"Reaper said something to me. After the game."
She stops walking. “What did he say?”
"Said he hoped it goes our way. It wasn't a big deal. It was a sentence and a half. But it was the first time he's ever said anything to me that wasn't related to a drill."
"Huh."
"Yeah."
"Are you okay with that?"
I think about it. About six months of his bench checks and his cold shoulder and the specific quiet that's settled between us. About the fact that I'm not the man I was when I let him do that to me, and he's not the captain he was either, not exactly.
"Yeah," I say. "I think I am."
She squeezes my arm.
We start walking again, slowly, Harper warm against my chest in her carrier.
"Whatever happens," I say. "I want you to know something."
"Okay."
"I'm not done with us. I'm not waiting until after the verdict to tell you that. Whether we win, lose, or whatever the judge does, I'm in this. We're a family, the three of us, and I'm not pretending otherwise."
"I know, Tyler."
"I'm saying it anyway."
"I know."
She kisses me, right here in the parking lot, and I kiss her back like we have all the time in the world instead of a few weeks until everything might fall apart.
40
NORA
March twenty-fourth. The day that will decide everything.
We arrive at the courthouse at eight forty-seven in the morning, both of us dressed like we're going to a funeral. Tyler is in a charcoal suit that makes him look older, more responsible, and nothing like the terrified twenty-eight-year-old who found a baby on his doorstep almost eight months ago. I’m in a black dress and heels, my hair pulled back in a bun, trying to look professional and trustworthy.
Harper's with Diane, who drove up yesterday and is staying at our house. I didn’t want to expose her to any of this.
The courthouse is massive and intimidating, all marble and security checkpoints. We go through metal detectors, empty our pockets, and sign in at reception. Ms. Chen meets us in the lobby, looking sharp and ready.
"You both look good," she says. "Remember—stay calm, answer honestly, and trust the process."
"What if the process is broken?" Tyler asks.
"Then we appeal. But let's not get ahead of ourselves."
We find the courtroom on the third floor. It's smaller than I expected, wood-paneled and formal, with rows of benches like achurch. Jessica's already there with her lawyer, sitting at the opposite table, and when she sees us, she quickly looks away.
She's dressed conservatively—a gray dress, minimal makeup, and her hair’s neat. She’s playing the part of a reformed mother perfectly.
I hate her.
The realization hits sharply and suddenly. I hate Jessica Torres for abandoning Harper, for showing up high and making threats, and for putting Tyler through this hell. For making us prove we deserve to keep the baby she threw away.