Whitmore leads us to our seats, and every step we take closer to the wooden pews, the stronger Iz’s shaking becomes. Instead of holding her hand, I pull her in tight and squeeze her against my side. Her right hand kneads her belly in rhythmic circles and sets my own anxiety into overdrive. Snakes of worry leech their way through my blood, circling my organs and squeezing me from the inside out.
I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.
I hold Iz’s hand and help her sit. I’m conscious of the fact she can’t possibly see her feet these days. As soon as she’s down and comfortable, I sit close and pull her back to me. Personal boundaries be damned. She’s my best friend, and I love her.
Fuck it.
She knows it.
I know it.
She can damn well deal with it.
Within minutes, the jurors and judge are in their seats. Soon after that, the defendants move in with their noisy chains and pallid complexions.
Iz’s hand squeezes mine. For the first time in a long time, she initiates the contact, she seeks comfort instead of me forcing it on her, but I don’t get to celebrate my victory. Instead, when her teeth begin chattering and her brows pull into that tight V, I hold her close and vow that these animals will pay for what they did to my girls.
For what they did to Kit. For hurting her, and by extension, hurting my brother.
For making Izzy sit in here at eight months pregnant while she worries for her sister and friend.
A woman in a fancy skirt suit and pompous dignity stands and stares us down like we’re all criminals. “Please be seated, and we can begin.”