All Chapters of TWO PINK LINES, ONE NIGHT STAND : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

*[SFX: COURTHOUSE. THEN DOORS. THEN ECHO.]**8:39 AM. [SFX: ELEVATOR. THEN HALL. THEN SAME.]*Criminal Courts Building. 12th floor. Dept. 104. Again. Same hall. Same doors. Same smell. Bleach and old paper and _March 14th_. Me. Not black suit. Jeans. _HOME_ sweatshirt. Susan’s. From Day 7. “If they make us come back, we come back in home.” Adrian. Next to me. Not Knight Tower CEO. Not consultant. Just Dad. Black shirt. Jeans. February in carrier. On him. Asleep. 1 month, 9 days. Doesn’t know. Yet. Alex. Home. With Susan. With Lily. With Margaret. With Bear. With Ivy and Isla. _“No court for kids,”_ Harmon’s clerk said. _“Not this time. Not yet.”_ Alex packed anyway. Shark backpack. By front door. Zipped. “Just in case,” he said at 6 AM. “In case bad men lie better.”_Thump-thump. Thump-thump._ 93 BPM. Levinson. Walking. Ahead. Same file. Thinner now. _THE PEOPLE VS. REESE CALHOUN - MOTION TO VACATE_ Cho. Next to him. DA face back. “Heard Dann’s whole argument,” Cho said this

**2:47 PM. [SFX: CLICK. THEN SILENCE. THEN BREATH.]*Living room. Not court. Not 3:01 PM. Not anymore. 2:47 PM. On purpose. Every day since March 27th. At 2:47 PM. We stop. Not because we have to. Because we can. _Silence._Me. Couch. February. Lap. 6 months, 1 day. Teething. Fussy. But home. Always home. Adrian. Floor. With Ivy. With Isla. 2 years, 11 months now. “Almost 3,” Ivy says. To everyone. To the mailman. To Bear. “Almost 3 means big.”Alex. Kitchen. With Susan. Cookies. Not donuts. “Summer cookies,” Susan said. “New tradition. For after.”Bear. Window. Not guarding. Sunning. Because Day 453 means sun is safe. _Thump-thump. Thump-thump._ 64 BPM. _Knock. Knock. Knock._ Front door. Not gate. Gate’s open. Always open since June. “Gates are for before,” Margaret said. Susan went. Opened. _Silence. 2:48 PM._“Ms. Beth?” Voice. Young. Female. Not press. Not FBI. Not Walker. I stood. February to Adrian. Door. Girl. 19. Maybe 20. College sweatshirt. _UCLA_. Nervous.

*[SFX: BIRTHDAY. THEN SCREAMING. THEN LAUGHING.]**8:16 AM. [SFX: BALLOONS. THEN NONE. THEN THEM.]*Kitchen. Not court. Not 3:01 PM. Balloons. _3_. Pink. Purple. Everywhere. Susan’s work. 6 AM. “If they’re gonna be 3, the house has to know.” Banner. _HAPPY BIRTHDAY IVY & ISLA_. Margaret’s handwriting. Crooked. Perfect. Ivy. Isla. High chairs. 2 years, 364 days. “Not 3 yet,” Ivy said. To everyone. Since 6 AM. “Almost 3. Almost big.”_Thump-thump. Thump-thump._ 66 BPM. Alex. Counter. With Lily. 3 years, 2 months. With Lily’s brother. 4. Paper hats. _BIRTHDAY CREW_. Alex made them. Last night. “Because twins need crew.”Bear. Floor. Party hat rubber-banded to head. Not happy. Not mad. Resigned. Because Day 473 means hats sometimes. February. On me. Carrier. 6 months, 21 days. Staring at balloons. Fascinated. Hand out. Grabbing air. _Silence. Kitchen. 8:17 AM._Adrian. Next to me. Coffee. No shirt. Sweats. Scar from Cayman. Scar from Day 12. Scar from life. All silver. All always.

.*7:00 AM. [SFX: NONE. THEN FEET. THEN THEM.]*Bedroom. Not 3 AM. Not court. Not Reese. Christmas. _Silence._Not really. Ivy. Doorway. 3 years, 3 months, 17 days. Red pajamas. _SANTA CREW_ written on front. Alex’s work. Sharpie. Isla. Next to her. Same pajamas. Holding hands. “Is it time,” Ivy whispered. Loud. 3 year old loud. “Is Santa gone,” Isla whispered. Also loud. Copying. _Thump-thump. Thump-thump._ 62 BPM. Adrian. Next to me. Awake. Since 6. Watching door. Like June 2nd. But different. 581 days different. “Yeah,” Adrian said. Voice gravel. Morning. Christmas. “Santa’s gone. He left you 7 a mess.”_Silence. Bedroom. 7:01 AM._“GO!” Ivy. Isla. Gone. Running. _Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._ Down hall. Bear. Barked. Once. Joined. _Silence._“Crew’s up,” I said. Sitting. “Crew’s always up,” Adrian said. Kissing my head. Scar from coffee table. Day 12. Silver. Christmas light caught it. Made it gold. February. Between us. Bassinet. 10 months, 7 days. Awake. Looking

*[SFX: BEEP. THEN DOOR. THEN BREATH.]**9:00 AM. [SFX: ELEVATOR. THEN HALLWAY. THEN STOP.]*4th floor. Not home. Not court. Not 3:01 PM. Hospital. Smells like Day 0. Bleach. Coffee. Fear. Me. Holding February. 11 months, 14 days. Carrier. Asleep. For once. Adrian. Next to me. No coffee. Hand white-knuckling mine. 71 BPM. Alex. Between us. 6 years, 11 months, 1 day. Shark backpack. On. Not school. Today it’s _CREW_. He said so. 6:00 AM. Woke up. Dressed himself. “Rule 5. We don’t leave crew.”_Thump-thump. Thump-thump._Dr. Ellis. End of hall. Scrubs. Not court clothes. Not _Dr. Ellis, trauma surgeon_. Just _Chloe’s mom_. Eyes red. Not crying. Done crying. “She’s awake,” Dr. Ellis said. To us. To Alex. Not me. To him. “She asked for you. Only you.”_Silence. Hallway. 9:01 AM._“Can I,” Alex said. To Adrian. To me. Not Dr. Ellis. To us. “Go see. Crew.”_Thump._Adrian knelt. Again. Always. Eye level. “Yeah,” Adrian said. 68 BPM. Honest. Day 42 rule. “But buddy. Chloe’s hurt. I