PART 3 The courthouse smelled like wet coats, old paper, and coffee that had been burned for too many hours.

“Savannah,” he said loudly enough for people to hear, “you shouldn’t be here in your condition.”

Savannah looked at him.

There had been a time when his voice could rearrange her. One gentle word from him and she would question her anger. One sigh and she would apologize. One public display and she would pretend the private pain did not exist.

But after continue reading …