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Lena nods. She is holding herself together with the thinnest thread, but still holding. I continue to walk through the diner, passing tables of people I recognize. The local grocery store clerk, Mrs. Reynolds, our bank teller, and a woman whom I quietly helped get custody of her daughter two years ago in a challenging case. She stands, wanting to help. I give her a small smile and shake my head imperceptibly.
My humiliation has moved from private to public in this small town. These are the people I depend on as clients to trust me. And they’re seeing me in handcuffs.
As my head is not so gently dipped low to fit in the back of the cruiser, I think about the look on Lena’s face. It wasn’t relief exactly, but recognition that someone was there for her, showing up to help. As Cascadia moves past me in the window on the drive, I think about how many times that has been me, the one showing up for others. My clients, friends, and even my mother. It has never occurred to me to wait for someone to show up, to have that confidence that someone would be there. Not until a man with a baritone voice asking me for sugar wiggled his way into every aspect of my life.
I press my wrists together where the handcuffs are, grounding me to this moment. My skin smells like the inside of a police cruiser, and something cold and antiseptic. Nothing like peppermint.
I hear my phone buzz in my purse, and I already know it won’t be Jackson.
I sit in the holding area, keeping myself perfectly still, maintaining the control I need. I do not cry, I do not rage, I am just running through case law in my head like others count sheep. It is tedious, methodical, and just what I need to keep my mind grounded.
Sheriff Walters appears at my holding cell, opening it slowly.
“Miss Lane, you are about to be released,” Walters says with a smile. I don’t let my mask slip. I nod and stand. “Before you leave, I wanted to speak with you on a matter.” I give him nothing, not making this comfortable for him.
“Deputy Dickson exercised … suboptimal judgment today. I want to assure you that this will be removed from your record. May take a week or so, but it will be gone.”
“Good.” I don’t say thank you, like he expected. But something passes between us, an acknowledgment of Deputy Dick’s wrongdoing. I file this information away, knowing it will come up again later.
As Sheriff Walters leads me to the front office, I see Becca before anything else. Something in me loosens.
“Bail is set at $500,” the employee managing the front desk drones, sounding bored. Five hundred dollars? That’s almost insulting. Becca doesn’t even flinch as she reaches into her purse, pulling out an envelope with five crisp $100 bills, holding at least five more still.
Becca’s eyes move around the room once, twice, landing on nothing in particular but taking in everything. Exactly how she has been since the day I met her when she showed me my first apartment in Cascadia.
“I want a documented receipt, timestamped, and all records of this incident printed out as a copy.”
The woman at the front desk grumbles but starts gathering. I slide over to Becca. She looks me over quick—top to bottom—then reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.
Outside, the pine hits me before anything else. I stop for half a second to breathe it in. Three hours was long enough to forget what the outside smelled like.
Becca steers me toward her Subaru with one arm across my back, not quite pushing, not quite holding. I watch her face cycle through something, one after another, none of the thoughts making it all the way to words. We get in and buckle up.
She doesn’t ask if I’m okay.
Putting the car in reverse, she pulls out, and I feel something in my back and shoulders release—slowly, incrementally—like a fist unclenching one finger at a time.
“Um, thank you. For coming,” I say, more formally than I mean.
“Of course, Phi. You never have to thank me for being there for you. I always will be.”
I close my eyes tight for a second, holding back the tears that are threatening to make an appearance. “I know,” I breathe out. “Also, I will pay you back, promise.”
“Don’t worry about it, I have had a bail fund set up for years,” Becca says, turning on her blinker to head down my street.
“You’re not serious?” I respond. Becca and her husband, Sam, would be two of the last people I would expect to need bail money.
“Yup, it is in a sub-account in my savings app. You can check it out. It has been earning interest for years. I always knew I would need it, though to be fair, I thought it was going to be for Nessa.”
The first real laugh leaves me in days, because she is right. Becca is a planner; she sacrificed her hard-earned money to put this away someday, and I am equally surprised it wasn’t for Nessa.
We pull into my duplex, and I notice my car is already back, as are others.
“How did you … what?”
“When I got the call from Lena, I brought in reinforcements. Nessa drove here, used the combo you gave us all to your house for emergencies, grabbed your extra key, and Mack was right behind her, driving them to your car. Figured you didn’t need to deal with the hassle of that.”
I open my mouth, but words fail me at how well I am being taken care of right now. I have always prided myself on not needing others, having it all handled. But this, this is beyond what I could have imagined, all for me.
