CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
KYE
Trell pleaded guilty on a Thursday that was too sunny for court.
The victim advocate called the agreement a resolution.
My mother called it the least he could do.
I called it nine pages I read three times before deciding whether I could live with them.
He would plead guilty to violating the restraining order and unlawful entry into the salon building. The prosecutor dismissed one lower charge but kept the digital-harassment investigation separate because they still had not proven who uploaded every post.
In plain words, they could prove Trell came through that salon door and kept pushing after the order. They still could not pin every upload to his hand, only to the access he had taken and the damage that followed.
The agreement included county-jail time with credit for the weeks he had already served, probation after release, continued electronic monitoring for a set period, mandatory intervention classes, and no contact with me in any form.
He also had to pay restitution for the damaged back door and part of the security upgrade.
No punishment could return the clients I lost or make my body stop reacting to a rear alarm.
The advocate did not pretend it could.
“You can object to the agreement,” she said. “The judge is not required to reject it, but your position can be stated.”
“What happens if I object?”
“The case may continue toward trial. There is no guaranteed outcome.”
Trial meant testifying in detail. Waiting months. Watching his attorney argue over whether fear counted if he never touched me that night.
Accepting the plea did not mean I thought it was enough. It meant I knew enough was not one of the choices court offered.
“I am not objecting,” I said. “I want to read my statement.”
The courtroom looked the same as before.
Beige walls.
Hard benches.
A flag in one corner.
People carrying their worst days inside manila folders.
He wore a dark suit his mother probably brought him. His hair was cut. His face looked thinner.
When the deputy led him to the defense table, he did not look at me.
My body still noticed everything.
Where the exits were.
How many deputies stood near him.
Whether his hands were free.
The advocate sat beside me and whispered, “Feet on the floor.”
I pressed both heels down.
The prosecutor read the charges and agreement. Trell answered the judge’s questions with yes, Your Honor and no, Your Honor.
His voice sounded like the man who used to order food for me when I took too long choosing.
That almost made me angrier than if he sounded like a stranger.
The judge asked whether he wanted to speak before sentencing.
Trell stood. “I apologize to the court and to Kyla,” he said. “I loved her. I was trying to talk and did not understand how serious everything had become. I never wanted her to be afraid of me.”
My mother shifted beside me.
I kept my feet on the floor.
The judge looked over his glasses. “A final restraining order is not a suggestion. You were told exactly how serious the situation was.”
Trell lowered his head.
The advocate touched the edge of my statement.
My turn.
I walked to the microphone holding three pages.
The first version had six.
The second called him every name I knew.
The final one told the truth without making my pain perform.
“My name is Kyla Monroe,” I began. “I loved Trell. I need that included because people act like abuse only happens when a woman hates a man enough to recognize it immediately.”
My voice shook. I did not apologize for it.
“He helped me build shelves in my first salon suite. He brought food when I worked late. He also tracked my location, demanded proof of where I was, took my phone, hurt my wrist, pushed me into furniture, leaked private messages, came to my job after a court told him not to, and entered through a back door to get around security.”
Trell stared at the table.
“I miss parts of him. That does not make what he did less dangerous. It makes leaving harder.”
The courtroom was quiet enough for me to hear paper moving behind me.
“I lost clients. I changed suites. My mother stopped sleeping because she was watching cameras. My friends learned an emergency word could still be needed eight years after we made it. I check every black Charger even though I know where he is.”
My throat tightened near the last sentence.
I looked at the judge instead of Trell.
“I am not asking the court to make me unafraid. I am asking for consequences that make it clear my no did not create this. His decision to ignore it did.”
I returned to my seat.
My mother grabbed my hand.
The judge accepted the plea.
Trell received a custodial sentence with credit for time served, followed by probation and the conditions in the agreement. The no-contact order stayed in force. The judge warned him that any message through relatives, fake pages, or business accounts could become another violation.
Trell finally looked at me when the deputy turned him toward the side door.
His eyes were wet.
Mine were too.
Neither of us moved.
Then, he disappeared through the door.
Outside, reporters did not wait.
No dramatic crowd.
No music.
Just my mother, the advocate, and me standing near a vending machine that had eaten somebody’s dollar.
“You want food?” my mother asked.
“No.”
“You want to go home?”
“No.”
“You want me to stop asking questions?”
“Maybe.”
She nodded.
We walked to the parking garage without deciding what came next.
At the elevator, I saw a black Charger entering the lower level.
My breath stopped.
The driver was an older woman wearing sunglasses. She parked two rows away and got out carrying grocery bags.
The advocate had warned me court might increase symptoms before it eased them. Knowing that did not make the fear less embarrassing.
My mother unlocked the car.
“You need a minute?”
“Yes.”
We stood beside the passenger door until my hands stopped shaking. Then, I told her where I wanted to go.
The tattoo shop was fifteen minutes from court. My appointment had been booked for two weeks. I had not told anybody because Ari would ask whether the design meant something, Jori would research infection rates, and Nae would remind me tattoos cost grocery money.
My mother looked at the storefront. “You serious?”
“Yes.”
“You just left court.”
“I know where I was.”
“You making an emotional decision?”
“I picked the design before today.”
“What is it?”
I showed her the drawing on my phone.
A thin rose stem along my upper shoulder with three small stars above it. Beneath the flower, in tiny script, two words.
still growing.
My mother stared.
“That is going to hurt.”
“I had a feeling.”
She came inside anyway.
The artist cleaned my shoulder and placed the stencil. The rose looked delicate against my skin, nothing like how loud the decision felt inside me.
When the needle started, I gripped the edge of the chair. The pain was sharp and controlled.
She asked whether I needed a break, and I said yes once.
Nothing about it felt like Trell.
My mother sat in the corner pretending not to take pictures.
When it was finished, I studied the tattoo in the mirror.
Not healed.
Not over it.
Still growing.
“Cute,” my mother admitted.
“I know.”
“Do not get addicted.”
“I already got three more planned.”
“Kyla.”
“I am joking.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Mostly.”
At the salon, I covered the fresh tattoo beneath a loose shirt and taught my first Saturday workshop for four girls preparing for cosmetology state boards.
The class had been my idea before Trell’s plea, but holding it that week felt important.
I charged enough to pay myself.
No exposure.
No free labor because somebody knew my cousin.
We practiced sanitation, timing, and what to do when nerves made your hands forget things they knew.
One student stared at the mannequin head and said, “I always mess up when somebody watch me.”
“So, do it scared,” I told her. “Slow down and do the next step you know.”
The advice sounded familiar.
Jori would have been proud and irritating about it.
After class, Ari arrived with a camera for the campaign pilot. She stopped when my sleeve slipped and the top of the rose showed.
“You got a tattoo?”
“Yes.”
“Without telling us?”
“It was on my body, not the group calendar.”
She stared another second. “Can I see?”
I pulled the fabric aside carefully.
Ari read the words.
Her expression softened. “That is pretty.”
“Enough?”
She looked at me.
The joke could have landed wrong.
Then, she smiled a little. “Do not start.”
We photographed the workshop with every student’s permission. No faces until forms were signed. No dramatic captions about surviving.
Just hands learning work that could become a life.
When I locked up, I checked the rear camera.
Empty hallway.
I still walked to my car with security.
The court sentence had consequences for Trell.
At home, I washed around the tattoo, covered it the way the artist instructed, and opened DAY ONES OR DIES.
KYE: Sentencing done. Plea accepted. No contact stays. I am home.
JORI: Do you have room for a call or do you want quiet?
NAE: Same question
ARI: Also she got a tattoo and did not tell nobody
KYE: SNITCH
My phone rang before I answered. I looked at the four names, then accepted the call.
“I got room,” I said.