I keep my face blank. If they want me to react, they’re going to be waiting for a long time. Someone moves in the gallery. It’s followed by a muffled sniff.
Lily.
My jaw clenches with the fight not to turn and look at her.
“The defendant was found in possession of hydrocodone, and a prescription pad half completed with a forged prescription for more of the same under a false name.”
A throat clears to my left. My attorney. I’d forgotten he was there. He flips through his notes, barely disguising his disinterest.
“Your Honor, given Mr. Oliver’s circumstances ... His mother died from an overdose when he was fourteen, and he has no next of kin.”
The image of her that final time in the bathroom with the EMT’s standing over her fills my mind. I’d known she was dead. I just didn’t want to believe it. I don’t let myself react to the discovery and try to focus on my attorney’s words.
“—and the nature of this case, we would request leniency in sentencing.”
The judge sighs. “Request denied.”
I swallow the laugh that nearly slips through. Of course it is. They didn’t bring me here to listen or ensure justice. They just want a win. A name to check off the list.
The prosecutor leans forward, straightening his tie.
“Your Honor, this town has had enough of giving second chances. We’re not here to debate whether Mr. Oliver needed help.
There are plenty of people in need who don’t break into honest businesses or put themselves into situations like this.
The law is clear. Actions have consequences. ”
I can hear the disgust in his tone.
There’s another quiet sniff behind me. My fingers curl tighter, nails biting deeper.
“The state recommends the maximum sentence allowable, given the circumstances,” the prosecutor continues. “A clear message needs to be sent.”
The judge speaks again, but I’ve stopped listening. I count the breaths it takes for him to finish speaking.
Fourteen. That’s all.
The defense attorney leans close to me, his breath stale with the smell of coffee. “Mr. Oliver, this is your chance to make a statement. You can appeal to the judge, and show him that you deserve a chance.”
I turn my head slightly, just enough to see his profile. He’s glancing at his watch, impatience etched into every move.
The part of me that stills knows how to fight stirs, weak and struggling to be acknowledged.
That part would have spoken up once. He’d have told them they were wrong, and that I hadn’t gone to Feldman’s to steal anything.
He’d have explained that I set off the alarms because I knew it would bring someone.
I wasn’t trying to run. I just needed someone to fucking find me before my body gave up.
But that part of me died somewhere between sending Lily away and smashing my fist against the factory wall, while I tried to erase the shape of her name from my blood.
I breathe in slowly, then release the breath. My ribs protest the movement, reminding me that my body is still recovering from everything it’s been through.
“I have nothing to say.”
I hear her inhale, and the sound cuts through the courtroom noise. I don’t have to look to know her fingers will be gripping the edge of the bench. Her eyes are probably wide, trying to find the person she used to know inside the wreckage sitting in front of her.
She won’t find him. He doesn’t exist anymore.
The gavel strikes, and the sentence is given.
Five years.
And all I feel is relief. At least now I’ll have a roof over my head and won’t have to worry where the next meal will come from. I won’t have to forge documents or wonder if tonight will be the night hypothermia finally wins.
Five years of not having to survive on my own.
The judge cites a combination of breaking and entering, possession of a controlled substance, evidence of that controlled substance in my system, along with statements from the community expressing concern about my influence on others. An example needs to be set as a warning to others.
As if locking me away for five years will change anyone’s behavior.
It’s a fucking joke really.
Behind me, someone sobs. Every muscle in my body locks up, fighting the urge to turn and look at her one last time, and tell her I’m sorry. But I don’t. Because sorry won’t change anything.
The guards move before I do, cuffs clinking, hands holding my arms and guiding me upright and toward the door. I go without a fight, needing them to support my weight because I’m still too weak to walk unaided.
When I pass the gallery, the air shifts. I should keep walking until I’m out of the room, and let this town swallow the last piece of me without a fight. And because there’s still a part of me that’s tethered to her, my head tilts slightly, just enough to see her without her knowing I’m looking.
She’s standing, her body angled toward me. Her lips are parted, my name forming there. Her face is pale, eyes wide and red-rimmed, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her chest is rising and falling too fast. One hand reaches toward me before falling back to her side.
She’s beautiful. Even now, looking at me like I’m breaking her heart all over again.
My name on her lips is the last thing I hear before the doors close.
I keep walking. The guards don’t speak to me. The metal detector beeps as I pass through it. They pat me down again, hands impersonal. I wonder if they’re still expecting me to fight.
I don’t.
Then we’re through another set of doors.
There’s a transport van waiting outside.
The sky is too bright when we step through, the sunlight stabbing into my skull like a punishment.
As if the world itself is making sure I don’t forget what I’ve lost. I don’t need the reminder.
Her face is already burned into my memory.
The air is clean and cold, and I take a deep breath. My ribs protest with each inhale, but I do it anyway.
Five years.
The van door slams shut behind me.