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Twenty Six

Past

T he courtroom is suffocating. I’ve been here many times over for many different cases, yet this time the walls press in, the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and my heartbeat pounds in my ears like a war drum. I sit stiffly in the witness box, hands clasped in my lap to keep them from shaking.

Cooper is here.

Seated at the defense table, dressed in a suit that doesn’t quite fit the way it used to. He looks different—thinner, paler—but his presence is still overwhelming. That same quiet intensity, the same piercing blue eyes that once burned into mine.

He’s watching me.

I try not to look at him, but the weight of his gaze is unbearable. It drags me in, suffocates me, and suddenly, I can’t breathe.

I’m called to testify.

My legs feel weak as I rise, stepping forward. The room tilts, my vision narrows. Cooper hasn’t stopped looking at me, and it’s like he’s reaching for me without moving an inch.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to focus on the questions being thrown my way.

“Yes, Cooper Burick was my patient.”

“Yes, he was in therapy for voyeuristic tendencies.”

“Yes, he mentioned watching people.”

“But he never disclosed where he was doing it.”

That part is true.

The lie—the omission—festers in my gut like rot.

Because I did suspect. And then he confirmed without saying as much. Just acknowledging my show for him. The way he slipped out of bed late at night. The way the walls at the Ocean Voyeur always seemed to breathe.

But I say nothing of that.

The prosecutor presents the evidence.

A schematic of the Ocean Voyeur, showing the hidden tunnels. Photos of a labyrinth of passageways carved between the walls, louver vents in every room, perfectly placed for watching unseen.

The jury murmurs. The judge’s expression tightens.

I feel sick.

Cooper sits motionless as the testimony is given, his expression unreadable. But when I glance his way, his fingers twitch, and something in his eyes flickers—something dark, something ruined.

The attorney approaches, voice sharp, questions cutting.

“Did you ever suspect he was still watching people?”

I hesitate.

Just for a second.

I feel Cooper’s stare like a knife against my throat.

Say no.

“I—” I clear my throat. “No.”

The lie sits heavy on my tongue.

I don’t dare look at him again.

The trial grinds forward, slow and excruciating, like watching a car veer off the road, knowing the crash is inevitable but powerless to stop it. Every word spoken, every piece of evidence presented, is another crushing blow, another nail sealing his fate.

Then the couple takes the stand.

The man recounts the moment he heard the phone ring—inside the walls. The way he pulled back the vent with shaking hands, expecting nothing, only to find him staring back. Cooper. A specter in the darkness. A ghost who had never left.

A hush falls over the courtroom, thick with unease. The weight of it presses into my chest, making it hard to breathe. I claw at the neckline of my shirt, desperate for air.

Then the verdict.

Guilty.

The word slams into me, brutal and final.

The sentence: five years.

I inhale sharply, but the air catches in my throat. My vision blurs. I should feel relief. I tell myself I should. He won’t drag me under any further. He won’t expose me.

But all I feel is devastation.

The bailiffs move in. The spectators murmur. He stands, spine straight, face unreadable. The handcuffs clink as they cuff him, then, just as they turn him away, his eyes find mine.

There’s no rage. No betrayal.

Only possession.

Like he still owns me. Like he always will.

And the worst part?

I know it, too.

All I feel is grief.