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“And he left your mom, brother, and you here.”
I can only nod, my chest constricting, the joints of my fingers and hands feeling weak. Tired.
“I’m not going to pretend to be able to psychoanalyze this.” Weatherby’s laugh is humorless. “I’m not even going to try. But this case has hit a nerve.”
My mind is reeling. Before I can respond, he’s out the door. He turns back around in the doorway. “Use it, Theo. Use all your personal experiences to get Fleming in the judge’s good favor. Use your pain to help him,” he says, before wheeling back around and returning to the main floor.
I’m stunned silent. If I’d known Weatherby was trying to orchestrate this complicated ruse of putting me on a case that would remind me of my father, I might have turned it down and taken the risk of his ire. This feels like something of a twisted game.
I crush the empty Styrofoam cup, slamming it with my fist onto my desk, drops of hot chocolate flying across it to splatter on my screen.
That felt good, for a second.
But deep down, I want nothing more than to be the person I need and want to be.
I stand from my desk, grab my laptop, and leave the office. Hopefully I’m not too late to make all this work the way it’s supposed to.
Chapter 30
Theo
Dust motes circle and swirl in front of my vision. Stark white sunlight reflected off the surrounding snow-weighted giant blue spruce outside slants into the county courtroom from the bank of windows high above. The room smells of Pine-Sol and one of those air freshener plug-ins. It’s a spicy apple cider and peppermint type of a scent.
Of course. Because this is the county that houses the Charles Dickens Christmas Festival. Any scent other than Christmas is poor form.
Judge Kimpton stands from her bench and gives a cursory glance over the room before being escorted out by the marshal for deliberation.
I glance at Marty, standing next to me. He’s in a suit and tie, and he’s got a rim around his hair again from the hat he was probably wearing right before he walked in the courthouse.
“The questions the judge asked seemed good,” I offer to Marty, as the shuffling of people stretching or moving around the room gets louder. “She seems to be considering the prosecutor’s plea.”
He nods, blinking rapidly. “How long will we have to wait?” He shoots a glance behind us.
I know, because I looked back earlier, that several of his family members and friends are here, including Elijah.
And Aria is here, along with Camilla and Jesse.
My mom and Odin want to meet up for a meal afterwards, which was nice of them.
But Aria is here.
“I’m guessing only a few minutes,” I tell Marty and clap a hand over his shoulder. “Take a drink of water.” I motion to the bottle on the table in front of us. “Breathe. Maybe take a walk around the room?”
He hesitates. “I’ll stay here.”
He might be thinking it would be best to keep his family at arm’s length. Tensions are high between them, and Marty’s in a vulnerable position. They all are.
“But thanks for what you said.” He rocks back and forth, clenching his jaw.
I can only nod. I don’t really remember all of what I said in the closing arguments, when I pled to the judge on Marty’s behalf. I know I practiced a lot beforehand, but I’m not sure I said what I’d planned.
I do know the feeling in the room, and the feelings inside of me. I tried to bring the larger picture into consideration—the kind of man Marty is, as gathered through character witness statements I’d compiled beforehand, as well as his actions before and after the theft.
He deserves a second chance, but only as it aligns with his own personal dedication to lasting recovery and change. He’s just beginning to step into the road of his journey now that the truth is out there. No amount of healing can begin until truth is respected—until it’s held up in the light, studied, and loved like a rare diamond.
To seek and revere truth. Maybe that’s why I’ve gone into the law.
And maybe the judge will see fit to allow Marty to walk the dusty, winding road of recovery a free man.
