"And if he doesn't?"
"Then we proceed as planned. Your testimony becomes even more critical." Sarah held out the folder. "I wanted you to have time to prepare. To understand what you might be walking into."
Lila took the folder. Her hands were steady, but something cold had settled in her chest.
"Thank you for telling me in person."
"I could have called. But some things shouldn't come through a phone." Sarah glanced at the tree, the ornaments, the chipped angel on top. "I'll let you get back to your evening. We'll talk more after the holidays."
"One more thing. Caldwell's cooperation has been selective. He gives us Fielding and Webb without hesitation. But every time our questions approach the network's upper structure, his attorney calls for a recess." She picked up her briefcase. "Someone above him is still protected. I thought you should know that going into trial."
She left the way she'd come, quiet and efficient. The door clicked shut behind her.
Ronan was watching Lila. Waiting.
"It's fine," she said.
"You don't have to say that."
"What do you want me to say?” She set the folder on the coffee table, next to the box of ornaments they hadn't finished unpacking. "If I start falling apart every time something goes wrong, I'll never stop."
"That's not falling apart. That's having a reaction."
"I'll have a reaction after the trial. After he's convicted. After it's actually over." She turned to face him. "Right now, I'm going to take my mother's cookies out of the oven and finish decorating this tree and pretend, for one night, that everything is normal."
He didn't argue. Just nodded and picked up one of the wooden snowflakes from the box.
"Where do these go?"
"Scattered. No pattern. My dad made them, so they get to go wherever they want."
They decorated in silence for a while. The oven timer went off, and Lila pulled out the cookies—golden brown, the edges slightly crisp, the way her mother had always made them. The smell filled the cottage, warm and familiar and aching.
"My mom used to leave these out for Santa," she said. "Even after I was old enough to know better. She'd put them on a plate with a glass of milk, and in the morning, there'd be crumbs and an empty glass and a thank-you note in my dad's handwriting."
"That's nice."
"It was. It was so normal." She stared at the cookies cooling on the rack. "I keep waiting for normal to feel normal again. But it doesn't. It just feels like pretending."
Ronan set down the ornament he was holding. Crossed to where she stood. Put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him.
"You're not pretending," he said. "You're practicing. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Pretending is lying to yourself. Practicing is learning a new skill." His thumbs traced circles on her shoulders. "You're learning how to have a life again. It's supposed to feel awkward. It's supposed to feel like you're doing it wrong."
"How do you know when you're doing it right?"
"You don't. You just keep practicing until it stops feeling impossible."
She leaned into him, her forehead against his chest.
"What if the judge rules against us?"
"Then we figure out the next move."
"What if there isn't one?"
