Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
When the indictments drop, the language is dry and heavy and exactly what I want: conspiracy to commit kidnapping, conspiracy to commit assault, felony murder for Coleman, Beau, and Rook, racketeering for the business that built the scaffolding. Etta’s charges are listed as pending with a note about cooperation. Bob’s list is long and ugly. His lawyer releases a statement about regret. I don’t read it.
We don’t celebrate. We exhale.
At Arby’s grave, I sit alone for an hour before I can say anything that isn’t a noise.
“They’re going to trial,” I tell the stone. “It’s not all of them. But enough to start. You were right. The deal was poison. I wish you could say ‘told you so’ and roll your eyes and steal my bagel. I wish I had more for you than this.”
A breeze nudges the flowers I brought. It feels like nothing and it feels like permission. I cry then—real crying, the kind that empties your insides in a way that makes room for air again.
Arrow waits by the gate, letting me come to him. He doesn’t ask what I said. He does take my hand, and we walk back to the car like people who get to try again.
We go to Chloe’s office the next morning. I give my formal statement about the shop, the alley, the van, the dock, the boat. I say Etta. I say Coleman. I say Bob. I do not make speeches. I answer questions and drink water and ask for a break when my chest gets tight. Arrow sits behind me, chair angled so I can see his knee, which is somehow better than seeing his face.
After, Chloe closes the folder and leans back. “You can post again,” she says. “I can’t tell you to. I can tell you it won’t wreck anything we’re doing. Don’t gloat. Don’t poison a jury. Speak like a person who understands you’re not the only one who lost something.”
“Okay,” I say. “I can do that.”
I go home and stare at the mic for ten minutes and then hit record.
The episode is called Light Without Masks. I tell my listeners I took a break because I had to; because sometimes you stop making noise so you can make decisions. I tell them what I’m allowed to say about networks with friendly names and rotten cores. I talk about rules and rooms, about how power hides in systems and rooms and men and sometimes women who know better and do worse anyway. I don’t say Bob’s name. I don’t say Etta’s. I say: “I loved my sister. She was loud and sharp and she changed her hair when a chapter ended. This one ended wrong. We’re working on the sequel.”
I finish with, “If you are in a room where someone uses your friendship as leverage, leave. If you are offered a deal that makes you smaller, walk. If you can’t walk, call someone who will stand outside the door and wait.” I look at Arrow as I say it. He’s standing in the kitchen, wiping the counter like it insulted him. He hears his name even when I don’t say it.
The episode goes up. I turn my phone over and don’t look for an hour. When I finally do, the first message is from my mother: I’m proud of you. The second is from Chloe: Good line about doors. The third is from Arrow, and it’s a heart emoji.
A week later, I sit in the back of a courtroom with Arrow and watch Bob shuffle in wearing a suit that looks too big. He pleads not guilty. His lawyer asks for bail. The judge sets it high. As he’s led back, he looks over his shoulder. My mother doesn’t come. I don’t wave. I don’t leave. I breathe.
Chloe testifies at a hearing about the yacht. Devereaux’s footage plays on a screen. It isn’t the murder; it’s faces at doors, hands on rails, the clock of a night where men believed no one could follow the math. The judge signs more paper. Coleman’s lawyer looks like he swallowed a lemon.
When the news crews try to spin me into B-roll, I put on a cap and keep walking. When a reporter shouts, “Do you feel vindicated,” I say, “I feel tired,” and keep going. Arrow takes my hand like it’s an ordinary thing to do.
We dismantle the crime wall on a Sunday. I take down the red lines first, then the photos, then the cards. I keep two: ARBY and LAUREL NINE. I put them in a box with the mandala book and the old microphone that squeaked on consonants. I leave a clean square of wall because I want to see what life looks like without lists.
That night, the boys come over. Ozzy brings a plant he swears is low-drama. Gage leans a shoulder into my kitchen doorway and says, “We should have a rule against yachts.” Knight installs a new deadbolt with a look that says argue and I will remove the hinges, then feeds me pasta.