Which he was. God, he was.
I must have made a sound, because Burke’s hand tightened on mine. “Don’t look,” he whispered. “Eyes on me.”
But it was too late. Dennis had already spotted us, his head snapping around like he’d heard his name. His eyes—our mother’s eyes, the exact same shade of muddy brown—locked onto mine across the crowded room.
For a second, neither of us moved. Then his face changed, recognition giving way to something darker, something that made my blood run cold. Hatred, pure and undiluted, burning in his gaze like he was trying to set me on fire with the force of it alone.
I flinched back, body responding before my brain could catch up. My shoulder hit Rawley’s arm, solid and warm and real. Not running. Not hiding. Just... sitting. Breathing. Existing in the same space as the person who’d spent a decade trying to make me disappear.
Dennis’s mouth curved into what might have been a smile on anyone else. On him, it was a promise.
Then his eyes shifted, landing on Burke beside me, and the smile vanished. Something else took its place—a flash of possessive rage so intense I could feel it from across the room. His hands clenched, the cuffs rattling, and he took half a step toward us before the bailiff caught his arm.
“Easy,” the bailiff said, voice low but carrying. “Sit down, Jenkins.”
For a long moment, Dennis didn’t move, still staring at Burke with naked hatred. Then, slowly, he sank into the chair at the defense table, never breaking eye contact.
My heart was hammering so hard I was sure everyone in the room could hear it. My palms were slick with sweat, my breathing shallow and quick. I felt dizzy, disconnected from my body, like I was watching the scene play out from somewhere far away.
Burke’s hand was on my knee now, a steady pressure that anchored me to the present. “He can’t touch you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not here, not ever again. I swear it.”
I wanted to believe him. I really did. But the look in Dennis’s eyes—like he was already planning exactly how he’d make me pay for this—made hope feel like a luxury I couldn’t afford.
The side door opened again, and the bailiff called, “All rise,” his voice bouncing off the high ceilings. We stood as one, the bench creaking beneath us. The judge entered—a woman in her fifties with steel-gray hair and a face that gave nothing away—and took her seat with practiced efficiency.
“Be seated,” she said, and we sank back onto the bench, the wood even harder now against my tensed muscles.
The hearing began with a recitation of the charges—assault, battery, unlawful restraint—each word landing like a stone in my stomach. I kept my eyes fixed on the back of the bench in front of me, not trusting myself to look at Dennis again. But I could feel his gaze like a physical weight between my shoulder blades, relentless and cold.
Burke’s arm pressed against mine, warm and solid. Rawley sat ramrod straight beside me, a bulwark against whatever might come. Behind us, Macon and Carter formed their own wall of protection, while Hooper kept watch from across the aisle.
For the first time since we’d entered the courthouse, I felt my breathing slow, my heartbeat steady. I wasn’t alone. Whatever happened next—whatever the judge decided, whatever Dennis threatened—I had people in my corner. People who’d chosen tobe there, who’d shown up not out of obligation but because they cared.
It wasn’t enough to erase the fear entirely. Nothing would. But as the prosecutor stood to make her case, outlining the evidence against Dennis in cool, professional terms, I found myself sitting a little straighter, meeting the judge’s eyes when she asked if I was present.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said, my voice steadier than I’d expected. “I’m here.”
And I was. Bruised, but not broken. Scared but still standing. Ready, finally, to face whatever came next.
The judge’s voice seemed to come from very far away, like she was speaking through water or from the bottom of a well. I caught fragments—“sufficient evidence” and “flight risk” and “conditions of release”—but they slid past me without landing, my brain too busy cataloging every shift of Dennis’s posture, every whispered exchange with his public defender. His eyes hadn’t left me since we’d sat down, the weight of his stare like a physical thing pressing between my shoulder blades.
I kept my own gaze fixed on the back of the bench in front of me, counting the grain patterns in the wood, the number of people in the row ahead, anything to keep from looking up and meeting that hateful stare.
My hands were clasped so tightly in my lap that my knuckles ached, but I couldn’t seem to loosen my grip. If I did, I was afraid I might start shaking and never stop.
Burke’s thigh pressed against mine, a line of warmth that anchored me to the present. His hand had found its way to the small of my back, a steady pressure that seemed to say I’m here, you’re safe, we’ve got this.
I wanted to believe him. I really did.
The prosecutor was speaking now, her voice clear and confident as she laid out the case against Dennis. Photos,medical reports, witness statements—all the evidence they’d gathered since that night. Since I’d finally, finally said enough.
I risked a glance at the defense table. Dennis’s lawyer—a tired-looking man with a coffee stain on his tie—was shuffling papers, occasionally whispering something in Dennis’s ear. But Dennis wasn’t listening. His eyes were still fixed on me, unblinking, like he was trying to memorize my face for later.
The judge cleared her throat, and the room went quiet. “After reviewing the evidence and considering the arguments from both sides,” she said, her voice suddenly crystal clear, cutting through the fog in my brain, “I’m granting bail with conditions.”
My stomach dropped. He was getting out. After everything—the photos of my bruises, the doctor’s report on my ribs, the statement from Sheriff Calloway about Dennis’s history—he was walking away with a slap on the wrist and a promise to be good.
“The defendant will be released on his own recognizance,” the judge continued, “with the following conditions.” She adjusted her glasses, reading from a paper in front of her. “He will surrender his passport to the court. He will wear an ankle monitor at all times. He will have no contact, directly or indirectly, with the victim or any member of the victim’s household.”
