Sarah exhaled slowly, forced herself to walk the intensity back a few notches, to think clearly. “My point is I didn’t apply for a wedding license. Somebody else must have been acting in my stead. Which I believe would render my marriage invalid.” Her mind was flipping through information. She was grateful for Mick’s steady presence behind her. “However, in order to pursue this avenue further, I came here to get documentation, to get proof. The man who is/or is not my husband is a violent, abusive man. I live every day”—she had to swallow hard, then exhale slowly—“scared for my safety. I intend to sort this mess out.” It was difficult to keep the shakes from taking over. “I know for certain I didn’t go to city hall. We were in Vegas for one night. I was at the spa until after city hall had closed. Yes. My signature is on the marriage license, but I have no idea how it got here. No memory of agreeing to get married, or the ceremony.” Sarah’s heart was pounding. She could feel the blood rushing in her ears, but she spoke calmly, was determined not to plead to this officious bureaucrat. You have every right to be here. To ask for what you need. “I need your help. I want to find proof of whether I am actually married or not. I need a copy of the original application.”

To Sarah’s surprise, the clerk’s face had softened, his brow furrowed in consternation. “Oh dear.” He wrung his hands. “I’m so sorry.” The man was looking at her with such worry and sorrow in his eyes that she wondered what his backstory was. Did he have a daughter or a sister trapped in an abusive situation? Or maybe he grew up under the specter of abuse and witnessed brutality firsthand. “Unfortunately,” he continued. “Once the copy of the signed marriage license is received by us from the wedding venue, we scan the updated license into our system and then shred the corresponding paperwork.”

*   *   *

Sarah slumped into her seat, the solid door of Mick’s Porsche shutting behind her.

Mick rounded the car and got in the driver’s seat. “What now?” He turned to face her. His relaxed wrist was slung over the top of the leather steering wheel, the sunlight catching the soft hairs on his forearms, turning them the color of cognac. For a split second she longed to lean over and run her cheek over his arm, to feel the heat, to see if those sun-kissed hairs were as downy soft as they looked.