“Okay?” I repeated.
“Okay,” Tony said. “We’ll make it work.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Simon
The courthouse hallway was packed.
I stood near the wall, my parents on either side of me, while Tony spoke in low tones with Nav a few feet away. The Silver Shadows had shown up in force, King leading the way, and at least a dozen or so others. They lined the hallway like sentries, their leather cuts and imposing presence, making it clear whose side they were on.
People from town milled around; some I recognized from the salon, others from the diner or the grocery store. Mrs. Patterson from the church gave me a small, encouraging smile. Beatrice Allen squeezed my hand as she passed.
The support should have made me feel better.
It didn’t.
Because none of them could change what was about to happen inside that courtroom.
“You okay, honey?” Mom asked, her hand resting on my arm.
I nodded, even though I wasn’t. My stomach was in knots, my hands clammy, my heart racing so fast I thought it might burst out of my chest.
“It’s going to be okay,” Dad said quietly. “Tony knows what he’s doing.”
I glanced at Tony, who was still deep in conversation with Nav, his expression focused, controlled, every inch the brilliant lawyer. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the strain in his jaw.
He was worried.
And if Tony was worried, I should be terrified.
The sound of heels clicking against the tile floor made me look up.
Rosalind Winthrop approached, her tailored suit immaculate, her expression calm and confident. She carried a leather briefcase in one hand and stopped a few feet away from us.
“Mr. Nelson,” she said, her voice smooth. “Mr. Gallagher.”
Tony turned, his eyes narrowing. “Ms. Winthrop.”
“I wanted to speak with you before we go inside,” Rosalind said, her gaze shifting to me. “One last time.”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Tony said flatly, moving to stand by my side.
My protector.
“I think there is.” Rosalind opened her briefcase and pulled out a document, holding it out toward me. “This is my final offer. Murder in the second degree. Fifteen to twenty-five years, with no possibility of parole for a minimum of fifteen. You’ll be in your fifties before you see daylight again, Mr. Nelson. This is the only mercy I’m offering.”
I stared at the document, my throat tight.
Fifteen to twenty-five years.
Fifteen years minimum before I’d even be eligible for parole.
I’d be in my forties by then. Maybe older. My entire thirties, gone. The best years of my life locked away.
“No,” I said.
Rosalind’s expression didn’t change. “Mr. Nelson, I strongly encourage you to consider—”
