Page 76

CHAPTER 76

LAWYER UP

MARGAUX

T he chili joint is loud and bustling, filled with the clatter of dishes and the hum of conversations. The savory aroma of slow-cooked beef mingles with the faint scent of cheap cleaning products. But I’m not here to eat.

It’s an odd choice for a legal meeting, but I’m grateful for the distraction as I scan the room for my court-appointed lawyer.

I still can’t believe I’ve lucked out and been appointed a former ADA instead of a regular public defender.

Score .

He spots me as soon as he enters the restaurant, waving me over to a corner booth tucked away from the chaos.

“Margaux?” he asks, shaking my hand.

“That’s me,” I reply, sliding into the booth.

“Good to meet you. I’m Peter, your lawyer,” he says, his tone professional yet warm. “I recognize you from the many hours of police body cam footage I’ve watched from the night you were arrested.” He pauses. “And just so you know, I’m not just a lawyer—I like to think of myself as a counselor, too. My goal is to help you navigate this legally and emotionally.”

I appreciate his candor, though I’m unsure how much anyone can help me emotionally at this point.

Removing his laptop from its bag, Peter sets it down on the table alongside a small pile of legal papers. He opens his laptop and pulls up the body cam footage from the night Timmy had me locked up.

He clicks play, and I watch myself through the lens of the arresting officer’s camera—disheveled, in a sports bra and shorts, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“I have to say,” Peter starts, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, “you’re probably the most talkative client I’ve ever had. Most people freeze up or shut down around cops—but not you, Margaux. You were telling them about roller derby, your uncle’s passing—sorry for your loss, by the way—and a whole bunch of other stuff.”

I wince. “Not my finest moment.”

He chuckles. “For the record, you didn’t admit to anything, so no harm done. You just mentioned you were standing up for yourself. But next time—four words: shut the fuck up. That’s the advice I give to all my clients. Sorry to swear, but I like to keep it simple and memorable.”

He shows me the part with the adorable doctor who diagnosed my skull fracture.

The lawyer cracks up laughing at the mention of ‘defensive drinking’. But then his tone turns serious.

He asks me about Timmy’s supposed mental health diagnosis, and I tell him what I know.

The footage shifts to Timmy filling out his statement. My stomach churns as I watch him write with calculated calmness, the paperwork sitting atop the hood of a police cruiser, his hand steady as he pens a series of lies.

Peter pauses the video and turns to me, his tone serious. “Here’s the deal. Based on everything I’ve seen, Timmy’s behavior—and his mental health issues—make him unpredictable. And you need to be careful. If you stay with him, this won’t be the last time you find yourself in a legal mess. It’s going to be a hard journey, and he’s unlikely to change. He’s shown that when things escalate, he’s willing to throw you under the bus.”

I nod, his words cutting deeper than I want to admit.

“Listen, Margaux... I could tell from the moment I watched the video footage that you’re a good person,” he continues. “But you need to ask yourself—is this the life you want, and is Timmy the kind of person you want to be around? Because the way this is heading... it doesn’t look good, and may not end well for you.”

I nod, but the action feels hollow.

I absorb his words as if I’m a distant bystander, trying to focus on the legal logistics rather than the emotional implications.

Timmy’s the exception, not the norm. He wants to do better. To be better.

Timmy promised he’d drop the charges. Once that’s done, everything will go back to normal—no more court dates, no more cops, no more tension.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Maybe that’s the cure for all this.

I’m so glad I dropped the charges against him, and that he’s going to do the same for me.

Sure, mine against him were for something that actually happened, while his against me were completely bogus, but it feels like he’s leveling the score by doing this.

Like a show of solidarity—that we’re a team who has each other’s backs.

But then Peter shows me the forms Timmy filled out. My heart sinks as I read the accusations—strangulation, stalking, controlling behavior.

“He told the police I strangled him ?” I gasp, incredulous. “And that I stalk him?”

Peter nods grimly. “He took things that you’ve described him doing to you, and flipped them around to make it look like you’re the aggressor.”

Fury bubbles beneath my skin.

On the drive home, I confront Timmy.

“You told the police that I strangled you, and that I attacked you with weapon s?” I question him, describing details he included in the printed statement. “That I stalk you around, trying to control you?”

Timmy doesn’t respond.

“You lied to the police , Timmy.” My voice cracks. “These are all things you’ve done to me , that I’ve never done to you.”

Timmy sits in the passenger seat, his expression a mix of guilt and defiance. “I didn’t say that,” he mutters. “The cop wrote it all down for me.”

I shake my head. “Timmy, I’ve seen the footage of you filling the paperwork out,” I snap. “The cop didn’t write a word of it. You did.”

He shrugs, avoiding my gaze. “Oh, well… I had to make it sound good. So I took the truth and added a little.”

I stare at him, incredulous. “You lied to the police and said I committed crimes I didn’t commit . Do you have any idea how serious that is?”

“Well, you upset me. And you were going to call the cops on me and I didn’t want to go to jail,” he says simply, as if that justifies everything.

“And it’s okay that I had to?” My voice rises, a mixture of anger and disbelief. “You fabricated a story about me pulling your hair so I would go to jail instead of you?”

He sighs, rubbing his temples. “Yeah. Sorry. I panicked.”

“Unbelievable,” I mutter, sinking further into the driver’s seat. “You have no problem attacking me, threatening to kill me, and giving me a fucking skull fracture. And when I dropped the charges, I thought maybe you’d have the decency to do the same. But instead, you doubled down on your lies.”

“Yeah, sorry. Let’s just try to move forward,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. His touch feels heavy, suffocating. “I’ll go downtown and sign the same form you did. I promise.”

I flinch. “You’re unbelievable.”