“Then I’d say it’s also premature for me to hold this defendant over for trial.”

“But—”

“No buts. The state clearly has more work to do, Mr. Nunzio. I suggest you get on it. In the meantime, Ms. King, or Ms. Miller, if you prefer, you’re free to go. But I would strongly advise—and your lawyer, I assume, will back me up on this—that you remain within the jurisdiction. Were you to hide, or flee, or otherwise go missing, a judge would be likely to view that quite negatively at a detention hearing were you to be charged in the future with a crime. Similarly, a jury would be entitled to see the same facts as evidence of your guilt. Do you understand?”

“I do, Your Honor.” Hope seemed so small in her oversize scrubs as she looked up toward the bench. “I won’t go anywhere, I promise.”

“As for the prosecution’s other motion, there’s no need for me to rule in light of my decision not to hold the defendant over for trial.”

With the crack of the judge’s gavel, Hope jumped from her seat and wrapped her arms around Lindsay. “Oh my god, thank you. You did it.”

Lindsay turned to see Scott walking out of the courtroom. “Sorry, Hope, just a second.” She quickly made her way through the courtroom doors, down the hall, and out to the parking lot. He was already walking away from the Audi, heading in the direction of the main road.

“Your keys are in the front seat,” he said.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll get an Uber to the train station.”

“Stop it, Scott. Let me at least explain.”

He shook his head and looked down at the asphalt. “How many times?”

“It was only once. I swear. And it was just a stupid kiss, and we were totally drunk. It was dumb.”

“No, that’s not my question, Lindsay. How many times did you accuse me of not giving you enough room, saying I didn’t understand the importance of female friendships? How many times did you tell me I acted controlling when it came to her? How many times did you fucking gaslight me into thinking I was the one who was crazy, wondering if you cared more about her than you ever would about me?”

“Scott—please.” At last they were having the conversation they’d found a million ways to avoid. “Can we just talk?”

“It’s over, Lindsay. We’re done.”

“Will you stop?” she asked, reaching for his hand. “We can’t just be—”

“Do not. I mean it. It’s the least that you owe me.”

She waited until she could no longer make out his figure in the distance before walking back to the courthouse.

33
Wednesday, June 23, 12:45 p.m.

Hope lifted the V-neck of her white T-shirt to her nose. “I still stink like that jail cell.”