24. Fran #3
“I spent two years choosing not to touch you in a room with other people in it,” he says. “You’ll forgive me if I’ve developed a courthouse habit.”
“That is not a defense that holds up on this floor.”
“Good thing I’m not arguing it in front of a judge.” He kisses my forehead. “Come on. I’ll buy you the most expensive thing in the courthouse cafeteria.”
“The courthouse cafeteria is terrible.”
“Then I’ll buy you the least terrible thing in the courthouse cafeteria. My treat.”
We slip out of the bathroom as casually as possible, which is not very casual at all given the state we’re in. A woman walking past gives us a knowing look that makes me want to sink into the floor.
“She knows,” I hiss at Logan.
“She doesn’t know anything.”
“She absolutely knows. Did you see that look?”
“I saw a woman who was probably on her way to a very different kind of hearing and had better things to think about.” He takes my hand. “Stop worrying. We’re adults, we’re married, we’re allowed to… take breaks.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
“It’s what I’m calling it until I think of something better.”
The cafeteria is exactly as terrible as I predicted, fluorescent lights, sad sandwiches, tea that smells like it was brewed last week. We get food anyway because my stomach is making increasingly insistent demands, and find a table in the corner where we can eat in relative privacy.
“So,” Logan says, unwrapping a sandwich that looks like it gave up on life several hours ago. “How are you feeling? Really?”
“About the hearing? Or about-” I gesture vaguely at the bathroom we just vacated.
“About all of it.”
I consider the question while chewing a bite of surprisingly decent pasta salad. “Better than I expected, honestly. The hearing stuff is boring, but it’s also… reassuring? Like, there’s a system, and the system is working, and eventually Sloane will face consequences for what she did.”
“And the other stuff?”
“The other stuff is…” I feel myself blushing. “Really good. The other stuff is really good.”
He grins, looking absurdly pleased with himself. “Yeah?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late for that.” He steals a forkful of my pasta salad. “The head’s been swelling for months.”
“You’re already insufferable.”
“Now I get to be smug about it in a government building.”
“A real growth area for you.” I kick him gently under the table. “Eat your sad sandwich.”
We finish eating and make our way back toward the courtroom, pausing to check in with Sandra, who confirms that the afternoon session is likely to involve more witness discussion and possibly some preliminary rulings.
“You’re looking better,” she observes. “The break helped?”
“The break was exactly what I needed,” I say, very carefully not looking at Logan.
He coughs.
Sandra, bless her, doesn’t seem to notice. “Good. Let’s head back in.”
The afternoon session is marginally more interesting than the morning.
A fire investigator testifies about the evidence found at the scene, the accelerants, the locked door, the patterns of burn damage that point to deliberate ignition.
The neighbor who owns the security camera takes the stand to confirm the footage of Sloane’s car arriving at the property that evening.
Through it all, Sloane sits at the defendant’s table with an expression of studied indifference. But I can see the cracks forming, the way her jaw tightens when the investigator describes the lock on my bedroom door, the way her hands clench when the prosecutor presents the corroborating evidence.
At one point, during a break in testimony, she turns and looks directly at me.
“You think you’ve won,” she says, loud enough to carry. “Standing there with your baby belly and your reformed husband. But we both know what you really are. A nobody who got lucky.”
The bailiff moves toward her immediately. Judge Halloran’s gavel cracks against the bench.
“Ms. Vaughn,” the judge says, her voice cutting through like a blade. “You will not address the witness. One more outburst and you will be removed.”
Sloane’s lawyer puts a hand on her arm. She subsides, but her eyes stay fixed on me.
Lucky? I think. I was trapped in a burning building by a woman who thought killing me was easier than accepting rejection.
I don’t look away.
The hearing ends at 4:47 with Judge Halloran announcing that she’s seen sufficient evidence to proceed to trial.
“The defendant will remain in custody pending trial,” she says. “Bail is denied given the severity of the charges and the defendant’s demonstrated willingness to harm others. We’re adjourned.”
Sloane is led out through the side door, and this time she doesn’t look at me at all. Her shoulders are rigid, her movements mechanical. The mask has finally, fully cracked.
My shoulders come down for the first time all day.
“It’s over,” Logan says. “This part, anyway.”
“This part.” I lean against him, suddenly exhausted. “There’s still the trial.”
“There’s still the trial,” he agrees. “But today was good. Today was a win.”
Sandra appears at our side, notepad clutched to her chest. “You did great. Both of you. The prosecutor is very optimistic about the trial - she thinks the case is strong.”
“Thank you,” I say. “For everything. For being here.”
“That’s my job.” She smiles. “Go home. Rest. You’ve earned it.”
We make our way out of the courthouse into the late afternoon sunlight, and the fresh air hits me like a gift. I breathe deeply, letting the tension drain out of my shoulders.
“So,” Logan says as we walk toward the car. “Want to tell me what you’re thinking?”
“I’m thinking that was the longest day of my life.” I take his hand. “And also that I really want to go home and take a nap.”
“Just a nap?”
“Maybe a nap followed by dinner followed by…” I trail off, smiling.
“Followed by what?”
“Use your imagination.”
He laughs, pulling me closer, and we walk to the car together, two people who survived something terrible and found their way back to something good.
The trial is still ahead. The future is still uncertain. But right now, in this moment, I have everything I need.