He fought it. Tried to reason with it. Push it down. But it rose again and again, a monster he couldn’t kill. And sometimes, when no one else was around, he yearned to scream. Just to make it stop.
Later that day,he stood before the jury box, shoulders stiff, voice low but sharp. Razor sharp.
“So, the defendant expects you to believe he justhappenedto be in the alley with a crowbar, justhappenedto run whenapproached by police, and justhappenedto have the victim’s wallet in his backpack?”
The defense attorney shifted uneasily beside her client. She opened her mouth to object—but hesitated. The judge shot a sharp glance Colin’s way, brows furrowed, uncertain of what he’d just heard.
Colin rested his hands on the railing and leaned toward the jury. “We can pretend there’s some gray area here. We can pretend this is complicated. But it’s not! It’s simple! He hurt someone! And now he wants to hide behind excuses.” His fist slammed down against the wood with a sharp crack. “Don’t let him walk away from this!”
A beat. The room fell silent.Toosilent. Even the court clerk sat frozen. Then the judge cleared his throat. “Mr. Campbell-Abrams, I’ll remind you to keep your tone appropriate for a courtroom.”
Colin didn’t blink. Didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. He turned, walked to the prosecution table, and gathered his papers with surgical precision, barely acknowledging the gavel as Judge Thornton adjourned for the day. He hadn’t argued that case. He’dperformedit—like a man trying to shout loud enough to drown out the scream inside his own head. And the worst part? He had almost convinced himself that he’d succeeded.
Later that afternoon, he moved through the concrete stillness of the parking garage like a ghost. The courtroom adrenaline had faded, leaving behind nothing but bone-deep weariness—and a sadness that seeped into every crack and crevice of his being.
His briefcase hung limp at his side, papers untouched within. He reached his car, unlocked it, but didn’t get in. Instead, he leaned against the driver’s side door and let his head fall back. He stared up at the ceiling. Pipes. Shadows. A flickering fluorescent bulb that buzzed like an angry memory.
He’d won the argument. Shut the defense down. Made the jury see the truth—or what passed for truth now.
And yet…
He felt nothing. Not vindication. Not satisfaction. Only the faintest flicker of regret, like a whisper at the edge of his mind.
He used to feel something. Conviction. Belief, even righteous pride, when he stood before a jury. Now, it was just performance. Blunt-force rhetoric dressed in rage.
He tried to summon the man he used to be—but he was gone. Burned out. Buried. His fist still throbbed from where it had slammed the railing, bone against wood.
He looked down at his hand. The burns had healed, sure—scars now, pale and tight. But they mocked him. Proof he’d survived whenshehadn’t. He turned it over, jaw tight. The skin was whole. But he wasn’t. Underneath, he was still smoldering—still scorched in places no one else could reach. Rage covered the rest. It was easier. Safer. Grief was a trap. Anger kept him moving; kept him upright when all he wanted was to fall to his knees. He saw Joshua’s face—helpless, terrified—as their home burned. Saw Sarah’s body, still and broken. His legs worked. His heart beat. But everything inside him was on fire.
And the pain? Still there. Still with him. Maybe the only thing that was—other than the anger. Sometimes he felt like he was made of it. Like fury had replaced blood in his veins. He used to believe in justice. Now he just raised his voice and hoped it landed hard on something—onsomeone.
He exhaled, the breath catching in his chest, and whispered into the quiet:
“Josh… god, Josh, what’s happening to me?”
He wished it were a scream.
Inside the Commonwealth’sAttorney’s Office, Esther sat behind her desk, arms folded. Norman Clayton stood near the window, looking out. “Thornton called me,” she told Clayton. “Said Colin nearly crossed the line.”
Clayton shook his head and sighed. “I was there. He didn’tnearlycross it. He pole-vaulted over it, planted a flag on the other side, and defied anyone to challenge him.”
Esther pressed her fingers to her forehead. “It’s not just about tone. It’s that he doesn’t seem to care. And that scares me.”
“He’s on the verge of a breakdown,” Clayton muttered. “Lost. Overwhelmed by equal parts grief and anger.”
He met Esther’s eyes. Steady. Certain.
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Be careful. He listens to you. That’s rare currency right now.”
At David’s home,Colin burst through the door and bolted up the stairs without a word.
Joshua had turned at the sound, the beginning of a smile on his lips—but before he could take a step, Colin was gone.
He stood frozen in the dining room with David and Nate, staring after his husband, the ache in his chest expanding until it felt like it might tear him apart.
“Is he seeing Deena?” David asked quietly, referring to their therapist.
