Page 95 of Held-

I turn my attention back to the Reverend and his lawyer, who's already pulling papers from his briefcase with trembling hands.

“Now, as I understand it,” Harold says, adjusting his glasses nervously, “we're dealing with a simple assault charge. I primarily handle church matters, but I did take a criminal law course back in '82, so I'm confident we can?—”

“A course in '82?” I interrupt, unable to hide my disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Harold blinks at me like I've just spoken in tongues. “I assure you, Mr.—”

“Cole. Brayden Cole.”

“Yes, Mr. Cole. I assure you that while criminal defense isn't my specialty, I've handled minor disputes for church members many times over the years.”

“Minor disputes?” I lean forward, watching him shrink back. “This isn't a parking ticket or a noise complaint. This is Ethan Kincaid and his father using their influence to frame Cece for something she didn't do.”

Harold's face pales further, sweat beading along his receding hairline. “Well, I'm sure once we explain the situation, the charges will be dropped.”

The words die on Harold's lips as his gaze shifts to something behind me. I turn to see my aunt striding through the station door with Joe Mendez right behind her. My aunt's face is set in that determined expression I've seen a thousand times—the one that means someone's about to get their ass handed to them. Joe looks every inch the high-powered attorney in his tailored charcoal suit, carrying a sleek leather briefcase that probably cost more than Harold's entire outfit.

“Thank Christ,” I mutter, relief washing through me.

Harold’s mouth opens and shuts in rapid succession, useless and soundless, while Joe closes in.

She gives me a quick hug before turning to the Reverend with a curt nod. “Thomas.”

The Reverend looks between Joe and my aunt, confusion evident on his face. “What are you doing here?”

“Same as you,” she replies. “Making sure Cece gets proper representation.”

I step forward, placing my hand on Harold's shoulder. “Harold, I appreciate you coming down on such short notice, but we won't be needing your services after all.”

Harold looks almost relieved as he clutches his briefcase tighter. “Well, I...that is...if the Reverend agrees...”

“The Reverend doesn't have a say in this. You can leave. Joe has it from here.”

Harold doesn't even hesitate. He practically melts with relief, shoving papers back into his briefcase.

“Yes, well, if that's settled then...” he mumbles, already backing toward the exit. “I'll just...I have a property easement to review anyway. Good luck, Reverend.” And with that, he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.

The Reverend stares at the empty space where his attorney stood seconds ago, his mouth slightly open. “Harold?” he calls weakly, but the man is already halfway across the parking lot, moving faster than I would have thought possible for someone so out of shape.

“Well, that was easy,” I mutter, turning back to Joe. “Guess he wasn't too invested in his criminal law comeback tour.”

The Reverend's face flushes an alarming shade of red as his gaze shifts from the door to Joe. “Now wait just a minute. I can't afford?—”

“I already told you,” I cut him off, “I'm paying. And before you start with the pride bullshit again, this isn't about you. It's about getting Cece out of that cell as fast as possible.”

Joe steps forward, extending his hand to the Reverend. “Joseph Mendez, Reverend Montgomery. I’ve handled several cases against families such as the Kincaids. I know exactly how they operate.”

The Reverend hesitates, staring at Joe’s hand as though it might strike him.

Joe lets it fall and shifts his attention to me. “All right. I’m going to check in and get back to where they’re holding her. With any luck, I can have this wrapped up before dinner.”

He heads for the front desk, speaking to the sergeant in a voice so calm it borders on soothing. The sergeant barely glances up as he pushes a clipboard across the counter. Joe signs, nods once, and disappears through the door at the back. The lock clicks into place behind him, sealing him into whatever bureaucratic labyrinth exists beyond that wall.

I stay where I am, elbows on my knees, eyes fixed on the scuffed tile. Reverend Montgomery sits beside me, hands clasped tight, lips moving in quiet prayer that never seems to end. The clock above the desk ticks on, each second pounding through the waiting room with unnerving precision.

The waiting is the worst part. The whole world feels suspended, caught in a breath it refuses to release.

CECE