Page 100 of Held-

Joe stands, extending his hand to the sheriff. “We appreciate your fairness, Sheriff Miller. I trust you'll expedite my client's release paperwork?”

The sheriff nods, rising from his chair. “Detective Simmons will handle it. You should be out of here within the hour.”

An hour. After everything that's happened, sixty more minutes in this place feels like an eternity, but it's better than spending the night in a cell.

“One more thing,” Sheriff Miller adds, his hand on the doorknob. “I'd advise both you and Mr. Cole to stay away from Ethan Kincaid while this investigation is ongoing. Any contact could complicate matters.”

“Believe me,” I say, “the last person I want to see is Ethan.”

The sheriff gives me a look that's almost sympathetic before opening the door. “Detective Simmons will be with you shortly to process your release.”

Once we're alone again, I slump back in my chair, the adrenaline that's been keeping me upright suddenly draining away. My wrists throb, a constant reminder of how close it all came to going wrong.

The clock on the wall ticks louder than it should. Every second stretches. I stare at the door, waiting for it to open.

CECE

Being questioned isits own special kind of hell. After giving my statement to the sheriff, I had hoped that would be the end of it. But, here I sit on the couch in the guesthouse living room, a mug of tea growing cold between my palms as Joe, my father, and Brayden all stare at me.

“Let me get this straight,” Joe says, his pen hovering above his legal pad. “Ethan followed you into the women's restroom at Tony's, cornered you against the sink, and then proceeded to verbally and physically intimidate you?”

“Yes.” I hold up my wrists where Ethan's fingerprints are still branded into my skin, now a sickening blend of purple and yellow. “He grabbed me here when I tried to leave.”

Brayden paces behind the couch as I recount the story again.

“And what exactly did he say to you?” Joe asks.

I swallow, glancing at my father who sits rigidly in the armchair across from me. “He made comments about our marriage. Intimate details. He implied that our marriage failed because I did not please him.”

I take a deep breath and force myself to look directly at Joe rather than my father. “When Ethan realized I was...intimate with Brayden, he became enraged. He called me a slut, demanded to know if I'd thought about him while Brayden and I were intimate…” I trail off, my cheeks burning. “When I tried to leave, he grabbed me harder. He pushed me against the wall and said—” my voice catches, “that I should let him remind me what a real man feels like.”

The sound of Brayden's fist hitting the wall makes me jump. My father's face has gone completely white.

“He was trying to force himself on me,” I finish quietly. “If Brayden hadn't come in when he did...”

My father rises abruptly. His face is a mask of shock and a hard, unforgiving sternness I’ve rarely seen directed at anyone but the most egregious sinners in his congregation. Joe continues writing, his pen scratching against the paper, the only sound in the room besides my father’s labored breaths.

“And what did you do to him specifically, Brayden?”

“I slammed him against the wall,” Brayden answers, “Had my arm across his throat. Told him if he ever touched her again, I'd break every bone in his hands.”

My father's eyes widen, but I notice he doesn't condemn the violence. Not this time.

“Did you strike him?” Joe asks, his pen poised above the paper.

“No,” Brayden says. “Just held him there until Cece asked me to let him go.”

Joe nods, jotting something down. “That distinction matters. Restraint versus assault changes the entire legal picture.”

The room goes quiet again.

My father hasn’t spoken in several minutes. He sits stiffly, hands twisting around one another, his Bible untouched beside him. His eyes haven’t lifted from the table, as if the grain in the wood might offer an answer he’s spent years avoiding.

Then he turns toward me.

Tears track down his cheeks, slow and heavy. In my entire life, I’ve only seen my father cry twice: at my mother’s funeral, and when he gave me away to Ethan.

“This…” His voice catches, the word breaking in half. “All this time… I did not see it.”