Chapter 4 Dante
Dante
Jitters run through my body as I attempt to sit still in the courtroom.
Mr. Vetter and his team are performing phenomenally, as expected.
Melody is following their cues to a tee.
And god, she looks absolutely beautiful.
A little thinner than I'd like to see, but I'll get her back to her fighting weight as soon as she's released.
I miss those gorgeous curves pressed up against me.
I miss the smell of her body wash when we lie down together at night.
And fuck, do I ever miss her fiery temper.
Unfortunately, the prosecution is also bringing their A game.
The evidence they have—fabricated or otherwise—is damning.
And I can see on the jury's faces that they're starting to doubt my wife.
They're doubting her story. They're doubting her innocence.
All Mr. Vetter needed was to plant reasonable doubt.
He is trying, but the prosecuting attorneys shoot holes in every alternative theory with pinpointed accuracy.
They're all going to fucking die, though. Whether Melody is convicted or not, they're dead. Every single one of them. Hell, I might even point Melody herself at them. When she's good and rabid, of course.
"Mrs. Lyons, I'd like to ask about how and when you met your husband," the prosecutor starts.
"Objection," Mr. Vetter interrupts, raising his hand. "Irrelevant."
"Overruled," the judge says, glaring at Mr. Vetter. "I assert that her answer is very relevant to the case."
"As I was saying." The prosecutor smiles at the jury. "Mrs. Lyons, is it true that you met your husband on the day of Barry Lennox's death?"
"I don't know," Melody answers with wide eyes. "I don't know Barry Lennox. I don't know when he died."
A smile creeps across my face. Of course she doesn't know.
She did meet me that day, but she doesn't know that.
And it's a damn good thing she doesn't, as she definitely did not perjure herself just now.
The DA chuckles and turns to the TV they've rolled in for the trial.
The screen flips from gory crime-scene photos to the smiling face of a disgustingly familiar man.
"Barry Lennox. By all accounts, he was a family man.
A businessman. He ran in similar circles to your husband—professionally speaking, of course.
An aspiring real estate mogul, even! And, of course, we express our condolences to his wife and children.
If you'll direct your attention to the screen here, we can see Barry's shallow grave in the Pine Barrens. "
The screen flashes with images of the clearing.
As the lawyer clicks through the photos, it almost seems like the world's worst flipbook.
The police unearth Barry's corpse, picked clean by the worms and insects that feasted on him.
They point out various rocks, footprints, and worst of all: strands of hair.
Strands of blackish-brown curly hair. Hair that matches the beautiful tresses on my wife.
"Now, here, we can see these strands. They were carefully recovered and tested against Mrs. Lyons's DNA.
" The lawyer clicks their mouse one more time, showing a side-by-side comparison.
"As we can all see, they are a perfect match.
Now, if you were not Barry Lennox's murderer, why would your hair be in his grave? "
My heart sinks. These motherfuckers. I swear to god I'll kill them all. They planted it. They planted her goddamn hair—that's why Ella had Melody locked up in that fucking cage for so long. She stole her blood, her hair, her very DNA to perfectly frame her.
Rafaella Angelo is going to die.
Roman accompanies me to court every single day.
The new office manager, Celine, is taking care of everything—just like Roman said she would.
I still haven't apologized to him for my outburst. I need to, but I just don't have the strength.
My every waking moment is focused on Melody and the trial.
The jury is deliberating today, just like they did yesterday and the day before.
Every minute they spend in isolation, my nerves grow thinner and thinner.
He stands with me outside the courtroom, tapping away on his phone.
I lean my head back against the marble walls and let out an exhausted breath.
Sneakily peeking at his phone screen, I see Roman is texting with Helena.
He's dutifully providing updates on Melody's trial and assuring Helena that all we need is for her to heal. Good.
"Mr. Lyons?" Vetter approaches with a sorrowful look. "Mr. Lyons, I'm sorry."
"What do you mean?" I grit out. "Sorry for what?"
He pats me on the shoulder with a pitying smile. "We'll get her out on appeal."
"What the fuck do you mean by that?" My voice is rising—I'm almost yelling—but I don't care. "Appeal? What the fuck? She's innocent!"
"Of course she is, we all know that. But… the prosecution, Dante. They pulled out all the stops. It's not the '90s anymore. Everyone knows what DNA is. Everyone knows what it means. I just… wanted to prepare you before the jury returns."
No. God, no. They can't do this. They can't take my wife away. They can't put her in prison. I promised her I would protect her; I promised her she would be safe. All the same words I've chastised myself with for weeks rattle around in my brain. The walls are closing in on me, and I can't breathe.
"Sir?" Roman gently places a hand on my back. "Sir, are you alright?"
No. No, I'm not fucking alright. I won't be alright until my wife is back in my arms. I brought her into this mess, and I have to get her out.
"Let's get some coffee, sir. We'll leave immediately if the jury comes back." Roman guides me to the exit. I feel like a ghost as I follow along. I have no purpose. I have no drive, except for one thing. The one thing that I can't do. The one thing that I've tried my absolute hardest to do.
He orders for me—sixteen-ounce drip, no sugar, no cream—and ushers me into an available seat.
A newspaper sits on the tabletop with Melody's face splashed across the front page.
"ALLEGED MURDERER FACES SECOND WEEK OF TRIAL.
" I grab the page and crumple it up, throwing it into the nearest trash can.
The trial has been so short. It's like the prosecution wants to get it over and done with so they can throw her away.
At every turn, we're blocked by the judge. Vetter tried to argue for recusal, but it didn't work. I really thought we could get her off. Vetter assured me as such, with his haughty overconfidence. I've never lost a case, he said. But he's losing this case. The only fucking case that matters.
I gulp down the coffee and ignore the burn in my throat. If the jury declares her guilty, she'll be extradited to Illinois and stand trial for Charlie's murder.
"Oh my god," I whisper. "That's it. Illinois."
"What?" Roman leans in with a furrowed brow. "What do you mean?"
I shake my head and chug the rest of my coffee. "Not here. Let's get back to the courthouse."
Roman follows me to the busy sidewalk, still frowning.
I shake my head and point to the nearby park.
It's the middle of the day, and there are only a few people scattered around the benches.
It's perfect. No one will be able to hear us.
I scurry across the street and claim the bench furthest away from anyone already seated.
"Illinois," I whisper to Roman as he sits. "We'll break her out when they transfer her to Illinois."
His eyebrows shoot up, and he huffs out a laugh. "Amazing. I knew you were still there, sir. Yes, the fuck we will."
My mind races with possibilities. We could hijack the plane or kill the pilot and replace them with our own. We could storm the transport bus and kill everyone but her. We could do any number of things—but we'll need more information. I think it's time to call in The Paimon.
Roman's phone vibrates in his lap. "Oh, shit. The jury's back, sir. Let's go."
Without another word, we race across the city sidewalk, weaving through pedestrians. More than one person yells in our direction, but I could give a flying fuck. We reach the courthouse in the nick of time, bursting through the courtroom doors just as the judge orders everyone to sit.
Sweat pours down my back as I huff out breath after breath.
I'm laser-focused on the jury foreman, who holds a manila envelope that contains my wife's future.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Melody fidget in her seat out.
I so badly want to pull her in close and whisper that I've got her, everything will be alright.
I need to touch her. I need to kiss her.
I need to tell her I love her, no matter what.
"I understand you've reached a verdict?" the judge asks, and the jury foreman nods.
"Yes, we have." The foreman stands. He's a tall, thin man with wispy hair trying desperately to hide his bald spot. The fluorescent light reflects off his forehead anyway. I stare into the man's face as he reads off the charges.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Melody bursts into tears, and I launch myself over the partition, pulling her into my arms. The courtroom erupts, but I don't care. Nuzzling into her neck, I whisper, "I love you. I love you so much. I'll get you out, I promise."
"I love you, too," Melody sobs back and kisses me deeply.
Just as I get a taste of my effervescent wife, I'm wrenched away by the bailiff.
The judge is yelling about contempt, but all I can see is my wife.
Maybe for the last time in a while. I commit every inch of her to memory and hold onto her hands, trying to pull her away with me.
Another cop yanks her back and slaps the handcuffs back around her wrists.
"No!" I scream and pull myself from the clawing hands. "No! Melody!"
"I'm sorry, Dante!" Melody yells as another cop swarms her and drags her away. "I'm so sorry!"
Sorry? What could she possibly be sorry for?
My heart shatters as I watch the last glimpse of the court bailiff dragging Melody away.
Another cop slaps cuffs around my wrists, but god, I don't care.
If only they'd throw me into the same cell, I'd happily live my life in prison if it meant I could be with her.
I need her to know I love her. I need her to know that she shouldn't be sorry.
She did nothing wrong. She never did anything wrong.
Contempt of court, as it turns out, can be fixed by a quickly paid fine.
The more I learn about the justice system in our country, the more I am absolutely disgusted.
There is no real justice. There is, however, cruel punishment and monetary punishment.
It hardly seems fair that Melody gets one end of the stick, while I "get" to pay a tiny bribe, and my troubles are gone.
Free to go, to drink expensive whiskey in the comfort of my own home.
But that's the way of this world, isn't it? Men make decisions, and women suffer. I made a decision, and Melody is suffering. Yet she cried out her apologies to me when it should be the other way around. I will spend the rest of my life begging her forgiveness, if she'll let me.
Though my mind remains focused on Melody, Roman's behavior worms its way to the front.
For years, he has been the very model of a Goetic assistant.
His knowledge of my business dealings—legal and otherwise—is unmatched.
He knows exactly what to delegate and what to handle himself.
I call, he runs. And he's paid handsomely for this level of service.
Lately, it seems he's become rather irritable.
I'll need to speak with him about it, but I just don't have the wherewithal to bring it up.
Still, I watch his nostrils flare as he taps away on his phone.
Perhaps it's simply Helena's predicament: she is, after all, the first person on his team to go through such a horrific experience on the job.
"How is Helena?" I muse, watching the crease between Roman's brows deepen.
"She is… recovering," Roman grunts. He clicks his phone screen off and focuses his attention on me.
"She's traumatized, sir. She watched her charge be beaten.
She watched Melody kill a man with her bare hands.
She watched the man's corpse fester with blowflies and maggots not ten feet away from where she slept.
Her military training didn't prepare her for that level of gore, up close and personal like that. "
"I can't imagine anyone's training would." I grimace at the thought. "Is there anything I can do for her?"
"No." He shakes his head and sighs. "She just needs time. I've been in contact with her therapist, Dr. Hammond. She says the night terrors are decreasing in frequency."
"Good. Good. Roman, I'm…" I trail off. Sorry doesn't seem like enough. A platitude. Something you just say to make yourself feel better, like you're trying to convince the other party you're a good person. "I will never let this happen again."
"Nor will I, sir."