I climb in and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles ache, not even bothering to start the engine. The moment replays in my mind, the way his eyes couldn't meet mine, how the air between us felt charged yet impossible to cross.
Let's keep this professional.
"I can do this," I whisper to the empty car. "I've done harder things."
Like carrying a baby alone in a city where I knew almost no one. Like finishing my fellowship while balancing midnight feedings and presentation slides. Like building a life that fits around the Beckett-shaped center of my universe.
I start the car, the engine’s purr vibrating through my body. As I pull onto South County Road, the city landscape blurs together. My eyes burn from exhaustion, from holding back words, from staring at spreadsheets while pretending I don’t notice the way Warren’s fingers tap against the table when he’s thinking.
“I should have told him.” The words escape before I can stop them. “I should have told him years ago.”
Would it have made a difference? He walked away then. Blocked my number. Drew that line in the sand this morning as firmly as he had back then.
Let’s keep this professional.
I blink hard, forcing back the heat behind my eyes. For the millionth time, I try to convince myself it’s better this way. Warren has his life. I have mine. Beckett has a mother who would move mountains for him.
But as the highway stretches ahead, the secret presses against my ribs like a stone. I can feel it shifting, cracking, threatening to spill. If I don’t let it out soon, it’s going to crush me.
TEN
Warren
"Marcus has made mistakes, Your Honor. Serious ones. But what I'm asking the court to see today is the difference between a criminal and a kid who's lost his way. He's been bounced around. He just needs to get back on track."
I adjust my stance, feeling the familiar pull in my lower back from hours of preparation. The courtroom's fluorescent lights cast sickly shadows across the scuffed wood of the defense table, where Marcus hunches, eyes fixed on his hands.
"We've tried that before, Counselor."
"What this young man needs, Your Honor, isn't isolation. Its structure. Connection. The very things missing from his life since his mother's death three years ago."
The prosecutor, Sandra Whitfield, doesn't even bother hiding her eyeroll. I've faced her enough times to know she's already mentally filing this case away as a win.
"My client has agreed to twice-weekly meetings with a court-appointed mentor. He's arranged community service at the same youth center where he once vandalizedproperty, turning destruction into restitution. Most importantly, he's accepted accountability."
Marcus lifts his head slightly. In his face, I catch a flicker of something rare. I see hope.
"The state would have you believe Marcus Jones is a repeat problem," I continue, voice steady despite the anger coiling in my chest. "I'm asking you to see him as a fifteen-year-old boy with humor, intelligence, and potential who simply has no safety net. No stable family to catch him when he falls."
Judge Harrington's expression doesn't change. I've been in his courtroom enough to read the slight furrow between his brows. He's unconvinced.
"The law provides options for rehabilitation outside the juvenile detention system, Your Honor. I'm asking the court to exercise that discretion today."
I finish, return to my seat. Marcus whispers, "Did I do okay?"
"You did great, kid. Now we hope the judge will give us mercy."
It doesn't take long. Judge Harrington clears his throat, shuffles papers, and cites three statutes I know by heart.
"While I appreciate counsel's impassioned argument, the court finds the defendant's prior record and the serious nature of these offenses require stronger intervention than what's been tried and what is being proposed in this court this afternoon."
My stomach drops.
"Marcus Jones is hereby remanded to the Palm Beach Juvenile Detention Center for a period not to exceed eighteen months."
The gavel falls. Beside me, Marcus doesn't react. He sits, perfectly still, as if he'd expected this all along. Thebailiff approaches with shackles that look too large for Marcus's skinny wrists.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, the words pathetically inadequate.