Page 59 of Letting Go

I blink. “Um… no. Just breakfast. Or what’s left of it.” My cheeks flare. Thank God Caden already left. My underwear might still be somewhere under the couch.

The dogs trot up, tails wagging. He crouches slowly, hand out. “Well, hello there. Aren’t you the cutest”

“They like you,” I say, surprised.

“I like them.” He scratches behind Roxy’s ears with a soft grin. “Always wanted a dog. Michael was allergic. Of course.” The way he says it is so dry, I almost snort. Almost.

In the kitchen, I pour him a coffee because that’s what you do when a retired judge invades your kitchen andpets your rescue dog like he’s been waiting his whole life to meet her. He accepts it with a thank you and takes a long sip before looking me dead in the eye.

“Michael signed the papers?”

“Yeah.” I cross my arms, wary. “Last week.”

He nods. “Good. At least he can still follow orders.”

I blink. “Orders?”

“I told him,” he says, calm as ever, “to either give you what you wanted, or he’s out of the will.”

My mouth opens, but he’s already continuing, so I don’t get a word in.

“He is, by the way. Out. I amended everything. It’s all going to charity now. There’s a women’s shelter on the west side. I liked their mission statement.” He says it like he’s picking a place to eat lunch, not upending generational wealth out of sheer, quiet principle.

“You… what?”

He shrugs. “You gave him ten years. And he gave you betrayal.” Another sip of coffee. “I gave him my name, but he turned out to be a coward. We all have to draw lines somewhere.”

I just stare. Here I though Mike was finally doing something right.

“I have something I need to get off my chest,” he says next, eyes suddenly heavier. “But I told myself I’d wait until your divorce was final, before I told Michael.”

My pulse thuds. “Told him what?”

He looks down into his mug. Then back up at me, and for once, just once, Judge looks a little less certain.

“I think it’s time you knew, too.” Taking a deep breath, he starts.

“About thirty years ago I was an ADA. Assistant District Attorney for the State of New York,” he says, his voice smooth, almost rehearsed. I can hear the years of weight behind it.

“I was seeing hundreds of cases,” he continues. My pulse has picked up, and I can feel the heavy tread of anxiety in my chest. Something tells me I’m not going to like this.

“This one case,” he says, and there’s a hitch in his voice. It’s brief, but it’s there. Something breaks, cracks in the perfect facade. “It changed everything.”

I lean forward, suddenly aware of how close I am to the edge of something awful.

The words that spill from his mouth next are like an avalanche. “It was a rape case. The perpetrator had been a student. He drugged and raped his partner in a class.” His face doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. “She was from a prominent family. Very scared to tell anyone, her parents, her friends.No one knew. She never said a word,” he goes on. “But I knew. Because I was already investigating him for doing it to other women. But this? This was the first time he did it to someone he knew.”

He takes small sips of his coffee while my stomach churns.

“I convinced her to come to court to see his arraignment, thought seeing him in cuffs would take away some of her fear, maybe even convince her to testify,” he continues, “and then the father of one of the other victims comes in, all calm, and he shoots him. Straight to the head. Dead before he hit the floor.”

I swallow hard, but it doesn’t help the tightness in my throat.

“Justified, of course,” he adds, like it’s something that doesn’t need further discussion.

And in a way, it doesn’t. if someone did that to my child, I might react the same way.

“But why tell me this?” I ask.

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