“What morals are those, you three-times-divorced adulterer?” Deryn bit her lip to not make a sound or let a giggle escape as Greg hurled his question and was held back by Victoria, of all people.
Judge Astor slammed the gavel several times before the crowd reined itself in.
“I will clear this auditorium if this continues!” He banged the gavel one more time for good measure. “Mr. Moss, do you have anything else to add?”
Moss, clearly shaken, leafed through some notes he had strewn on his podium until suddenly his eyes opened wide, and he snatched one up.
“I do! Since Ms. Allende here is so high and mighty on the issue of space for new homes, why does she want to build something so completely idiotic and useless as a women’s shelter? Because no matter how fancy she calls it, center or organization or whatever, it’s still a highfalutin’ shelter. I spoke to Sheriff Redding, and there have been fewer than twenty domestic violence calls in the last ten years on the island. So, Ms.Allende, care to explain your logic? Are you trying to push an agenda on us all? Is this about a hit dog who will always holler?”
Now the gasp was less loud but decidedly more horrified, and it came mostly from the women in the crowd. Deryn’s phone buzzed.
Seren aka First Twin: Did the motherfucker just call her a victim of violence and basically a dog at the same time?
Deryn nearly set the phone in her hand on fire, the rage inside her barely in check.
But as she looked at Paloma, Deryn saw none of the anger she herself was feeling. The beautiful features were almost serene. The silence was absolute.
Judge Astor broke it with, “Ms. Allende, you don’t have to answer the insinuation?—”
Paloma merely smiled, and Deryn felt goose bumps. The hair on the back of her neck rose.
“Insinuations of what, Your Honor? That I am advocating for survivors of abuse because I myself might be one of them? Is that what you meant, Mr. Moss, by calling me a ‘hit dog’? Such upstanding values you have.” Paloma shook her head, and the audience exhaled. Moss went for a chortle, but it came out forced, he was clearly uncomfortable.
“Do you think being a victim of domestic violence is something shameful? Here I thought it should be shameful to be the perpetrator of the abuse, no? What a brave man you are, shaming survivors for their pain. So edgy, Mr. Moss.”
Paloma’s mouth twisted with scorn. Deryn watched, waiting, feeling that something was about to come. Something was about to be said, something?—
Moss beat everyone to the punch.
“I just think that in a town with just over two thousand residents and not even a handful of actual reports, there is absolutely no need for something like a shelter for beaten women. That’s all I meant.”
He lifted his hands, palms up, a gesture of apology, but his face was beaming with self-congratulatory glee. Deryn’s knuckles went white from tension. Yet Paloma remained unbothered.
“I would wager, Mr. Moss, that you are completely unaware of the depth of the problem, or what issues women of this island are really facing.”
Moss waved his hand dismissively.
“Ms. Allende, Paloma, please don’t embarrass yourself. I’ve spoken to Sheriff Redding, who’s sitting right there. He told me himself that there have been almost no reports?—”
“I didn’t report my assault.” In the utter silence of the massive auditorium, hundreds of people held their breath as Marsha McMons stood up. She looked pale, and yet her eyes were resolute, like nothing Deryn had seen before on her usually displeased, pugnacious face.
“My husband beat me for ten years before he died. I never left because I had nowhere to go.” She almost whispered the last sentence, but Deryn heard her loud as day, the crowd completely silent.
There was an almost unbearably awkward pause, which Moss was quick to break.
“And I am sorry, Ms. McMons, but that’s one case, and you didn’t come forward for help, so nobody knew?—”
“I never reported my ex-husband and didn’t leave him until he put me in the hospital. I had nowhere else to go.”
Deryn could not remember the name of the woman who had spoken up. She was certain it was one of the librarians, but thename escaped her. Moss opened his mouth but was immediately cut off.
“My father beat me so badly that he broke my arm. And I had to go to the mainland, to Camden, to escape him. I only returned three years ago after the bastard died.”
Maude Richards. One of the fishmongers. Deryn loved her stall, and they chatted often whenever she was on the island and stopped by. Next to Maude, a girl of maybe twenty got to her feet.
“It was my stepdad. And I stayed ’cause I was scared he’d kill my mom if I left her alone with him. I wish both of us had a place to go, or at least some information…”
One by one, from the front row to the back, women stood up and, in broken whispers or loud proclamations, told their stories. Goose bumps covered Deryn’s arms. Paloma’s face was a picture of sympathy. There were tears in those amber eyes.
