The courtroom felt smaller on the last day, the walls pressing in like they’d swallowed the air. Lena sat in her usual spot—back row, left side—her hands clenched around Marcus’s jacket, the one she’d brought every day like a talisman. It was worn thin now, the cuffs frayed from her fidgeting, but she couldn’t let it go. Three days of trial had blurred into a haze of witnesses and arguments, each one chipping away at her hope until it was a jagged shard she barely recognized.

The jury filed in, twelve faces she’d memorized but couldn’t read—stone-eyed, lips tight, avoiding the gallery. Marcus sat straight at the defendant’s table, his borrowed suit wrinkled from the long hours, his hands folded like he was praying. Ortiz beside him looked resigned, his glasses perched crooked, while the prosecutor leaned back in his chair, arms crossed with the calm of a man who’d already won.

The judge cleared his throat, a dry rasp that silenced the room. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

The forewoman stood, a middle-aged woman in a blue cardigan, her voice steady but thin. “We have, Your Honor.”

Lena’s heart thudded, loud enough she swore they could hear it. She’d spent the night before on the phone with Jade, pacing the apartment, replaying Darius’s words: Kev set it up. He’d vanished again—no Kev, no proof, just a ghost story Ortiz couldn’t sell. The defense had leaned on Marcus’s character—his job, their marriage, no adult record—but the scar, the Corolla, the grainy footage had loomed larger, a shadow no one could shake.

“Go ahead,” the judge said, nodding.

The forewoman unfolded a paper, her hands trembling just enough to notice. “In the matter of State versus Marcus Tate, on the charge of armed robbery, we find the defendant… guilty.”

The word hit like a fist, knocking the breath from Lena’s chest. A low murmur rippled through the room, but she couldn’t hear it over the roar in her head. Guilty. Marcus’s head dropped, his shoulders slumping, and Ortiz put a hand on his arm—too late, too weak. The prosecutor smirked, a flash of teeth, and Lena wanted to lunge at him, claw that smugness off his face.

“Order,” the judge barked, banging the gavel as the noise swelled. “Sentencing will be set for two weeks from today. Defendant remanded to custody.”

Lena shot to her feet, the jacket slipping to the floor. “No!” The shout tore out of her, raw and ragged, and heads turned—jurors, bailiffs, strangers with pity in their eyes. Marcus looked up, finally, his gaze locking on hers, and she saw it: despair, yes, but something else—shame, maybe, or an apology he couldn’t voice. The bailiff grabbed his arm, pulling him up, and she pushed forward, shoving past a woman with a clipboard.

“Marcus!” she called, but the guard blocked her, a wall in khaki. “Let me—he didn’t do this! You’ve got it wrong!”

“Ma’am, step back,” the guard said, firm but not cruel. “You can’t—”

“He’s innocent!” Her voice broke, tears hot on her cheeks, and she didn’t care who saw. They hauled him through the side door, his footsteps echoing, and she sank to her knees, the tile cold against her palms. The room emptied fast—jurors shuffling out, the prosecutor packing his briefcase, Ortiz slipping away without a glance. She stayed there, alone, the verdict ringing in her ears like a bell that wouldn’t stop.

Outside, the air was crisp, the first real bite of fall cutting through the haze. She stumbled to the Corolla, her hands shaking so bad she dropped the keys twice. Jade was waiting, leaning against the hood, her braids pulled back tight, her face soft with worry.

“Lena,” she said, stepping forward, but Lena waved her off, climbing into the driver’s seat. Jade slid in beside her, silent for once, and that was worse—proof it was real.

“Seven years,” Lena whispered, staring at the dashboard. Ortiz had warned her after: seven, maybe five with good behavior. “They took him.”

Jade reached for her hand, squeezing hard. “We’ll fight it. Appeals, whatever it takes.”

But Lena barely heard her. The cracks had given way, the foundation gone, and all she had left was his jacket on the courthouse floor and a promise she didn’t know how to keep. She started the car, the engine coughing, and drove into the dusk, the weight of seven years pressing down like a stone she couldn’t lift.

The drive home was a blur, the Corolla’s headlights cutting through the deepening dark as Lena gripped the wheel, silent. Jade sat beside her, picking at her nails, the quiet stretching taut between them. The radio stayed off—Lena couldn’t stomach noise, not when her head was still ringing with guilty, a word that echoed louder with every mile. She pulled into their lot, the fairy lights on the balcony flickering like a cruel joke, and killed the engine. Neither of them moved.

“You gonna be okay?” Jade asked finally, her voice soft but heavy, like she already knew the answer.

Lena stared at the dashboard, the crack in the plastic where Marcus had once dropped a wrench. “No,” she said, flat. “But I don’t got a choice, do I?”

Jade sighed, reaching over to squeeze her arm. “You got me. That’s something.”

It was, but it didn’t fill the hole. Lena nodded anyway, and they climbed the stairs together, Jade trailing her like a shadow she didn’t ask for but couldn’t shake. Inside, the apartment smelled stale, the lavender candle burnt out days ago. Marcus’s boots still sat by the door, caked with mud from that last morning, and Lena’s chest tightened. She sank onto the couch, Jade beside her, and let the silence settle.

Two days later, she was back at the jail—different this time, no waiting room chaos, just a sterile visitor’s booth with a phone on a cord. Jade had pushed her to go, said Marcus needed to see her strong, but Lena didn’t feel strong. She felt hollow, scraped out, the verdict still a weight she couldn’t shift. The guard buzzed her in, and she sat, the receiver cold against her ear, waiting for him.

Marcus appeared, shuffling in that same orange jumpsuit, his movements slower now, like the fight had drained out of him. He picked up his phone, pressing it close, and for a moment they just looked at each other through the glass—her with red-rimmed eyes, him with shadows under his. He tried a smile, but it cracked at the edges.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough through the static. “You holding up?”

She swallowed hard, clutching the phone tighter. “Barely. You?”

He shrugged, glancing down at his hands. “Guess I’m used to cages by now. Seven years, though…” He trailed off, and she saw it—the flicker of fear he couldn’t hide.

“Five, maybe,” she said, repeating Ortiz’s line like it was a prayer. “Good behavior. We’ll appeal it, Marcus. I’m not letting this stick.”

He nodded, slow, but his eyes didn’t lift. “I messed up, Lena. Should’ve told you everything—Kev, that night. Thought I could bury it, keep you safe.”

“Safe?” Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “I’m not safe, Marcus. I’m falling apart. You should’ve trusted me.”

“I know.” His voice broke, and he pressed a hand to the glass, fingers splayed. “I’m sorry, baby. I thought—I thought I could fix it.”

She matched his hand, her palm cold against the barrier. “You can’t fix this from in there. I need you to fight, okay? Tell Ortiz everything—Kev, Darius, the detour. No more secrets.”

He nodded again, firmer this time. “I will. Swear it. But you—you gotta keep going, Lena. Don’t let this eat you.”

“Too late,” she said, tears slipping free despite her grip on them. “It already has.”

The guard tapped the wall—time up—and Marcus’s face crumpled, just for a second, before he masked it. “Love you,” he said, fierce and low. “Always.”

“Love you,” she echoed, and then he was gone, the door clanging shut behind him. She sat there, phone dangling, until the guard coughed pointedly and she stumbled out, the air hitting her like a slap.

Jade was waiting in the lot, leaning against her own car, a beat-up Civic with a dented fender. She took one look at Lena’s face and pulled her into a hug, tight and wordless. Lena didn’t cry this time—she was too empty for that—but she clung back, letting Jade’s warmth anchor her.

“We’re getting him out,” Jade said, pulling back to meet her eyes. “Whatever it takes—Darius, Kev, the damn Pope if we have to. You hear me?”

Lena nodded, wiping her face with her sleeve. “Yeah. Whatever it takes.”

She drove home alone, the fairy lights winking through the dusk, and felt something shift—a spark, small but stubborn, lighting up the hollow. Seven years was a sentence, but it wasn’t the end. Not yet. She’d dig, she’d fight, she’d break every promise she had to, if it meant bringing him back.

The next morning broke cold, a gray dawn seeping through the blinds as Lena sat at the kitchen table, a chipped mug of coffee gone lukewarm in her hands. She hadn’t slept—couldn’t, not with Marcus’s voice looping in her head, No more secrets, and the weight of seven years pressing down like a debt she couldn’t pay. Jade’s words clung too: Whatever it takes. She’d meant it, and so had Lena, but meaning it was one thing—doing it was another. Kev was a ghost, a name whispered in shadows, and she had no map to find him.

She pulled out her phone, scrolling through old texts from Marcus, hunting for clues. Nothing direct—just a mention months back: Kev stopped by, looking rough. No number, no address, just that vague ache of a past Marcus couldn’t shake. Darius was her best shot, but he’d gone quiet since their blowout at the shop, his pickup missing from the lot when she’d driven by last night. She’d have to start lower, dig into the corners Marcus had climbed out of, the ones he’d sworn she’d never have to touch.

By noon, she was in East Atlanta, a maze of sagging row houses and corner stores with bars on the windows. She’d heard Marcus talk about it once—where he and Kev used to run, back when they were kids with fast hands and faster mouths. The Corolla rattled over potholes, the busted taillight a liability she ignored as she parked near a liquor store called Red’s, its neon sign half-dead, buzzing R-d’s in the gloom. If Kev was anywhere, it’d be a place like this—cheap booze, loose talk, the kind of dive that swallowed men whole.

Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the sour tang of spilled beer. A handful of regulars hunched over the counter, eyes flicking to her then away, uninterested. She approached the cashier, a wiry man with a gray ponytail and a scar of his own snaking down his neck.

“Looking for someone,” she said, keeping her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. “Kevin. Skinny, twitchy, maybe in his thirties. Hangs with Marcus Tate sometimes.”

The man squinted, wiping his hands on a rag. “Lots of Kevins ‘round here, sweetheart. Got a last name?”

“No,” she admitted, frustration edging in. “But he’s trouble. Owes people, runs his mouth. You’d remember him.”

He grunted, leaning on the counter. “Sounds like half my customers. Check the alley out back—guys like that don’t sit pretty in here long.”

She nodded, slipping him a crumpled five from her pocket, and headed for the door. The alley was a narrow slit between buildings, littered with crushed cans and cigarette butts, the air sharp with piss and rot. Two men lounged against the wall, passing a bottle in a paper bag, their laughter cutting off as she stepped into view. She squared her shoulders, channeling Jade’s grit, and walked up.

“Looking for Kev,” she said, loud enough to carry. “Skinny guy, twitchy. Seen him?”

The taller one, a lanky dude with a faded Hawks cap, smirked. “Who’s asking?”

“Someone who’ll pay,” she lied, pulling out another five. Marcus’s emergency cash was dwindling, but she’d spend it all if it got her to Kev.

He snatched the bill, pocketing it quick. “Ain’t seen him today. But he flops at the old mill sometimes—off Flat Shoals. Crashes there when he’s too high to move.”

Her pulse jumped. The mill—abandoned, half-caved, a haunt for squatters. She’d driven past it a hundred times, never thought twice. “Thanks,” she said, turning away before they could ask more.

Back in the car, she gripped the wheel, the lead buzzing in her veins. Flat Shoals was ten minutes out, deeper into the city’s underbelly, but she didn’t care. Kev was the key—Marcus had said it, Darius had hinted it—and she’d drag him out of whatever hole he’d crawled into. The engine sputtered to life, and she pulled onto the road, the sky darkening overhead like it knew what she was chasing.

She didn’t notice the pickup trailing her, two cars back—rusted red, Darius’s ride, headlights off. He’d been watching since Red’s, silent as a shadow, and as she turned toward the mill, he followed, his jaw tight with something he wasn’t ready to say.