“Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars.”

It was an astronomical sum, a faint hope, but it was hope. Nat looked toward her father. He was standing, his expression tense and troubled. Did Andrew Murphy have half a million dollars to secure his daughter’s release? Could he afford to get her out of jail and still pay for her defense lawyer? She knew little about her dad’s career in Las Vegas, knew nothing of his net worth or finances. But his slight nod, his hint of a smile informed her that he would get her out. For now, at least. Her chin trembled with gratitude and emotion.

The bailiff took her arm and led her back toward the door from whence she’d entered. She would return to the cells until the paperwork was filed, her bail posted. As she approached the door, she turned back to the courtroom, longing to connect with her father’s eyes, to ensure he was still there, that he wouldn’t walk out on her again. And that’s when she spotted them.

Behind the prosecution, three rows back, sat Gabe’s wife. She wore a casual dress and no makeup, her face ashen with grief. Her dark eyes on Nat were soft and wet. Celeste was flanked by an older couple, their hands on her, protective and supportive. The resemblance was undeniable: they were Celeste’s parents. Violet was not with her mother and grandparents, of course she wasn’t. Celeste would not subject her daughter to this ugliness and trauma.

Nat felt a tug at her elbow. With some relief, she let the bailiff escort her back to her cell.

50

Freedom

By the time Natalie’s bail was processed (her father had contracted a bail bondsman who would charge him 15 percent on the half million), her mother had arrived from Blaine. As Nat walked away from the holding cells (“the pens” she heard them called), she spotted her parents waiting anxiously in the bustling corridor. They were talking intently, her father’s hand rubbing her mother’s arm in a comforting way. It had been years since Nat had seen her parents together. It had been even longer since she had seen them act civilly, even kindly toward each other. When her mom spotted her bedraggled eldest child emerging from captivity, she burst into tears.

“I’m okay, Mom,” Nat assured, as her mother held her and wept into Nat’s hair. Her dad stood by awkwardly, unsure of his place in their former family unit. Andrew Murphy had been dark and mean, and then he had abandoned them. His desertion had damaged his daughter, contributed to her terrible choices. If Nat wanted, she could hold on to her anger, even blame her dad for her toxic relationship with an older man. But her father had come when she called him. He was there, trying to help her, trying to save her life.

Gently, Nat extricated herself from her mom’s embrace and moved to her dad. He opened his arms, and she fell into them, the years of resentment melting away, replaced by unfamiliar sensations: comfort and warmth. Andrew stroked her hair, murmured assurances into her ear. It was there, in her daddy’s arms, that Nat fell apart.