Page 124 of Free to Judge
Always.
Now, out of the corner of my eye, I see Aunt Holly frame a shot of Declan and my father just as Dad leaps onto Declan’s back to be carried.
Declan’s laughter rings out. “Old man, you know your ass is sticking out in those running shorts.”
My father snarls, “Who are you calling old, punk?”
I shout, “Both of you are showing off the goods. Now get back on the course before I show you both up!”
Both their heads whip in my direction, sending me overprotective glares.
I think back to where I was when Declan entered into my life.
Now, we’ve fought wars and come out the other side stronger.
Together.
We still have so far to go, but this is a marathon, not a sprint. Every step we take is one step closer to our forever.
Finally, I think I’m ready.
Even if he is wearing a tutu.
EPILOGUE
TWO YEARS LATER
The federal courthousesmells like lemon-scented cleaner and has my nerves strung out as I sit on the witness stand. My suit itches and since I flat out told her father that I refuse to wear one to the office ever again, I haven’t worn a tie in months—not since the last funeral we’d gone to together.
Even then, I’d torn it off the second we got back to the car and tossed it in the backseat like it offended me.
Today, though, it is necessary. Part of the armor I used to wear when I was an FBI agent. A part of a uniform I wore with pride.
I’d adjust it again, but I’m certain the federal prosecutor is contemplating wrapping it around my neck and yanking both ends tightly. She’s trying to finish her questions with clinical precision, but her eyes dart up every time I fiddle with my stupid neck apparatus.
She wanted me to keep things neat for the jury. Keep it surgical. That just isn’t possible. Not with what we’re being forced to dig up.
“Thank you, Mr. Conian,” she says, nodding before retreating to her seat.
I nod back, but don’t look at her. My eyes find the jury. Seven women, five men. Mostly middle-aged. Some skeptical. A few sympathetic.
Then my eyes find the woman who was harangued by both the prosecution and the defense earlier in the trial. Sitting in the second row of the gallery. Dark blue blazer. Hair pulled back in a knot she only wears when she needs to look tough—depositions, confrontations, days when she was coming to Hudson Investigations to scold her father for keeping me too late at the office.
Her eyes are locked on mine.
God, she’s the only reason why I can manage to make it through reliving this nightmare.
The judge turns to the defense. “Mr. Allister, your witness.”
Victor Allister stands like he’s preparing for his swan song. His suits throughout the trial have been multi-thousand-dollar shades of Quaker Oats. When Kalie’s Uncle Phil first mentioned that at a family dinner, her Aunt Em spit out her drink across his chest.
For once, Phil didn’t seem to mind. He pulled Emily close, kissed the top of her head, and said, “That one’s a freebie.”
Allister steps forward and presents a tight, civil smile to the jury before beginning his verbal warfare. “Mr. Conian. Let’s get into it.”
I lean back in the chair, rolling my shoulders. “Let’s.”
“You were with the FBI for—how long again?”
