Page 92 of Held-

The words hang there, heavy with judgment. And my father still has no answer.

When he stays silent, Brayden shifts his focus back to the sheriff, anger sharpening every line of his body.

“If she doesn’t press charges for what that bastard did in that bathroom, then I damn well will. And if I find out you had any part in covering this up?—”

“Enough.” Sheriff Miller’s voice snaps through the room, authority finally settling into place. “Everyone stand down.”

The door swings open. Sunlight floods in, harsh and unforgiving, illuminating the quiet street beyond. Morning in this town has an eerie stillness—too calm for what’s unfolding.

The walk to the patrol car stretches out before me, a distance that feels impossibly long.

Brayden follows, every step a silent promise.

I don’t look away until the door closes behind me and the engine starts. And even then, I can feel his eyes burning holes in the back of the cruiser, willing me to feel how hard he’s coming for me.

BRAYDEN

I’ve never felt a stronger urgeto break something than I do right now, watching Reverend Montgomery pace the police station’s dingy waiting area. He stalks back and forth in tight lines, shiny leather shoes clicking against the scuffed linoleum, the only marker of the endless minutes we've been stuck in this hellhole while Cece sits in a holding cell.

“Could you please sit down?” I finally growl, the words dragging out of my throat, rough and sharp. “You're making me fucking dizzy.”

The Reverend halts mid-stride, his Bible clutched to his chest, held high as though it’s armor. The look he sends me could strip the paint off the walls.

“Watch your language, young man. This is a house of the law.”

I snort. “More of a house of bullshit, if you ask me.”

His face reddens, that particular shade I’m starting to recognize far too well. “This attitude isn't helping my daughter,” he says, each word tight enough to snap.

“And your pacing isn’t doing a damn thing either,” I shoot back. “At least I’m not the one who spent years defending the bastard who put her in there.”

The words hit him hard. His shoulders lock up, tension rolling through him. For a moment, I honestly think he might hurl that Bible at my skull. Instead, he swallows whatever sermon he’s choking on.

I drop into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs lining the wall. Every muscle in my body aches from holding too much anger with nowhere to put it. I check my watch for what has to be the hundredth time. The church’s lawyer should’ve been here an hour ago.

“Where the hell is your attorney?” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

The Reverend glances at the station clock, his own impatience finally showing through his righteous facade. “Harold is very reliable. He's never been late for church business.”

“This isn't church business,” I remind him. “This is your daughter being railroaded by your golden boy ex-son-in-law.”

He sits down heavily in the chair across from me, looking suddenly older than his years. “Harold has handled the church's legal matters for twenty years. He knows what he's doing.”

“And how many criminal cases has he handled?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “Tax exemptions and property disputes aren't the same as assault charges.”

Before he can respond, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I check the caller ID and feel a surge of relief.

“It's my aunt,” I tell him, standing up to take the call.

Jillian's voice comes through clear and pissed off. “I just heard what happened. That little shit Ethan is dead meat.”

“Get in line,” I growl, walking a few paces away from the Reverend. “Have you talked to Joe?”

“He's on his way. As am I.”

“Good,” I say, running a hand over my face. “We need Joe. This church lawyer sounds like he handles bake sales and property easements, not criminal defense.”

“Damn right. That Kincaid boy's father has half the town in his pocket. But we've got connections of our own.”