Chapter 32 #2
The smile slides away. “Never. I saw him lose his temper with a coffeemaker once, and maybe a hockey ref on TV. With Eli, he was—it’s like he knew the assignment was to be the opposite of every bad day Eli ever had. And he delivered. Every time.”
Gardner’s not smiling, but there’s satisfaction in her eyes. “Did you ever observe Eli express fear of Mr. Holt?”
“Never.” She says it like it’s ridiculous the question even came up.
“If anything, Eli got calmer the longer he lived in that house. He started eating full meals, sleeping through the night, building Lego sets on the living room carpet. He started laughing again. His therapist said he was progressing in leaps and bounds.”
Now her eyes cut sideways—first to the judge, then, just for a blink, to me. “If you want my personal opinion? That kid was healing. More every day.”
“Thank you, Ms. Lane. No further questions.”
Fitch tries to poke at her—accuses her of being “on Mr. Holt’s payroll,” and Zoe just snorts. “I moved to Seattle for a different job. I’m not affiliated with him anymore, except as a witness. But if you’re asking me if I’d trust him with my own child, the answer is yes. Absolutely.”
It’s a mic drop. Fitch has nothing left but a shuffle of legalese.
The judge makes a note.
There’s a pause here—long enough I start to wonder if there’s another shoe waiting to crash through the ceiling.
Gardner stands.
“Your Honor, may we request minor testimony?”
The judge nods. “Bring in the child.”
It’s an earthquake.
The door opens, and Eli walks in.
He’s in his regular clothes—jeans, the Flash T-shirt, hair brushed so hard the cowlick’s almost gone. He walks with Ms. Hernandez at his side, but he doesn’t shrink or slouch. He steps up into the witness seat, and waits.
“Hi, Eli.” The judge is kind.
“Hi,” comes the reply—small, but clear.
“I’m going to ask you a question, okay? You don’t have to answer unless you want to. But if you do, I want you to tell the truth. Can you do that?”
Eli nods. “Yes.”
The judge says, “You’ve lived with your grandmother and with Mr. Holt. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you feel safe at your grandmother’s house?”
A pause. Eli’s hands are in his lap, threading his fingers. “I guess.”
“Did you feel safe at Jonah’s house?”
He brightens. I swear, it’s like reading a face in real time—a flick of light, a shiver, then full-on confidence. “Yes. I felt really safe.”
The judge asks it, flat, the way you ask the big questions because you have to know. “If you could choose where you want to live, what would your choice be?”
Eli looks at the judge, then at Ms. Hernandez, then—blows my heart to dust—right at me. “Please,” he says, and the word is loaded, desperate, full of nine years of wanting. “I just want to be with my dad. He’s the best.”
There. It’s out. The world cracks open.
I don’t know if my eyes are burning or if that’s just adrenaline screwing with my circulatory system. I’m laser-locked on that kid, right in the chair, and the way he said dad like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The judge’s mouth twitches up, just at the corners. No smile, not really. Just the human part breaking cover.
“Thank you, Eli. You can go back to the gallery.”
Eli nods, slides off the chair, and walks straight to the back row. Doesn’t stop for anything. Sits down, hands folded, eyes never leaving me.
The judge calls counsel up. Whispered sidebars; paperwork slides across the desk. Then everyone’s back in their seats.
My hand’s over my lucky penny, and my heart’s a fucking minefield that could explode any minute now.
Final ruling. The judge reads it straight:
“I have reviewed the evidence, including the testimony of Ms. Lane and the minor child, Eli Anders. The court finds that Mr. Holt has provided a safe, stable, and loving environment, and that Eli has expressed a clear and sustained desire to reside with his father. Therefore, I am awarding permanent legal and physical custody of Eli Anders to Jonah Holt, effective immediately.”
Sound goes out of the world.
Gardner claps me on the arm—firm, congratulatory. Mom is crying so hard she fumbles her purse onto the floor. Dad just sits, dazed.
Across the aisle, Fitch is stone. Gwen—she’s not even looking at the bench. Her eyes lock on the tabletop, not moving, not breathing. Lifeless.
Whatever.
Because in the next instant, the bailiff calls “court is dismissed,” and Eli is up, out of his seat, sprinting down the aisle on nine-year-old legs, and he’s into my arms before I even have time to stand.
He hits me like a battering ram. Full tackle. His arms go around my neck; his face buries in my shirt. He’s shaking—tiny tremors, nothing dramatic—but I can feel them, every one. My gut’s shredded.
I put both arms around him and hold on—tight enough to bridge a decade of loss, if that’s what it takes.
“I knew you’d win. I knew it.”
I can’t answer. My throat is full. I just stand there, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other locked around his shoulders, and I let the world see it. Every second of fight, every minute of wanting—paid off.
Best fucking moment of my life.