When the judge called for recess, nobody in the courtroom moved the way people usually do. Chairs scraped, but softly. Papers shifted, but without their usual impatience. It felt less like a break in proceedings and more like the moment after a building cracks, when everyone is still deciding whether they have really heard the sound of collapse.
You stood beside your chair in the medical compression top and orthopedic brace, your blue dress folded neatly over the backrest like the skin of someone you no longer needed to be. Across from you, Rodrigo Salazar had stopped performing. The grin was gone, the smugness drained from his face, and for the first time in nineteen years of marriage, he looked at you as if he had no idea what you were capable of. That was almost enough to steady your breathing.
