Chapter 133 #51: You're Coming Home
The holding cell door clangs shut behind me and I stand there for a long moment, feeling the orange jumpsuit scratching against my skin. The fluorescent light overhead never seems to turn off. It hums like it’s mocking me.
I sink onto the thin mattress and take a deep breath. The woman already in the cell doesn’t look up right away. She’s older, maybe late forties, with hair pulled into tight cornrows and arms crossed over her chest. Tattoos crawl up her forearms bearing names, dates, and a small cross. She finally glances my way.
“New fish,” she says, her voice low and gravelly. “What’d they pin on you?”
“Murder,” I answer. No point in lying. Pretty sure everyone in here already knows my face from the news.
She snorts. “High profile. They love those. Means the guards watch closer, but the other girls leave you alone. Mostly.”
“Mostly,” I repeat.
“Name’s Tasha. Been here fourteen months waiting on sentencing. You got people coming?”
“My husband is coming with the lawyers. They’ll be here soon.”
She nods like she’s heard it before. “They all say that. Some show. Some don’t. You got kids?”
“One. Five years old.”
Tasha’s expression softens just a fraction. “Keep that in your head. Every time the walls start closing in, think about her face. Helps more than you’d expect.”
I don’t answer. I just stare at the concrete floor and try to picture Lucy’s smile instead of Sarah’s smirk in the hallway. That smirk keeps replaying. The way her lips curved, satisfied like she’d been waiting months for this exact moment. I remember when I threatened her – it was almost a year ago, back when Lucy had a playdate at the park and a boy yanked on her ponytail, so Lucy punched him. His mother had been so angry that she rose her hand to strike Lucy but I’d caught it just in time, and twisted it just enough to get my point across.
She'd reported us to the school principal the next day, who then suspended Lucy. Apparently she never forgot.
Now she’s talking. And whatever version she’s giving them fits perfectly into the narrative they’re building: Nora Ellis-Reid, woman who threatens anyone who she doesn’t get along with.
Tasha stands and stretches. “You want advice? Don’t talk to nobody about your case. Not even the nice ones. They all got ears for the DA if the price is right.”
“Noted.”
She moves to the corner and starts doing push-ups like the cell is a gym. I watch her for a while, then lie back and close my eyes. Sleep doesn’t come. Instead I run through every conversation I ever had with Elaine, every moment I spent near Maya, every second I spent angry enough to say things I can’t take back. The hospital slap was easy enough to explain – grief, terror, David bleeding out on a gurney. A jury might buy that it was heat of the moment. But Sarah? That was calm and calculated. My life was stable then. David and I were rebuilding. Vincent was still playing house. I had no excuse for the venom except what they’ll perceive as irrational anger.
And now it’s all ammunition.
Hours crawl by. Lunch comes and its a tray of grey meat, watery mashed potatoes, and an apple that’s more bruise than fruit. I eat because I have to. Tasha doesn’t touch hers.
“First day’s the worst,” she says. “After that you get used to hungry.”
I don’t respond.
Around four o’clock a guard bangs on the bars. “Reid. Visitor room.”
My heart kicks hard. I stand, smooth the jumpsuit like it matters, then follow him down the corridor. The visitor room is divided by scratched Plexiglas. David is already there, sitting with his suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop. Rachel Kline is sitting beside him holding her legal pad open.
The guard removes my cuffs. “No contact. Fifteen minutes.”
I sit. David presses his palm to the glass the second I’m down. I match it with mine. The barrier is cold, but his eyes are warm.
“How are you holding up?” he asks.
“Like someone framed me for double homicide and I’m wearing last season’s couture,” I say. My voice cracks on the last word. “How’s Lucy?”
“She’s good. I left her with Sel and Marcus. She keeps asking when Mommy’s coming home from her trip.”
I close my eyes. “God.”
“We’ll get you out soon baby.” he says softly. “Rachel’s already working bail.”
Rachel leans forward. “I’ll be honest with you, Nora, it’s not looking good. The hair under Elaine’s nails is a big problem. The doctored recording kills our best counter-evidence. The blood in your apartment – traces that match Maya’s profile – is worse. They’re saying you killed her there, cleaned up sloppily, then staged the disappearance. The only good news is there's no body yet, but they're trying to work an angle that you disposed of it which is why she's been missing for months."
She pauses to rub a hand over her face, and continues. "Then there's this Sarah woman from your daughter’s school who's giving a statement this afternoon. She’s claiming you threatened her life over playground gossip. Combined with the hospital incident, the case is overwhelming. They’re painting you as someone who eliminates threats permanently.”
I meet her eyes. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“I know,” she says. “But the evidence is stacking fast. We’re pushing for bail anyway. Luckily, the judge in charge owes me a favour from a case last year. We might get it.”
David’s hand stays pressed to the glass. “I’ll pay whatever it takes. Just get her home tonight.”
Rachel nods. “We’re filing the motion now. Hearing’s in an hour. If it goes through, you’ll be processed out by evening.”
I swallow. “And if it doesn’t?”
David answers before Rachel can. “Then we fight harder. I’m not leaving you in here.”
The guard knocks on the door. “Time.”
David doesn’t move his hand. “I love you. Stay strong. I’m coming back with the papers.”
“I love you too.”
They lead me away. I don’t look back this time. I can’t.
The bail hearing is a blur. Rachel argues eloquently – my lack of prior record, community ties, young child, husband willing to post full cash bond. The prosecutor counters with flight risk, severity of charges, public safety. The judge just listens, asks a few questions, then sets bail at five million dollars.
David wastes no time at all. He has the funds wired while I’m still in the courtroom. By seven o’clock they’re walking me through processing again. My street clothes, which consist of jeans and a sweater Sel packed, now feel like luxury. My wedding ring is returned. I slide it on with shaking fingers.
David waits outside the release door. The second I step through he pulls me into his arms. I bury my face in his chest and let myself shake for the first time all day.
“It's okay, baby. You’re out,” he whispers into my hair. “You’re coming home.”
We don’t speak much on the drive but his hand stays on my thigh the whole way. Solid. Warm. A reminder that I’m not alone. The city lights blur past the windows. I watch them and try not to think about the trial date stamped on the paperwork in my lap.
The apartment building looks the same. Same doorman. Same lobby smell of lilies and marble polish. We take the private elevator up. David punches in the code and the doors slide open.
I step into the foyer first.
And stop dead.
Maya is here, lounging on our living room couch like she owns it with her legs crossed and a glass of red wine in her hand. She looks up when we enter, then smiles slowly.
“Took you long enough,” she says as she sets the wine glass down. “I think it’s time we all had a fun lil chat.”