Chương 12
Hannah stared at the tissue box she had pushed away.
“What do you need from us?” she asked.
“Nothing today.”
“That means something.”
Dana glanced at the victim advocate, then back at Hannah. “Diane’s attorney has approached us about a possible resolution. No agreement has been made. Your position matters, though it does not control the prosecution.”
“What resolution?”
“A plea to reduced charges, probation, treatment requirements, and a no-contact order.”
“No jail,” Ethan said.
“Probably not.”
“She could have killed them.”
Dana’s expression remained steady. “Noah recovered. Hannah’s physical injuries, while serious, did not require surgery or prolonged treatment. Diane has no criminal history. Those facts affect outcomes.”
“They shouldn’t.”
“They do.”
Hannah asked, “What about Brittany?”
“She cooperated. Her role is still under review.”
“Because she gave you the videos.”
“That is one factor.”
Hannah stood.
The victim advocate began to rise too, but Hannah shook her head.
“I need the restroom.”
In the hallway, Ethan followed until Hannah turned.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not leaving you alone after that.”
“I am going to pee.”
He stopped.
She put both hands against the wall for a moment, then entered the restroom.
When she returned, she had washed her face. Her hair near the temples was damp.
“I want copies,” she told Dana.
“We can arrange that through your advocate.”
“I don’t want to watch them again.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want them anyway.”
Dana nodded.
Outside, Ethan and Hannah sat in the parked car without starting the engine.
People crossed the courthouse plaza carrying folders and paper cups. A man in a wrinkled suit argued into a headset. Two children chased each other around a concrete planter while their mother filled out forms.
Ethan placed his hands on the steering wheel.
“I’m sorry I left,” he said.
Hannah looked through the windshield. “I know.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you before there was a video.”
“You believed enough.”
“Not enough.”
“No.”
He waited.
“I keep thinking about the temperature,” she said. “I said the number. She knew.”
“Yes.”
“And Brittany knew.”
“Yes.”
“She still waited.”
“Yes.”
Hannah pressed her palm against her mouth. “I hate them.”
Ethan’s grip tightened on the wheel.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be.”
“She’s still your mother.”
“I hate her too.”
Hannah turned.
The admission frightened both of them.
Ethan looked down at his hands. “I don’t want to. I keep waiting for something to happen inside me that makes it complicated again. Some memory. Some reason. But right now I hate her.”
“It will become complicated.”
“I know.”
“And you’ll miss her.”
“Probably.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to bring her back.”
He nodded.
The criminal case moved slowly.
Diane denied intentionally delaying care. Her attorney described the restraint as a panicked attempt to prevent a disoriented mother from leaving the home with a newborn. He questioned the accuracy of the thermometer and suggested Hannah’s fear had influenced Brittany’s later testimony.
Diane also filed a civil claim arguing that Ethan had improperly taken company property when Ray provided internal messages and time records. The claim was weak, according to the legal aid attorney Gail found for them, but it still required responses, documents, and hours Ethan could not spend looking for work.
Money became a daily pressure.
They sold Ethan’s truck and bought an older sedan with a cracked dashboard. Hannah delayed returning to her job at a dental office because childcare cost more than her take-home pay. Ethan accepted temporary electrical work from a contractor two counties away, leaving before dawn and returning after dark.
The first morning he left, Hannah stood in the apartment doorway holding Noah.
“You can call me every hour,” Ethan said.
“I won’t.”
“Text then.”
“I’ll text if something happens.”
“What if your phone dies?”
“It’s at ninety-eight percent.”
“What if—”
“Go to work.”
He kissed Noah’s head, then hesitated before kissing Hannah.
She leaned forward.
The permission hurt.
At the job site, Ethan checked his phone fourteen times before eight o’clock. At nine, Hannah sent a photograph of Noah asleep beneath the striped hospital blanket.
Still alive, she wrote.
He stared at the words.
Then another message arrived.
That was a joke. A bad one. I’m sorry.
He called.
Hannah answered immediately. “He’s fine.”
“I know.”
“You don’t sound like you know.”
“I’m trying.”
“So am I.”
In the background, Noah hiccupped.
Ethan sat on a bucket of wire connectors until his breathing slowed.
The contractor, Luis Mendoza, walked past, saw him, and kept going. Ten minutes later he returned with coffee.
“My wife texted me every four minutes when our first daughter started daycare,” Luis said.
“I’m not texting.”
“Then you’re suffering with less efficiency.”
Ethan smiled despite himself.
Luis leaned against the wall. “Your mother called me.”
Ethan’s smile disappeared.
“She said I should check your references carefully.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I had.”
“Why did you hire me?”
“Ray said you were good.”
“Ray resigned because of me.”
“He resigned because he wanted to sleep at night.”
Luis drank his coffee. “I’m giving you thirty days. If you disappear, lie, or bring family drama onto my site, you’re gone. If you work, you stay.”
“That’s fair.”
“No, fair would be health insurance on day one. This is what I can afford.”
It was still more honest than anything Carter Electric had offered.
At home, Hannah began seeing a therapist through a postpartum support clinic. She did not tell Ethan much about the sessions. He tried not to ask questions that were really requests for reassurance.
One night, while Noah slept between feedings, she said, “Dr. Levy asked whether I feel safe with you.”
Ethan stopped folding laundry.
“What did you say?”
“That I don’t know what safe feels like anymore.”
He placed one of Noah’s tiny shirts on the couch.
“Did you tell her I’ve never hurt you?”
“Yes.”
“But?”
“But safety isn’t only whether you hit someone.”
He nodded slowly.
Hannah watched him. “You’re angry.”
“I’m scared.”
May you like
“Of what?”
“That you’re going to leave.”
