Baby, Thank GOD

Chapter 20:

"Baby. Thank God."

Marcus comes down the steps with his arms already open.

And I don't move.

I don't flinch. I don't step back. I just stand there with Kael's hand in mine and I watch my husband walk down the courthouse steps toward me in his gray suit with his soft face and his open arms, and I do not move an inch.

He stops about three feet away.

His arms come down.

"Elara," he says. His voice is careful. "You look—"

"Don't."

"—tired. You look tired." He glances at Kael. Then back at me. "Can we talk? Just for a minute. Before we go in. Just the two of us."

"No."

"Baby—"

"Don't call me that."

And something in his face changes. Just for a second. A flicker, way down under the softness, like a fish moving under ice. Then it's gone and he's worried again.

"Alright," he says. "Elara. I'm not here to fight. I'm here because I'm scared for you. You've been gone three days. You're in a town I've never heard of with people I don't know, and I get a call from a lawyer saying you're—"

"You sent a man to my mama's house."

He stops.

"You sent a man to take pictures of my mama's house six months before I ran." My voice is steady. I don't know how. "What was he looking for, Marcus?"

And for one second — one single second — the mask slips all the way off.

It's just a blink. It's nothing anybody else would catch. But I've spent two years learning that face the way you learn a road in the dark, and I see it.

He didn't know I knew.

"Elara," he says, gentle as anything, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do."

"Baby, I think you're confused—"

"I'm not confused." I let go of Kael's hand. I step forward. Just one step. "I spent two years being confused, Marcus. I spent two years thinking I was the problem. That if I just did things right, if I just kept the butter soft and the windows shut and my phone charged, you'd be the man I married. And then I got out, and I found out the whole time you were running a plan." My voice doesn't rise. It doesn't crack. "So don't tell me I'm confused. Not today."

Marcus looks at me.

And then he does something I don't expect.

He nods. Slowly. Like a man conceding a point in a negotiation.

"Alright," he says. "Alright, Elara. Let's go inside and do this properly." He turns and walks up the steps. "But I want you to know something before we do."

"What."

He stops on the top step.

"Whatever happens in there," he says, "I still love you. And I'm going to take you home."

And he goes inside.

Kael's hand finds my back.

"You good?" he says.

"No."

"Good answer." He leans down. "Now listen to me. You get in that room and you don't look at him. Not once. You look at the judge. You look at Miss Okonkwo. You look at me. You don't give him your eyes. Understand?"

"Understand."

"Say it back."

"I don't look at him."

"That's right." He squeezes the back of my neck once. "Let's go."

The courtroom's small. Wood and green carpet and a flag in the corner. Judge Harmon is older than I expected, with white hair and glasses and a face like a closed door. There's a court reporter. There's a bailiff. There's Marcus's lawyer, a thin man in a navy suit with three folders stacked in front of him.

And there's Marcus, sitting at the table with his hands folded on top of it like a man in church.

Miss Okonkwo's already at our table. She looks at me once, quick, and then at Kael, and then she leans over and says, "Whatever he says, don't react. He's going to try to make you angry. Angry looks guilty. Grief looks innocent. Understand?"

"Understand."

"Alright." She stands. "All rise."

Judge Harmon takes the bench.

The next forty minutes are the longest of my life.

Marcus's lawyer goes first. He's smooth. He talks about a worried husband. He talks about a wife under stress. He talks about a woman who ran from home in the middle of the night wearing a torn dress, which — he says, holding up a photograph — "shows a clear pattern of mental distress."

And then he gets to Blackpine.

"She was found in the company of a motorcycle club," he says. "A club with a known history of violence. She's been staying above their bar. She's been wearing their president's jacket, which is not a jacket, Your Honor — it's a patch. It's a symbol of ownership. The Iron Vipers mark women as property. And they've marked her."

Kael's jaw moves.

He doesn't say a word.

"Your Honor," Miss Okonkwo says, standing, "if opposing counsel is finished characterizing my client's living situation, I'd like to address the actual reason we're here."

"Go ahead, Counselor."

Miss Okonkwo lays the affidavit on the bench.

"Your Honor, my client is not a confused woman. She's a battered woman. And she's got a two-year record of it that nobody ever wrote down, because that's how it works in houses like the Sterling house. But there are photographs. There are medical records. And as of this morning, there's a statement."

Judge Harmon reads.

He reads for a long time.

Marcus's lawyer objects twice. Judge Harmon waves him off both times.

And then Judge Harmon takes his glasses off and looks at me.

"Mrs. Sterling," he says. "This is your statement?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"You're saying your husband put his hands on you. Repeatedly. Over a two-year period."

"Yes, Your Honor."

"You're saying he threatened to have you committed if you tried to leave."

"Yes, Your Honor."

Judge Harmon looks at the statement again. Then at Marcus.

And Marcus does something brilliant.

He doesn't argue. He doesn't get angry. He puts his face in his hands.

"Your Honor," he says, "I'm not proud of every moment of my marriage. I've got a temper. I've said things I shouldn't have said. But I have never — never — raised a hand to my wife."

The room's very quiet.

"I love her," he says. "I have always loved her. And if she believes what's in that paper, then she's been told something that isn't true, and I don't know by who." He takes his hands away. His eyes are wet. "I just want her to come home so we can get her some help."

And I look at him.

I look at him, and I know exactly what he's doing, and I can see exactly how well it's working on the judge, and I can't do one single thing about it.

"This is a difficult case," Judge Harmon says. He puts his glasses back on. "I'm not going to grant the protective order today."

Marcus's lawyer starts to smile.

"I'm also not going to grant the motion for protective custody," Judge Harmon says. "Mrs. Sterling, you're a grown woman and you're not a child and you're not property, and I'm not going to order you delivered back to your husband like a package."

The smile dies.

"What I'm going to do," Judge Harmon says, "is this. There's a full hearing in thirty days. Until then, Mrs. Sterling, you will remain in this county. You will not leave the jurisdiction. You will make yourself available for interviews with a court-appointed investigator." He takes his glasses off again. "And Mr. Sterling, you will have no contact with your wife. None. Not a phone call, not a text, not a lawyer, not a private detective. If I find out you've sent one person to look at her — one — I will hold you in contempt and I will put you in a cell. Do you understand me?"

Marcus's lawyer says, "Your Honor—"

"Not you. Him."

Marcus looks at the judge.

"I understand, Your Honor," he says.

"Good. This is adjourned." Judge Harmon stands. "Counselor Okonkwo, my chambers. I want to see that fire marshal report."

"All rise."

The room moves. Papers shuffle. Marcus's lawyer says something in his ear, and Marcus nods, and they start packing up.

And I sit there.

Because I can't leave. Not for thirty days. Not until a hearing I don't know I'll win.

And Marcus is walking out of the room past our table, and Kael's standing between us with his hand on the back of my chair, and Marcus doesn't even look at him. He looks at me.

And he says, quiet, so quiet only I can hear it:

"Your mama should've minded her business."

Chapter 20 Ends.