Chapter 38
Celine
This was the last place I wanted to be.
I shifted on my uncomfortable heels and scratched at the hives already blooming on my arm. Fuck, I hated court.
Chloe squeezed my hand and shifted a little closer. Her presence brought a modicum of relief. I couldn’t have done this without her.
I’d considered bringing the kids and asking her to keep them during the hearing but ultimately decided to take them to school, drive to Maine, and drive home later.
Stella planned to take them back to our house after school to work on homework and have dinner.
With any luck, I’d be home before Julian fell asleep.
It was a three-hour drive, but I’d spent the whole trip here in a fog. I had no idea what the podcast I’d listened to was even about. I just stared at the gray sky and the road ahead of me, my coffee untouched in the cupholder, trying and failing to prepare myself to see him again.
For the last few years, Maine had meant danger. But now it meant confrontation. And I had agency. I had power. Chloe had been sending me encouraging texts all week, and though I still struggled to believe them, I read them several times a day.
A part of me, one I’d locked away, still felt small and fragile and vulnerable. And what I was doing today, it was for her.
When Josh had come over last night, he hadn’t pushed or prodded, and he hadn’t forced me to talk.
He wanted more. He’d been clear about that. He wanted me to let him all the way in.
But I couldn’t. Not yet. Not with so much still unsettled.
Chloe met me at the entrance to the prison so we could go through the security checkpoint together.
Once our bags had been searched, we were given identification badges, then led to a damp waiting room with plastic chairs and fluorescent lighting.
Other folks were waiting too, likely family members here for other hearings.
“You ready?” Chloe asked.
I nodded, though my stomach twisted painfully.
She squeezed my hand once more. “I’m proud of you.”
Ava, my lawyer, arrived shortly after, phone in one hand, briefcase in the other. She whipped out a file and had me review several documents, one of which was my written statement.
She was efficient and cool, treating me like a collaborator, not a fragile woman who was at risk of falling apart at any moment.
I sat with the printed copy of my statement in my hands. Rubbing the paper between my fingers and breathing, trying to ground myself in the words I’d written.
The option to appear via videocall had been appealing when Ava brought it up, but in the end, it felt important to be here.
To stand up in person. I’d already said what I needed to say.
The outcome was out of my hands. But good or bad, I was here to look that fucker in the eye and make sure he knew that he would not break me.
That he would not intimidate me or terrorize me.
That my kids weren’t living in fear anymore.
Chloe put her arm around me. “You sure you don’t want me to buy you a gun?”
“Jesus,” I hissed. We were in a prison, for God’s sake. “No. I do not want a gun.”
Her lips twitched. “How about a taser?”
“Stop it. I don’t need weapons.”
“Pepper spray?”
I sighed. She was not going to stop. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll accept pepper spray.”
She clapped, drawing the attention from several people sitting nearby. “Perfect. I’ll order you my favorite brand.”
Ava leaned over, joining the conversation. “You have a favorite brand of pepper spray?”
“Of course I do.” Chloe scoffed. “What an absurd question.”
Eventually, we were led into a long, narrow space with a drop-tile celling and no windows. Three people sat behind a large table at the front of the room, each with a nameplate. The members of the parole board. One woman sat between two men, and they all looked to be in their fifties.
Just after we’d taken our seats, the back door opened and Donny walked in, wearing his prison uniform, with handcuffs on his wrists.
He was led to a table in front, and then the handcuffs were removed by the corrections officer.
One of the male parole board members read the rules and procedures, explaining the original charges, conviction, and sentence as well as the offered grounds for parole.
A representative from the board of prisons came forward and summarized a report regarding Donny’s physical and mental health. His success in the substance abuse program and his record of conduct in prison.
Donny made a statement next, reading from a piece of paper.
His hair was short, almost a buzz cut, and his face was clean shaven.
He was thinner than I remembered. I’d always considered him this larger-than-life figure.
A man who oozed power and dominance. But as I looked at him now, after years of healing, I saw him for what he was.
Pathetic.
Weak.
And cruel.
His words were empty and his voice monotone. When he talked about his children, I had to suppress a snort. He talked about his career with his family business and a list of other reasons he believed he should be allowed back into society.
When he finished and sat down, the board asked if I’d like to make a statement.
Ava stood up. “My client has already submitted her statement in writing.”
“Wait,” I said, standing. The plan had been not to speak but to be a presence here. But suddenly I couldn’t not speak. I needed to be heard. “May I?”
The woman sitting at the table nodded.
“I submitted a written statement,” I said, though Ava had just told them that.
“Yes,” she replied. “We have reviewed it along with the exhibits you provided.”
“So I won’t repeat myself.” I shifted, feeling several sets of eyes on me. Donny’s scrutiny was the heaviest, but I forced myself to make eye contact with him. And when I did, I knew for certain that I would never, ever let this man hurt me again.
“My ex-husband has engaged in a pattern of harassment and threats since his arrest three years ago. I have no reason to believe he has been rehabilitated. My statement and the exhibits provide the necessary details.”
Eyes narrowing, he clenched his jaw. I used to look for those fine movements with surgical accuracy. I would obsessively study his moods, appealing and deflecting when he got angry.
But his mood was no longer my problem.
“You will not hurt me again,” I said firmly. “You will not hurt my children.”
I sat down, my hands shaking. But I kept my spine straight and looked directly at the parole board members. No tears, no theatrics. Just the facts.
My breathing had just steadied when a shout rang out from the back of the room.
“You evil bitch.”
I whipped around in my seat, the familiar voice making my hackles rise.
Phyllis stood at the back of the room, shaking her fist at me. Even from here, I could see the fury in her eyes.
Even enraged, her blond hair was smooth and immaculate, and she had an expensive wool coat draped over her shoulders.
She looked less like a grieving mother and more like someone attending a board meeting.
Her gaze was sharp, nearly cutting me from across this crowded room.
She was unhinged, bordering on delusional.
As if she genuinely believed that this outcome belonged to her.
She was not a woman who accepted limits, and regardless of how things played out today, Phyllis was not finished.
“Ma’am, we have to ask you to please leave the room,” the male board member on the left said.
A guard strode toward her and grasped her arm, leading her out the door.
After the panel left the room to conference, Chloe pulled me into the hall. When there was no sign of Phyllis, she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. “You did good.”
Thirty minutes later, we were called back into the room.
“We have reached our decision. The parole is denied,” the woman said firmly.
“We came to this decision based on the record of continued threats, the demonstrated lack of remorse, and a credible fear for the safety of his victims.” She looked directly at Donny.
“You will serve the remainder of your full sentence. A referral will be made to the district attorney to investigate and prosecute these documented violations of the protective order.”
The words landed slowly in my brain.
Parole denied.
Not postponed.
Not reconsidered.
Denied.
Donny was led out of the room in handcuffs.
The system had worked. It had done what it was supposed to do.
Relief hit me first, then anger. Why was I even here? How come, after three years, I’d been dragged back into this mess?
At least it was done with.
I didn’t owe him anything.
Not my future.
Not my past.
And definitely not my fear.
All I wanted to do was go home. I needed to hug my kids. Then I needed to talk to Josh.
Chloe and I walked out of the prison arm in arm, past the high walls and the barbed wire and toward the parking lot.
Where we found Phyllis waiting, a glare firmly fixed on her face.
I glared right back.
“You ruined his life,” she said as we walked past her. “You ruined my son.”
My heart took off, panic setting in. How was it that I could never get away from these horrible people?
“Eat shit, Phyllis,” Chloe spat, dragging me to my car.
She opened the driver’s door and stood beside it as I buckled my seat belt and started the engine.
“I love you,” she said. “Now go back to Vermont.”