24. Fran
— ? —
Fran
The courthouse smells like industrial cleaner and anxiety.
Our two-year anniversary passed a week ago, I realize, and neither of us mentioned it.
No inheritance came through, because Logan gave it up.
No deed transfer to wait for, because the farm is already mine.
The private arrangement we made with our families ended quietly, without ceremony, and the marriage just… continued. By choice this time. Ours.
I’m sitting on a wooden bench that was clearly designed by someone who hates the human spine, trying not to fidget while we wait for the hearing to begin.
Logan is beside me, his hand resting on my knee in a way that’s probably meant to be comforting but is mostly just warm.
My victim advocate, a patient woman named Sandra who’s been walking me through every step of this process, is reviewing her notes a few seats down.
Twenty-eight weeks pregnant, and I’m spending my morning in a courtroom. This was not in the life plan.
“You okay?” Logan asks quietly.
“Define okay.”
“Not actively panicking?”
“Then yes. I’m okay.” I shift on the bench, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my lower back scream. “How long do these things usually take?”
“Sandra said a few hours, depending on what the judge decides to cover.” He squeezes my knee. “We can take breaks whenever you need.”
“I need one already and we haven’t even started.”
The courtroom door opens, and a bailiff escorts Sloane to the defendant’s table.
She looks different than the last time I saw her, thinner, paler, without the polished veneer she wore like armor. Jail hasn’t been kind to her, and there’s a brittle quality to her movements that suggests the mask is getting harder to maintain.
Then her eyes find me across the room, and all the brittleness vanishes.
She stares at my belly, my very visible, very obviously pregnant belly that no amount of strategic draping can hide at this point, and her face goes through a series of expressions so fast I almost miss them.
Shock. Calculation. And then, underneath it all, a rage so pure it makes me want to take a step back.
“She didn’t know,” Logan murmurs.
“Apparently not.”
Sloane is still staring, her jaw tight, her hands clenched at her sides. Her lawyer leans in to say something, but she waves him off, her attention fixed on me like I’m the only person in the room.
I meet her gaze and don’t look away.
You tried to kill me, I think. You tried to kill my baby before either of us knew she existed. And here we are anyway.
The bailiff guides Sloane to her seat, and she finally breaks eye contact, but I can feel her fury radiating across the courtroom like heat from a fire.
“All rise,” the bailiff announces. “The Honorable Judge Patricia Halloran presiding.”
We stand. I use Logan’s arm for leverage, because getting up from seated is a whole production these days. The judge enters, a sharp-featured woman in her sixties who looks like she’s seen everything and been impressed by none of it, and settles behind her bench with brisk efficiency.
“Please be seated. This is a preliminary hearing in the matter of the State versus Sloane Elizabeth Vaughn, case number CR-2024-0847. We’re here to review the evidence and determine whether there’s sufficient cause to proceed to trial.” She looks up from her papers. “Is the prosecution ready?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” The prosecutor half-rises, all business.
Judge Halloran’s eyes flick to the other table. “Defense?”
“Ready, Your Honor.” Sloane’s lawyer buttons his jacket as he stands.
“Then let’s begin.” The gavel comes down, and I make myself breathe.
The next two hours are the most boring two hours of my life.
I mean, I know this is serious. I know this hearing determines whether Sloane will stand trial for trying to murder me.
But there’s something deeply surreal about sitting in a courtroom while lawyers argue about evidentiary procedures and chain of custody and whether certain witness statements are admissible, all while my attempted murderer sits twenty feet away looking like she wants to set the whole building on fire.
Sandra catches my eye during a particularly dry exchange about forensic protocols and gives me a small, sympathetic smile. I know, her expression says. It’s like this.
“The prosecution moves to admit Exhibit 14,” the prosecutor is saying, “the security camera footage from the neighboring property showing defendant’s vehicle arriving at the Davis residence on the evening in question.”
“Objection,” Sloane’s lawyer says. “The timestamp authenticity hasn’t been adequately established.”
“We have testimony from the homeowner who installed the system, as well as the original metadata-”
“Metadata can be altered-”
I tune out the rest, focusing instead on the window behind the judge’s bench. It’s a beautiful day outside, the kind of crisp autumn afternoon that would be perfect for working in the fields. Instead, I’m trapped in this airless room, listening to people argue about metadata.
Logan’s hand finds mine between us on the bench. “You’re making a face,” he whispers.
“What face?”
“The ‘I’m going to die of boredom before anyone gets convicted’ face.”
“I’m not-” I stop, because I’m absolutely making that face. “It’s just so… procedural.”
“That’s kind of the point of the legal system.”
“I know. I just thought it would be more…” I wave my hand vaguely. “Dramatic?”
“This isn’t a TV show.”
“Obviously. On TV, the lawyers are attractive and things actually happen.”
He presses his lips together, trying not to laugh. The prosecutor glances our way, and we both straighten up like kids caught passing notes in class.
“Given the volume of material still to review,” Judge Halloran says, “we’ll take a ninety-minute recess. Court will reconvene at 2:15.” She bangs her gavel. “All rise.”
We stand again, I’m getting very good at the leverage-off-Logan’s-arm maneuver, and watch as the bailiff escorts Sloane out through a side door. She doesn’t look at me this time, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the barely contained rage.
“Ninety minutes,” Logan says. “Want to get lunch?”
“God, yes. Anything to get out of this room.”
Sandra approaches us, notepad in hand. “You did great. The next session will probably focus more on witness testimony, so it might be more engaging.” She pauses.
“I need to meet with the prosecutor during the break - nothing concerning, just logistical stuff. You won’t be needed until we reconvene. Will you be okay?”
“I’ll be fine.” I gesture at Logan. “I have a bodyguard.”
“More like a pack mule,” he says. “I carry things.”
Sandra smiles. “All right. I’ll find you before we go back in. Take some time, stretch your legs, don’t let yourself get too stressed.”
She heads off, and Logan and I make our way out of the courtroom into the wide, echoing hallway of the courthouse. It’s crowded with people, lawyers, defendants, families, all the chaos of the justice system in motion. I feel suddenly overwhelmed, claustrophobic, desperate for somewhere quiet.
“Hey.” Logan touches my elbow. “You okay?”
“I need-” I look around. “I need a minute. Somewhere with fewer people.”
“Come on.”
He guides me down a side corridor, past a water fountain and a bulletin board covered in flyers, until we reach a single-occupancy restroom at the end of the hall. He tries the door, unlocked, and ushers me inside.
It’s small but clean, with a sink and mirror and one of those automatic hand dryers that’s never worked properly in the history of hand dryers. I lean against the counter, taking deep breaths.
“Better?” Logan asks, closing the door behind him.
“Getting there.” I press my palms to my cheeks. “Sorry. I don’t know what happened. I was fine and then suddenly I was just-”
“It’s a lot. You don’t have to apologize.”
“I know. I just hate feeling like this. Like I can’t handle things.”
“You’re handling them. You’re here, you’re testifying, you’re facing down the woman who tried to kill you.” He moves closer, leaning against the counter beside me. “That’s not nothing, Fran.”
“It feels like nothing. It feels like sitting on an uncomfortable bench for two hours while lawyers argue about data retention.”
He laughs, that low, warm sound I’m starting to crave, and some of the tension in my chest loosens.
“The glamorous life of a crime victim,” he says. “All the excitement of a DMV visit, with the added bonus of seeing your attempted murderer glare at you.”
“She was really mad about the pregnancy.”
“She was furious. I thought she was going to spontaneously combust.”
“Good.” I find myself smiling despite everything. “I’m glad something about this morning was satisfying.”
Logan turns to face me, and there’s something in his expression, something softer than before. “You know what I was thinking, during that incredibly boring discussion about chain of custody?”
“Please tell me it was something more interesting than chain of custody.”
“I was thinking about how beautiful you look.”
I snort. “I look like a stressed-out whale in business casual.”
“You look like a woman who’s survived something terrible and is standing up for herself anyway.” He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
My pulse stutters, loss and longing tangled together, the old grief brushing against this new, unexpected closeness. “You’re very smooth, you know that? For someone who claims to be bad at people.”
“I’m bad at people. I’m good at you.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.” He’s closer now, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and warm that I’ve started to associate with safety. “You’re not people. You’re Fran. Completely different category.”
I should probably push him away. We’re in a courthouse bathroom during a hearing break, and this is neither the time nor the place for… whatever this is becoming.
But I don’t push him away.
Instead, I reach up and grab the lapel of his jacket, pulling him closer.