A man in work boots argued softly with a parking ticket clerk.
Two law students whispered near the bulletin board.
Ordinary lives.
Ordinary trouble.
Then my husband caught my elbow.
Not hard.
Just enough to remind me he was used to ownership.
“You need to stop,” he said.
I looked down at his hand.
He removed it.
Good boy.
“You’re losing control of the room,” I said.
His nostrils flared.
“You think this is control? Dragging private business into court? Embarrassing me?”
“You embarrassed yourself.”
Savannah laughed.
“You really think you’re winning because some judge asked a few questions?”
I looked at her.
Really looked.
At the glossy hair.
The flawless makeup.
The delicate diamond pendant I recognized because the charge had appeared on my AmEx before Marcus moved her to a separate card.
Underneath all that shine was fear.
Not guilt.
Fear.
There is a difference.
Guilt cares who got hurt.
