“They never record what happens next,” I told the jury. “They don’t show nightmares or loss of confidence. They call it content. I call it cruelty disguised as comedy.”
The courtroom was silent.
Kyle was sitting in the gallery. They had also called him to testify, and when our gazes crossed, he was crying.
Outside, the journalists were waiting on the stairs of the courthouse, but Grant guided me through them without speaking for me.
Kyle gave my name.
“Thank you for telling the truth.”
“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for Jessica and anyone else they could attack.”
“I know.”
He looked at Grant.
“It seems that it suits you.”
“He’s not trying to rescue me. She stays by my side while I rescue myself.”
Kyle wiped his eyes.
“Do you hate me?”
Five years earlier, I would have responded immediately. But there, with the life I had built from scratch, the hatred seemed to me another connection I no longer needed.
