The courtroom smelled like old wood and older lies, a stale mix of polish and sweat that clung to Lena’s skin as she sat in the back row. It was two weeks after the arrest, and the world had shrunk to this: a low-ceilinged room in the Fulton County Courthouse, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and Marcus at the defendant’s table in a borrowed suit that didn’t quite fit. His cuffs were off now, swapped for a tie he kept tugging at, but he still looked caged, his broad shoulders hunched against the weight of the eyes on him.

Lena twisted the visitor pass from the jail around her finger, the edges worn soft from days of waiting. She’d spent every spare hour chasing leads—calling Darius until he stopped picking up, scouring Marcus’s phone records for Kev’s number, even driving past that gas station on Fulton like the answers might be spray-painted on the walls. Nothing. Just dead ends and a gnawing ache that kept her up nights, staring at the empty half of their bed.

The judge banged the gavel, a sharp crack that made her flinch. “State versus Marcus Tate,” he intoned, voice gravelly and bored. “Armed robbery, one count. How does the defendant plead?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor,” Marcus’s lawyer said, a wiry public defender named Ortiz with glasses that slid down his nose. He’d met with Lena once, promised he’d fight, but his tired eyes didn’t match his words. She’d wanted to hire someone better, but the bank account said no—$2,137.42, barely enough for rent, let alone a savior in a suit.

The prosecutor stood, a slick man in a gray pinstripe, and launched into his opening. “Ladies and gentlemen, the evidence will show that on the night of October 14th, Marcus Tate entered the Quick Stop on Fulton Avenue, brandished a firearm, and demanded cash from the register. We have security footage, a witness ID, and a history of criminal behavior that paints a clear picture: this man is guilty.”

Lena’s stomach dropped. Footage? Witness? Marcus had sworn he’d only dropped Kev off, that he’d driven straight home after. She glanced at him, but he wouldn’t look her way, his jaw tight as he stared at the table. Ortiz scribbled notes, unbothered, and she wanted to shake him—shake them both—until the truth spilled out.

The prosecutor called his first witness, a cashier with a buzz cut and nervous hands. “I was working the late shift,” he said, voice shaky under the mic. “Guy came in, hood up, gun out. Told me to empty the drawer. I did. He took off.”

“And do you see that man in this courtroom?” the prosecutor asked, smooth as oil.

The cashier pointed at Marcus, no hesitation. “That’s him.”

A murmur rippled through the gallery, and Lena gripped the bench, nails digging into the wood. Marcus shook his head, a small, desperate motion, but the cashier didn’t waver. Ortiz stood for the cross, adjusting his glasses. “You said it was dark, raining. Hood was up. How can you be sure?”

“He had a scar,” the cashier said, tapping his left cheek. “Right here. Saw it when he turned.”

Lena froze. Marcus did have a scar—faint, from a fight when he was seventeen, a jagged line she’d traced a hundred times in the dark. Her breath hitched, and she looked at him again, willing him to turn, to explain. He didn’t. Ortiz pressed the kid—distance, lighting, fear—but the answer stayed firm: That’s him.

The judge called a recess, and the room emptied, leaving Lena rooted to her seat. Marcus finally met her eyes as they led him out, his gaze heavy with something she couldn’t name—guilt, fear, a plea. She waited until the guard was gone, then dug into her bag, pulling out the photo she’d found last week: Marcus and Darius, years back, arms slung around each other outside the shop. Kev was there too, blurry in the background, but it was Marcus’s face that stopped her—a younger version, scar fresh, grinning like the world couldn’t touch him.

She stared at it, the edges curling in her damp hands. He’d said he didn’t go in, didn’t do it. But the scar, the footage, the witness—they were bricks stacking up, and she felt the foundation of their life cracking beneath her. Darius had dodged her again this morning, and now she wondered: What else was Marcus hiding? And how much of her faith could she afford to lose before it was gone?

The recess ended too soon, the courtroom filling back up with a low hum of voices and the shuffle of feet. Lena stayed put, the photo tucked back into her bag, its weight pressing against her like a bruise. She watched Marcus return to his seat, his shoulders still hunched, his fingers drumming a restless beat on the table. He hadn’t looked at her again, and that silence gnawed at her worse than the cashier’s words.

The prosecutor adjusted his tie and called his next witness: “Officer Daniel Reese.” A cop strode in, mid-thirties, square-jawed and stiff-backed, his uniform crisp despite the long day. He took the stand with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times, swearing in with a flat “I do” that matched his stare.

“Officer Reese,” the prosecutor began, pacing like a predator circling prey, “you were the arresting officer on October 27th, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Reese said, voice clipped. “Pulled over a blue Toyota Corolla on Peachtree, 2:14 a.m. Driver matched the description from the robbery—male, Black, mid-twenties, scar on left cheek.”

Lena’s pulse spiked. Their Corolla. The one she’d driven to the jail, the one Marcus had fixed with his own hands. She leaned forward, gripping the bench, as Reese kept going.

“Ran the plates, came back registered to Marcus Tate. Had a prior record—juvie, assault, theft. Matched the footage from the Quick Stop. Brought him in.”

The prosecutor nodded, smug. “And the traffic stop—what prompted it?”

“Taillight out,” Reese said. “Routine. But he was sweating, fidgety. Looked nervous when I asked where he’d been.”

Lena’s mind raced back to that night—two weeks ago, the anniversary morning. He’d left early, no note, and come back soaked, the cops on his heels. She’d assumed he’d been at the shop, but now… She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a sound she couldn’t name.

Ortiz stood for the cross, his voice thin against Reese’s steel. “Officer, you said it was raining, dark. How clear was your view of this scar?”

“Clear enough,” Reese shot back. “Streetlight hit his face when he turned. Plus, the footage—grainy, but the mark’s there.”

“And this prior record,” Ortiz pressed, adjusting his glasses. “Juvenile, sealed. No adult convictions. Doesn’t that suggest reform?”

“Doesn’t erase the past,” Reese said, unmoved. “Or the fact he was driving near the scene three nights after the crime.”

The prosecutor smirked, and Ortiz sat down, defeated. Lena’s chest tightened, each word another hammer blow to the life she’d built with Marcus. The scar, the car, the timing—it was piling up, a wall she couldn’t see over. She wanted to run to him, demand answers, but the Plexiglas from the jail still loomed in her mind, a barrier she couldn’t break.

Court adjourned for the day, the judge’s gavel a dull thud in her ears. She waited outside as they led Marcus away, his eyes flicking to her once—quick, pained—before he disappeared down the hall. Ortiz emerged next, loosening his tie, and she intercepted him by the water fountain, her voice low and urgent.

“What was that?” she demanded. “You barely pushed back. They’re burying him, and you’re just—scribbling notes?”

Ortiz sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Mrs. Tate—”

“Harper,” she corrected, sharp. “We’re not there yet.”

“Ms. Harper,” he amended, “I’m doing what I can. The evidence—it’s tight. Footage, witness, the car. I’ll poke holes where I can, but he’s not helping himself.”

“What do you mean?” Her stomach sank.

“He won’t talk,” Ortiz said, dropping his voice. “Won’t say where he was that night, just sticks to dropping off this Kev guy. No alibi, no details. I can’t defend a ghost story.”

She stared at him, the photo burning a hole in her bag. “He told me he came home after. Said he didn’t go in.”

“Then he’s lying to one of us,” Ortiz said, blunt. “Or both. Look, I’ve got another case. Tell him to give me something—anything—or this is over before it starts.”

He walked off, leaving her in the hallway, the hum of the courthouse fading to a dull roar in her head. She pulled out the photo again, staring at Marcus’s younger self—that scar, that grin. He’d sworn the past was behind him, but here it was, clawing its way back, and she didn’t know if she could outrun it—or if she even wanted to try.

She needed Darius. Needed Kev. Needed Marcus to stop hiding. But as she stepped into the dusk, the cracks in her foundation spread wider, and she wondered how much longer she could stand on it before it gave way.

The courthouse steps were slick with leftover rain as Lena stumbled out, the photo still clenched in her fist. The Atlanta dusk pressed in, heavy with humidity and the distant wail of sirens, and she felt like she was drowning in it—all of it: the cashier’s finger pointing at Marcus, Reese’s cold certainty, Ortiz’s warning. He’s lying to one of us. She needed air, needed truth, and the only person who might have it was the one she trusted least.

Darius wasn’t answering her calls—big surprise—but she knew where to find him. The shop, Tate’s Auto, squatted on a weedy lot off MLK Drive, a cinderblock box with a flickering neon sign and a yard full of rusted hulks. Marcus had poured years into it, turning it from their uncle’s chop shop into something legit, but Darius still treated it like his personal playground. She floored the Corolla through traffic, the taillight still busted—ironic, now—and pulled into the lot just as the last light bled from the sky.

He was there, sprawled in a lawn chair by the garage bay, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The radio blared some old OutKast track, bass thumping through the gravel, and he didn’t look up as she slammed the car door. She marched over, her sneakers crunching, and kicked the chair hard enough to slosh his beer.

“Jesus, Lena!” Darius jolted upright, wiping his hand on his jeans. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” She loomed over him, voice shaking with fury. “Marcus is in court getting shredded, and you’re out here sipping Bud Light like it’s nothing. I told you to be there today—where were you?”

He squinted up at her, taking a slow drag on the cigarette. “Had a job. Transmission blew on a Chevy. Can’t just walk away from that.”

“Bullshit,” she snapped, snatching the beer from his hand and hurling it into the dirt. It fizzed out, a pathetic hiss against her rage. “They’ve got footage, Darius. A witness with a scar story. The damn Corolla. He’s sinking, and you’re the only one who knows what happened that night. So talk.”

Darius stood, towering over her, his easy swagger gone. “I told you—Kev was begging, Marcus gave him a ride. That’s it. I didn’t see no robbery.”

“Then why’s he not saying where he went after?” She pulled the photo from her pocket, shoving it at his chest. “This is you two, back when he got that scar. Kev’s in it, lurking like always. You were there, Darius. You know more than you’re letting on.”

He glanced at the picture, then away, his jaw tightening. “That’s ancient history. Don’t mean nothing now.”

“It means everything!” Her voice cracked, loud enough to echo off the garage walls. “Ortiz says he’s clamming up—no alibi, no story. If you saw him leave Kev, why’s he hiding it? What’s he protecting?”

Darius tossed the cigarette, grinding it under his boot. “Maybe he’s protecting you,” he said, low and rough. “Ever think of that?”

She froze, the words landing like a punch. “Me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

He rubbed his neck, eyes darting to the shadows. “Look, that night—Kev was messed up, talking crazy. Said he owed people, bad people. Marcus didn’t want you near that. Told me to keep it quiet if it came up.”

Her breath hitched, the ground tilting under her. “So he lied to me. Said he came home, but he didn’t.”

“He came home eventual,” Darius said, defensive. “Just… took a detour. Dropped Kev, then drove around, clearing his head. Didn’t want you worrying.”

“Worrying?” She laughed, bitter and hollow. “He’s in jail, Darius. I’m past worried—I’m losing him. And you’re still playing games.”

“I ain’t playing,” he shot back, stepping closer. “I’m telling you now—he didn’t rob nobody. But Kev? He’s a snake. If they’ve got Marcus on tape, it’s ‘cause Kev set it up. I’d bet my life on it.”

“Then find him,” she said, voice steel. “You owe Marcus that much. Or I’ll drag you into that courtroom myself and let them tear you apart.”

She turned and stalked back to the car, the photo crumpled in her fist. Darius called after her—“Lena, wait!”—but she didn’t stop. The engine roared to life, and she peeled out, the shop shrinking in her rearview. Marcus’s lie burned in her chest, a crack splitting wider with every mile. He’d kept her in the dark to shield her, maybe, but it felt like betrayal all the same. And as the city lights blurred past, she wondered how many more secrets she’d have to dig up before she could save him—or let him go.