“Mrs. Vale,” he said, “do you require immediate medical attention?”
Every eye turned toward me.
Marcus gave a tiny shake of his head.
A warning.
Savannah watched my stomach.
Waiting for panic.
Waiting for blood.
Waiting for anything she could turn into theater.
I placed one palm beneath my belly and breathed once through my nose.
Then I lifted my chin.
“I will be examined after this hearing, Your Honor.”
My father’s eyes moved over my face.
Not like a judge.
Like a dad checking every bruise without being allowed to touch one.
“Are you able to proceed?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
A pause.
Then he said, “Very well.”
Savannah scoffed.
It was almost nothing.
A little puff of air.
But courtroom microphones are strange creatures.
They catch what arrogance forgets to hide.
The sound carried.
The deputy by the door looked at her.
The clerk looked at her.
One juror from another case, waiting in the back row for voir dire, looked at her like she had just spat on a grave.
