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They never believed in the power of money and that’s where they went wrong I think. My father would have been content to be a starving artist for the rest of his life if it wasn’t for having children. He only took the job with the Bancrofts in the first place to help us. To have more money for us.
The bailiff asks for everyone in the room to rise and the judge comes in as we do. He’s an older man, a patch of graying hair on his head. He settles into the high seat at the front of the room, sliding his thick rimmed glasses onto his face and shuffling through the papers on his desk.
“Mr. Miller,” he finally speaks, addressing the DA. “You called this emergency hearing?”
“Yes, your honor. I would like to formally drop the charges of murder in the first degree against the plaintiff, Noah Bancroft.”
The judge huffs an indistinguishable response. “On what grounds?” he asks.
The DA coughs nervously, a crack in his polished exterior. “New evidence was brought to light.”
“And what would that be?” The judge asks, his gaze trained on the DA.
I’m on the edge of my seat, waiting to see what he says. Waiting for the reasoning behind this dismissal.
The DA turns his head quickly, his eyes landing on me before turning back just as fast.
“The victim's sister came forward. She corroborated the plaintiff’s story that the victim jumped that night. With this new evidence we are no longer interested in pressing charges against Mr. Bancroft.”
Ice shoots through my heart.
That’s a fucking lie.
Three Years Earlier
JUDAH ANSWERS THE DOOR WHEN I arrive at the Wilder house. He’s not a fan of me and he doesn’t keep it a secret. I’m not sure if he doesn’t think I’m good enough for his daughter, or if he hates me because I have money.
It’s like that sometimes, people hate you for something they want so desperately. My family's money is a blessing and a curse.
“Where is she?” I ask, and Judah sighs heavily. I can tell immediately he didn't want to call me, he never does.
But they don’t know what to do when she gets like this, they don’t know what to say or what to give her.
“Bedroom.” Judah says, opening the door wider to let me in.
I give him a nod and move past him. I can’t judge him for not knowing how to help his daughter, mental health has a stigma around it and as men we’re taught to shove our feelings down. So Judah Wilder doesn’t know what to do about tears.
And then there’s his wife, Sarah, equally uneducated. Not that I’m much better, but trial and error has taught me what Mik needs.
She’s not crazy, contrary to the words whispered about her. Her mind is just a rough place to be sometimes. The drugs and alcohol surely don’t help and she’s bad about taking the SSRIs, the pills that keep her level. Sometimes it builds up and then she breaks down.
When I enter her room she’s on the floor at the foot of her bed, her arms wrapped around her knees while she sobs.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She whispers between a sob and I shake my head.
“Nothing’s wrong with you, baby.” I set the grocery bag I brought with me on the counter, fishing out the Xanax Beck got for me and the bottle of orange juice. “Open,” I say, and she does, letting me place the white tab on her tongue. I hand her the juice and she swallows the pill down with a gulp.
I bend down, lifting her small frame up and bringing her to the bed, wrapping her in a fleece blanket and curling in behind her.
Her tears slow as she lets me hold her.
Sometimes she has bad days, filled with darkness and everything seems like the end of the world. Other times, she’s bright and fiery, full of life and love.
She experiences things differently than me, in a way I can’t quite understand.
I hold her tightly against my chest, staying quiet in case she wants to talk.
“I love you,” she whispers softly before drifting off to sleep.
