60 Francesca
The jail smells the same as it did yesterday, and I go through the routine of checking in again. Sign in, show ID, turn over phone, take off belt, go through metal detector.
Then I wait.
The bench is cold. The room is too bright. Christian takes my hands in his and lightly presses them on my thigh, which I now realize is bouncing up and down.
An officer finally steps out, clipboard tucked against his chest.
“Francesca Malone?”
I’m on my feet before he finishes my name. “Yes.”
He hesitates- just a beat, but it’s enough. My stomach drops, a cold, sickening plunge.
“James Marshall has declined visitors today.”
The words don’t land. They hover somewhere in the air between us, wrong, disconnected- like they weren’t meant for me.
“What?” My voice sounds thin, distant. “No- does he know we’re here?”
“He was informed. He’s chosen not to receive visitors.”
Chosen.
The word hits, sharp and deliberate.
I shake my head, already backing away from it. “No. That’s not- there’s a mistake. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t- ” My voice fractures. “He wouldn’t do that to me.”
“I’m sorry,” the officer says, practiced and empty. “You can try again tomorrow.”
The floor tilts.
For a second, I think I might actually pass out.
My vision narrows, the edges going dark, and I forget how to breathe- like my body just…
stops. I handled the news that he was arrested, even charged with murder, better than this.
But it’s because that was done to him- to us. This... this is him choosing.
Christian’s hand presses into my back, grounding and warm, the only thing keeping me upright.
“Can you ask him why?” I manage, but it comes out broken, barely there. “Please. Can you tell him his dad was arrested? He needs to know. He needs to- ”
The officer just looks at me.
Not unkind. Just… done.
We walk back through security, but I don’t remember moving. My legs work without me, my body following Christian without thought.
I make it halfway across the lot before everything locks up, before I can’t take another step.
“Why?” The word tears out of me, raw and shaking.
Christian pulls me into him, his arms solid, steady. “He thinks he’s protecting us,” he says softly, pressing his mouth to my hair. “He thinks if he pushes us away, it’ll hurt less if- ”
He stops, but it’s too late.
“If we lose him?” My voice spikes, brittle and breaking.
His arms tighten. “We won’t.”
I cling to him, staring back at the building.
“He’s right there,” I choke. “He’s right there and he won’t see me.” My breath stutters, uneven. “He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know there’s hope. Real hope.”
“He will, love. David’s going in today. He’ll talk to him. Jamie’s an idiot- but he’s not stupid. He’ll see his lawyer.”
I shake my head, tears blurring everything. “I can’t do this,” I whisper. “I can’t keep feeling like this. Like I’m- ” I press a hand to my chest. “Like I’m dying every second he’s in there.”
Christian’s hand comes up, gripping the back of my neck, anchoring me.
“I want it to stop,” I say, the words barely there. “I need it to stop. It hurts too much.”
He pulls me into his chest and I sob, shaking as the tears fall. He presses kisses to the top of my head.
“I know, Francesca. Trust me, I know.” Then he barks out a short laugh. “I want a drink,” he says, sudden and sharp.
I pull back, blinking at him. “Me too.”