The courtroom walls were an institutional beige.
I sat at the defense table in an orange jumpsuit that smelled of disinfectant. The booking label at my wrist read Inmate #734.
The fabric scratched my neck whenever I turned toward the doors. My suits and silk ties were in federal storage with the watch Mia had given me.
I kept watching the carved oak doors behind the jury instead of the judge.
They remained closed.
Papers moved across the prosecutor’s table. I remembered Evelyn’s thin wedding band lying on the divorce agreement.
I had watched her set it down and still asked why she did not beg.
The evidence had ended any hope of acquittal. Still, I watched the doors for Evelyn.
Even if she sat behind the prosecution, I wanted one last look at the woman from the breakfast table. When
