Chapter 32
The Knockout Fight
JONAH
The Courthouse air is stale but electrified. I walk in, and my heart’s already punching at my ribs. Every hair on my neck stands up, my hands are cold, knuckles tight, but sweat crawls along my spine.
Gardner walks beside me, step-for-step, cool. She’s got her cell out, thumb moving in calculated flicks. She doesn’t say a word until we’re past the metal detector and three steps from the courtroom door. “Ready?”
I nod, meaning it.
We push through. A different judge from the one I met in his chambers presides. This one’s thin, hair all gray, glasses perched on his nose, and looks like he doesn’t tolerate BS.
The rest of the courtroom: two benches and two dozen strangers pretending they’re not rubbernecking the wreck of my life.
My parents are dead center—Mom with a powder-blue sweater and a handkerchief, Dad already squared up ready to break a chair on command.
Ms. Hernandez is in the back row with a stack of case files and a coffee.
Gwen’s lawyer has the perfect tan and the face that says he’s dreamed of this moment since law school. Across from him, Gwen’s wearing a suit, light color, hair pulled impossibly tight.
The bailiff calls it, and I sit. Gardner doesn’t even look at me as she takes her seat, and flips a tab in her binder.
It’s on.
The judge asks the opposing counsel—Warren Finch—for opening arguments.
Fitch is on his feet. “Your Honor,” he says, voice smooth, “we are here today because the Anders family has grave concerns about the welfare and stability of young Eli Anders in the custody of Jonah Holt.” He lets that “grave” hang in the air—hands steepled, no notes, just pure theater.
My jaw tics.
He keeps going. “My client, Mrs. Gwen Anders, comes before this court not out of anger, but out of heartbreak. She wishes only what is best for her grandson.” Fitch gestures to Gwen, soft spotlight, the way you might indicate a beloved rescue dog.
“The aim of this hearing is to establish whether Mr. Holt’s home is truly the safest and most suitable permanent environment for Eli. ”
He doesn’t even look at me. Not once. Just the judge. Just the narrative.
He waits—then clicks a remote.
The monitor at his table flickers to life.
“Your Honor, if I may offer a brief visual context—Exhibit One.”
And there it is. My finest moment, streaming off Gwen’s own front porch. The Ring camera footage—me, skin corpse-white, fists clenched so hard the knuckles gleam. Voice low. A single, surgical line: “I’ll end you.”
No context. No part where she kidnapped Eli. Two seconds, looped. My face in profile, eyes gone murder-dark.
Fitch doesn’t narrate. He just lets it ride.
The judge watches the screen, then me.
I stare at my hands.
After a silence that’s long enough to make my neck flush with heat, Fitch continues, “This is not, unfortunately, an isolated incident in Mr. Holt’s history.
Rather, it reflects a pattern—one documented in disciplinary records, police reports, and, most recently, the concerns of those closest to the late Ms. Rosie Anders. ”
He turns a page.
“Let’s begin with February, three seasons ago—Denver, Colorado. Mr. Holt was involved in an altercation at a bar with three other professional athletes. This resulted in a two-game suspension—official NHL records, Your Honor.”
He names the game. He names the day. He gives the highlight reel version, listing blows landed, not the fact that the guy grabbed my sister’s ass, and I paid his ER bills and wrote an apology statement. None of that matters. Just the violence.
Fitch passes the file to the clerk, who gives it to the judge. The motherfucker even highlighted my name in yellow.
He glances at me, cold. “And now, most notably, Mr. Holt came to know of his son’s existence not through a voluntary relationship with Ms. Anders, but only after her untimely death forced the issue.
Mr. Holt’s only been in contact with Eli for a matter of weeks.
A child who, in the wake of profound trauma, is in need of—above all—stability. Consistency. Safety.”
He lets the notebook drop shut, then leans in.
“It’s not that Mr. Holt has a past, Your Honor—but that he has a pattern.
His first instinct, under pressure, is aggression.
He has never demonstrated any sustained ability to care for a child—until, very recently, when it was foisted upon him by tragedy.
That’s not the foundation of a healthy home. ”
He sits.
My hands fist in my lap, and the only thing keeping a lid on the rage spike is the numbness crawling up my arms. I stare at the table, the blood roaring in my ears.
The judge looks bored. He nods to Gardner. Her move.
“Your Honor, I’d like to call Ms. Anders to the stand.”
Gwen blanches, and her hand jumps to her pearls, twisting them.
Gardner leans in, voice low. “Ms. Anders, I’d like to revisit some statements you made regarding your relationship with your daughter, Ms. Rosemary Anders. You indicated the two of you were close. Was that your testimony during deposition?”
“Yes.” Gwen’s eyes flicker.
“And yet—” Gardner produces a stack of pages, each one yellow-highlighted and lethal. “—we have multiple letters, emails, and text messages in which Rosie describes you as—and I quote—‘controlling, manipulative, and the reason she left Dickens.’” Gardner reads that last one slow.
Fitch starts to object, but Gardner’s already shuffling the papers to the bailiff. “Exhibit 14A, your honor. Unredacted.”
The judge hardly blinks. “Admitted.”
Gardner’s relentless. She walks Gwen through the timeline—every year, every scab. “Did you know in 2017, your daughter wrote her therapist that she would ‘never let her own child feel scared of her the way I was always scared of mine?’”
Gwen tries to dodge. “She had a tendency to—”
“Please answer the question.”
Color’s rising now, all the way to the tips of her ears. “No. I wasn’t aware of that.”
“And would you also agree that Rosie left this town to get away from you? Not Mr. Holt—not the other side of this courtroom—but you.”
Fitch objects. Gardner expected it, nods in a way that says yeah, yeah, do your job.
The judge overrules. “She can answer.”
Gwen’s voice is a raw scrape. “I—yes, I suppose that’s what she wrote.”
“Thank you.” Gardner pivots. She’s not even winded. “Ms. Anders, you stated that Rosie was afraid of Mr. Holt’s temper. Can you point to anything she wrote, texted, or told you which specifically said she feared Mr. Holt as a person—and not simply the volatility of his hockey career?”
Gwen’s pause is brutal. If she says no, she’s toast. If she fakes it, this judge will smell it.
“No,” she finally says, barely audible.
Gardner’s mouth ticks up—one side, predatory. “So, in fact, your daughter stated repeatedly that she was afraid of you—and her decision to leave Eli’s father was driven by her fear of being in the spotlight not a fear of Mr. Holt himself.”
“I—”
“Answer, please.”
Gwen’s knuckles go white. “Yes.”
Every word lands like a puck to the face. The gallery’s dead silent except for the faint hum of the wall-mounted AC.
Gardner waits, then delivers the dagger. “Isn’t it true, Ms. Anders, that Rosie told you that if anything ever happened to her, Eli should be raised by Mr. Holt?”
Fitch loses it—three objections in a row. Gardner counters each one with paperwork. By the time the judge is done sorting, he’s allowed every word into evidence.
Gwen looks like she’s going to be sick. I almost wish that’s what happens—at least it’d be honest.
Gardner lets the silence sharpen. Then she sits.
“Nothing further.”
Fitch tries to salvage—reputation, stability, safe home—but the momentum’s gone. Every answer is a concession.
My heartbeat is a blender in my chest. I look at my parents—my mom’s got tears, my dad’s holding her hand like he’s afraid she’ll tip over. I don’t look back at Gwen. Won’t give her the satisfaction.
The judge clears his throat. “Next witness.”
Gardner stands. “Your Honor, we’d like to call Zoe Lane.”
The name detonates in my skull.
And my brain glitches—did I hear that right, or am I blood-sugar crashing from hope?
Then she walks in.
Sharp blazer, hair back, posture ramrod straight. She glances once in my direction, and I can’t read her face. She’s running pro-level poker, no cracks—but the second our eyes lock, I feel it: the snap of something electric, vicious, real.
Zoe Lane, in this courtroom.
Here for Eli. Here for me.
Gardner doesn’t even give the gallery time to blink. “Ms. Lane,” she starts, “could you tell us your relationship to both parties in this case?”
“Of course,” Zoe says, voice steady. “I was Eli’s live-in caregiver for three weeks. I worked directly for Mr. Holt, who was seeking custody, and I interacted with Ms. Anders once.”
Every phrase is neat, polished, but not rehearsed. She sounds like she’s done network hits before—which, okay, she has. Still, there’s steel under the gloss.
“Could you describe Eli’s adjustment to living with Mr. Holt?”
Zoe nods. “When Eli came to live with Jonah, he was—traumatized. He’d recently lost his mother. He wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating well, had night terrors. He had to adjust to starting a new school. He didn’t trust adults, didn’t want to be touched, and would hide in the closet.”
It’s weird hearing her call me Jonah in public. It lands different—softer, but also heavier.
Gardner paces her. “And how did Mr. Holt respond?”
A small smile, genuine. Zoe’s voice warms up. “He did everything. Built a fort over Eli’s bed so he felt safe to sleep. Before that, Jonah slept in Eli’s closet floor with him after he had a night terror. Jonah was always there—never frustrated, never angry. Just there.”
I’m gripping the table so hard my hands hurt. But I can’t let go. Not now.
“Did you observe Mr. Holt lose his temper with Eli?”