Your honor, my client has no prior record,” my attorney states, addressing the judge earnestly. “Not even so much as a speeding ticket. He’s employed by the county as an emergency medical technician. He’s a veteran of Afghanistan where he served honorably for two tours as a combat Navy Corpsman. He was honorably discharged from the Navy a little more than a year ago and has lived quietly here in our community since then. He has family and close personal relationships here and poses little flight risk. I’m respectfully requesting bond be waived and my client released on his own recognizance until his trial date.”

The judge looks me over with considerable doubt in his expression.

A young lawyer from the district attorney’s office stands, ready to address the judge.

“Ma’am, may I?” she asks.

The judge nods.

“Currently the victim, Reverend Henry Schmidt, is still in serious condition at Roanoke Memorial Hospital. He’s fifty-three years old and the injuries he sustained from the assault inflicted on him by the defendant are still regarded as potentially life-threatening. We’re requesting the defendant remain in custody until such time as the victim’s condition stabilizes or deteriorates. We may proffer additional charges within the next several days if the situation warrants it.”

“Your honor, may I provide additional information that may affect your decision?” my lawyer asks.

“Enlighten me, Mr. Gratian,” the judge says, shaking his head. “I feel like there’s a story here.”

“Yes sir, in fact there is. The first is that the victim, Henry Schmidt, is not an ordained minister,” he states. “He’s a self-appointed ‘end times’ preacher with a little congregation of hangers-on who meet inside the abandoned Exxon station out on Damascus Highway. The second, and probably much more useful thing, is that this assault only occurred after the so-called victim announced his intent to kidnap three minor children and only after he assaulted one of them, injuring him. It’s my understanding the state intends to press charges against Mr. Schmidt for attempted kidnapping and aggravated assault as soon as he’s able to be charged.”

The judge appears surprised with this new information. I’m hoping that’s a good thing for me. He turns to the opposing attorney.

“Is this true, Miss Sterling?” he asks.

“Yes, your honor,” she reluctantly replies. “However, the victim’s status and his alleged intent in no way negates the severity of the assault Mr. Chance delivered.”

The judge huffs out an amused laugh. “True,” he replies. “But the mitigating circumstances are noted.” He looks down at his papers, then back to me and my attorney. “Bond is set at one hundred thousand dollars. Check with the clerk for your court date.”

Jesus. A hundred thousand dollars. There’s no way I can come up with what it will take to secure that. My car is ten-years-old, and it’s the only thing I own.

“Thank you, your honor,” my attorney says, nodding for me to stand for the bailiff who’s come to get me and take me back to my cell.

As I stand, I glance back, scanning the courtroom for any familiar face. I instantly see Kathi and Griff, then I spot Dillon a few rows behind them, his eyes fixed on mine. He smiles as soon as we make eye contact, mouthing something I can’t make out. A second later the bailiff has me by the elbow, herding me out.

They took my clothes after I was arrested, giving me a standard issue county jail jumpsuit in a stunning shade of orange I’ll never shake from my nightmares. It’s great going before a judge in jail garb and flip flops. I could have gone my entire life without checking this particular accomplishment off my bucket list.

A few minutes after I’m returned to my cell, my attorney appears. I didn’t expect to see him again so soon, having just met him this morning. Dillon hired him on my behalf. I never expected that either.

“Mr. Manning is bonding you out,” he says. “It’ll take a little while for the paperwork to get processed, but you’re going home.”

“Really?!” I ask, coming to the iron bars separating me from my well-dressed lawyer. “How? That’s a lot of money!”

“He said he talked to your mother,” the attorney says. “Between your sister and her, they all worked it out.”

I would have done just about anything to keep my mother from ever knowing what I’ve done. At this point though, I guess there’s no hiding it from her. I have no idea what she’s going to think. I don’t even know what I think.

I think I should claim temporary insanity, because that’s sure what it felt like. I lost my head. I lost all sense of myself or consequences. I lost control; just like I used to do when I was a teenager.

The idea that Jordan, Chrissy, and Joey saw me do that, it kills me. How can I ever face them again, knowing they know just how much rage is inside me? I’m sure they’re terrified of me now. I’m terrified of me.

Such are my circular, recurring thoughts over the course of the next several hours. I lay on the hard cot inside my cell, listening to the sound of a county jail lock-up reverberate around me. My fellow prisoners are not a quiet, reflective lot. They shout. They laugh. Some occasionally scream bloody murder. The guards are less irksome, but their pacing, the clanking of metal doors and keys, their voices in the corridors, all if it is enough to send my anxiety piquing. I’d crawl out of my own skin if it would get me out of here.

“Heads-up, Chance. You’re bonded out. Get dressed,” a guard says, appearing at my cell door with my clothes in a clear plastic bag.

“Outstanding!” I call, jumping to my feet. He slips the bag between the bars into my hands, then puts a key in the door lock, opening it.

“Hurry up,” he says. “I’ll wait.”

I quickly peel out of my jail garb, putting on the same, dirty clothes I came here with. My sweatshirt is stained with blood. Dirt and grass stains are ground into the knees of my jeans. At least my shoes are clean enough.

There is paperwork to sign and my billfold, belt, and watch to collect from the property desk. I sign for them and am shown out through a heavy steel door.

Dillon awaits me on he other side. As soon as I pass through, he launches into me, hugging me tight, gripping the back of my neck inside the curl of his big hand, holding me close.

“I’m so fucking glad to see you,” he breathes into my neck. “God, I was so worried.”

Kathi and Griff stand behind him, Kathi’s expression pained. She reaches up, touching the hair at my forehead, saying nothing.

“I’m okay,” I say to Dillon, pushing back a little. “I promise. Thank you for the lawyer and for bailing me out.”

I feel like the worst person in the world. “I’ll pay you back, somehow,” I say, feeling the hopelessness of that prospect. The county is going to put me on non-paid administrative leave until my trial date. If I’m convicted of anything, even a misdemeanor assault, they’ll fire me. That’s not even the biggest issue; I’m probably going to jail.

“I’m so sorry about all of this,” I say, feeling the heavy anxiety in my words. “I’m just so sorry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dillon says, still hugging me, still hanging on. “The kids told us everything that happened. Jordan pretty much thinks you’re Superman and The Flash all wrapped up in one. Chrissy and Joey too.”

I place my hand on Dillon’s chest, gently pressing him back.

“They’re not scared of me?” I ask, meeting Dillon’s eyes. “They’re not upset?”

Dillon shakes his head. “Upset, but not like that. You’re their hero. They’re scared of their grandfather. You saved them from him. That’s all they see.”

Tears spring to my eyes. My throat catches and closes. Even my knees get weak. I was so sure they’d hate me—be terrified of me—it almost broke my heart. Hearing this breaks my heart in a different way.

“Oh, baby, I just want to go home and apologize to them. I want to tell them how sorry I am. I want to hug them and…”