Cole's spatula slows.
"Richard said three to five years." She drinks. Sets the mug down. "Then good behavior. Then another hearing. Then another panel of strangers reading a file about a man who performs remorse the way other people perform sincerity."
"The restraining order is permanent," Cole says.
"The restraining order is a piece of paper. The last one was also a piece of paper. He violated it within weeks of his release."
"Maya—"
"He'll write letters from inside. To the board. To his attorney. The programs will get done, the words will come out right, and in three to five years, he'll be standing outside another building where I work." She looks at the counter. "Another walkway I have to scan. Another set of 413 calls."
The eggs are burning. Cole leaves them.
"For four hours today, I sat in that chair," she says. "My dead name came out of my mouth. I described what he did to my ribs and my arm in front of a judge and a stenographer and a man in a blazer who looked at me like I was the one on trial." Her voice is steady. "There are many things I will do for the rest of my life. Many hard things. If I have to, I will sit in that chair again. But I shouldn't have to."
She looks at me.
"You told me once that the consequences your family delivers don't come with appeals."
The kitchen goes still.
"I remember," I say.
"You said the legal system is a tool your father uses. That it's not a tool used against him. That your family can reach places the courts don't."
"I said that."
"The system gave me three to five years." She holds my eyes. "Your family could give me the rest of my life."
The eggs burn at the edge of the pan. Her tea steams between her hands. My phone sits on the table.
She opens her mouth, closes it, and her hands tighten on the mug. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, rougher. Her thumb drags once over the mug handle and misses its place.
"I know what I'm asking." The words come out uneven. She's looking at the counter, not at me. "I sat in a different chair today. And the system that was supposed to protect me gave me a countdown."
Her hands are shaking on the mug. Maya's hands don't shake. Maya's hands hold pens steady and type through crisis. They grip the edge of tables during orgasms. They stay still when the ground shifts. Now the tea trembles against the ceramic.
Cole turns off the burner and stands with his back to us, his hands on the counter, his head bowed.
"Cole," I say.
"I'm thinking."
"I know."
"Give me a minute."
A minute passes. The refrigerator hums. The pipe clicks in the wall.
Cole turns around.
"If you make that call," he says, "you're tying yourself to them permanently. Marco will have something on you. So will your father. They can pull on you, and you'll be able to pull back."
"I know."
"You drew the line yesterday. On speaker. In this kitchen. You told Marco you were out. Permanently."
"I know what I said, Cole."
