“For the counts of—” The words blurred.
Multiple life sentences.
No possibility of parole.
Consecutive.
The finality of it boomed louder than any gavel strike.
I waited forsomethingto swell in my chest—vindication, melancholy, happiness.
But all I felt was the urge to go home and curl up on the couch—just me, my husband, and our two orange balls of fluff.
I was twenty-two now.
Malachi had already controlled the first nineteen years of my life.
He wasn’t getting any more.
As if my thought had reached him, he turned his head, eyes finding me across the courtroom.
Once, that look would have owned me. I would have searched it for instruction, or approval, or love.
Now I only saw his aging skin and the frown lines etched into it.
He was ugly.
Weak.
Small.
There was no apology in his gaze, no remorse. Just a brittle sort of disbelief, as if the world had failed to recognize his divinity.
I held his stare, as if I could relay to him telepathically exactly how little I thought of him now.
And when the bailiff touched his shoulder to guide him away, he was the one who looked down first.
He was led out a side door and out of my life forever.
The courtroom slowly exhaled as people began to stand, voices returning in cautious murmurs.
Daddy leaned close, his lips brushing my temple.
“It’s done,” he whispered.
I nodded silently.
We stood together, hands still linked, and stepped back into the aisle.
Outside, the winter air bit at my cheeks and filled my chest with a sharp coolness. I paused at the top of the courthouse steps, tilting my face toward the pale sky.
Daddy’s arm wrapped around my waist as reporters called questions we didn’t answer.
And as we drove away, I didn’t look back at the courthouse.
There was nothing left there for me.
Nineteen years of my life had belonged to a man who called himself chosen. Who demanded obedience and called it love. Who would have never accepted me, even if I spent the rest of my life serving him.
