The phrase floated through the room like poison dressed in silk.
My attorney, Claire Donnelly, stood so fast her chair struck the railing behind her.
“Objection. Counsel is characterizing an assault on a pregnant woman as—”
“Sit down, Ms. Donnelly,” Judge Whitmore said.
Claire froze.
So did I.
Not because he sounded angry.
Because he sounded too calm.
My father had used that voice only three times in my life.
Once when I was nine and a drunk driver jumped the curb outside our church picnic.
Once when I was seventeen and I told him I was going to marry the first boy who bought me a bus ticket to Nashville.
Once when my mother died, and he stood in our kitchen with her hospital bracelet in his hand and told me the casseroles would go in the freezer because people should not have to perform gratitude while grieving.
Claire sat.
Bennett Ashford’s mouth twitched.
He thought he had won a point.
Marcus thought so too.
Savannah definitely did.
She shifted closer to my husband, tucking herself beneath his arm as if the courtroom were a charity gala and not a place where perjury wore cufflinks.
Judge Whitmore looked down at his notes.
“Mrs. Vale,” he said, “do you require immediate medical attention?”
Every eye turned toward me.
Marcus gave a tiny shake of his head.
A warning.
Savannah watched my stomach.
Waiting for panic.
Waiting for blood.
Waiting for anything she could turn into theater.
