I stare at my own hands and barely recognize them.
They rest on the slick surface of the counsel table, fingers laced, tendons standing out like wires. The skin over my knuckles has gone blotchy, pale and red in uneven bands. A faint tackiness rides my palms where cheap courthouse soap didn’t quite cut through the nervous sweat. Every time I try to unclasp my hands, they shake, so I knot them tighter and focus on the shallow half-moons my nails leave in my skin.
“Breathe,” my lawyer murmurs from my left, too quietly for the microphones. “In for four, out for six. You know how to count audio levels. Same idea.”
I pull air into my chest, catching the stale mix of paper, floor polish, and faint coffee drifting from somewhere near the clerk’s desk. Underneath it all, even here, I swear I taste the ghost of salt—the bay only a few blocks away, waves throwing themselves against the rock shelf while a judge weighs whether I get to tuck my son into bed next week.
Across the aisle, Theo swings his feet under the bench, heels bumping the wooden front in a nervous rhythm. The sound travels up through my spine. He’s in the navy shirt he wore to the Prom Throwback fundraiser, collar slightly crooked where he tugged on it. His hair sticks up in the back. I wanted to smooth it before we walked in, but my hands shook too much, and he just leaned into my side and said, “It’s fine, Mom. I don’t need court hair.”
Now he stares at the judge with his serious, stormy face—the one that looks nothing like mine and everything like the baby I held in a hospital room when I thought I might raise him alone forever. His dad sits on the other side of the aisle, next to his attorney, cufflinks winking in the fluorescent light. He hasn’t looked at me once.
“We’re going to start by hearing from Theo,” the judge says. Her voice carries clearly, steady enough to anchor the room. “Everyone else will have their turn.”
My stomach drops into my shoes. I watch Theo’s throat bob as he swallows.
“Theo,” the judge continues, “do you understand that you’re allowed to tell me the truth about how things feel for you? No one is in trouble for anything you say.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” he answers. His voice comes out a notch higher than usual, but it doesn’t crack. He glances sideways at me for half a heartbeat. I try to give him my most neutral nod, the one that says I’m here, not the one that begs him to pick me.
A bailiff guides him to the standing mic in front of the bench. It clicks when they adjust it to his height, that amplified scrape I know too well from live recordings. The sound makes my brain flash to the gym, to Elliot’s hand grabbing the mic, to the roar of the crowd. I shove the memory down and focus on my kid.
“Alright, Theo,” the judge says. “Can you tell me, in your own words, how things have been since we were last here?”
He grips the edge of the podium, fingers going white. “Um,” he starts, then stops. He takes a breath, shoulders lifting under his shirt, then looks straight at her. “It’s been scary, but also…clearer?”
The judge tilts her head. “Can you say more about that?”
“Everybody’s been talking about my mom,” he says. “On TV and online and at school. Some people say she’s like a superhero who solved a big mystery. Some people say she’s dangerous. And there were times when bad stuff happened because of the podcast. Like when that guy took pictures of our building, or when I ran away to the cliffs.”
My lungs forget their job. The cliffs unfurl behind my eyes: the roped-off fence, the spray hitting the rock shelf where kids from every regatta party whispered dares in the dark. I picture my son’s sneakers a foot from the edge.
“That sounds very frightening,” the judge says. “What helped when you were scared?”
He twists his fingers together once, then lets them go. “Talking,” he says. “Recording. Telling my own version instead of just hearing everyone else’s.”
The judge glances briefly at the stack of reports on her desk—the CPS notes, the therapist letters, the transcripts of Theo’s secret podcast episodes they subpoenaed. “You’re talking about the recordings you made on your mom’s old phone,” she says.
“Yeah.” He lifts his chin a little. “I know I wasn’t supposed to be using it like that, but I liked that nobody could edit me. Except me.”
The courtroom murmurs quietly, a rustle of fabric and whispering paper. The judge raises a hand for silence.
“Theo, do you feel safe with your mom?” she asks.
I grip the edge of the table so hard my fingers throb. I fix my eyes on the grain of the wood, the faint rings from old coffee cups, terrified that if I look at him in this moment I’ll telegraph every desperation cramped inside my ribs.
“Yes,” he says instantly. Then he adds, “Mostly.”
My eyes snap to him anyway.
The judge keeps her expression calm. “Mostly is important,” she says. “Can you explain what you mean?”
He works his jaw for a second, searching for words. “I feel safest with my mom,” he says, “when she’s honest. Not when she’s quiet because she’s scared of what people will say.”
The sentence hangs in the room, vibrating between us. He looks at me then, straight on, and for a heartbeat I see the baby, the little boy, and the near-teen layered over each other like different tracks in the same audio file.
“When she tells the truth,” he says, “I know where the danger is. When she keeps it inside to protect me, I feel like the danger could be anywhere.”
My vision blurs. A tear breaks loose and runs, hot, into the corner of my mouth. It tastes metallic, mixing with the stale coffee I choked down in the hallway earlier.
“Do you think she has ever put you in danger on purpose?” the judge asks.
“No,” he says, voice firm now. “I think she tried to tell the truth to fix something bad that happened before me. And some people who did bad things got mad and used me to try to stop her.”
The judge’s gaze flicks to me, then to his father. “And when you imagine your life going forward,” she says, “what do you want?”
Theo doesn’t hesitate. “I want to live with my mom,” he says. “And see my dad too, but not in a way where it’s like…punishing her for telling the truth. I just want both of them to have to care more about my brain than about how they look on the internet.”
A strangled laugh escapes me and turns into a sob halfway through. My lawyer lays a hand on my arm, grounding me.
“Thank you, Theo,” the judge says. “You’ve answered my questions very clearly, and I appreciate your courage.”
He nods, and when he walks back to the bench, he brushes his fingers against my shoulder. I squeeze them in passing, a silent thank you, a silent apology, a silent promise I have no idea how to keep in this town built on glossy plaques and polished statements.
The judge calls a brief recess before the professionals speak. I sit through it on the same bench, staring out the narrow window at a slice of Crescent Bay: the courthouse lawn sloping down toward the main street, the tops of familiar surnames carved into donor stones outside the school, the distant line of cliffs holding back the wide, indifferent water.
When we reconvene, Theo stays in the gallery, flanked by a social worker and a basket of fidget toys. I watch him pick up a small glassy worry stone, rubbing his thumb over it in tiny circles. It reminds me of the glass rose on my kitchen table, light breaking across fractured petals from a prom they never got to finish.
“Dr. Patel,” the judge says once everyone settles. “You’ve been Theo’s therapist for nearly a year. I’ve read your reports regarding the CPS visit, the podcast-related incidents, and the recent events involving Mr. Harrow. I’d like you to summarize your impressions, particularly regarding the impact of Ms. Lane’s work on Theo’s safety and wellbeing.”
The therapist adjusts their glasses and folds their hands. I study their calm, open posture, wishing I could borrow some of that steady.
“Theo is a thoughtful, bright child,” they say. “He has been exposed to information and events that would overwhelm many adults. The podcast, the town’s culture of silence around Juliet’s death, the visible conflict between his parents—all of these have shaped his understanding of safety and truth.”
My heart crawls up my throat.
“Can you speak to the role of Ms. Lane’s openness?” the judge asks. “Both positive and negative.”
Dr. Patel nods. “On the one hand,” they say, “Theo has been frightened by direct consequences of the public nature of the podcast: surveillance, online harassment, the CPS report. These experiences are not abstract to him. They are lived.”
I feel the eyes of the courtroom on my back. A phantom itch prickles where the listening device once hid in my vent.
“On the other hand,” they continue, “Theo has repeatedly identified his mother’s honesty as his anchor. He fears secrets more than he fears difficult truths, likely because of the gap between the town’s polished narrative and the reality of what happened to Juliet Reeves. In our sessions, his most significant progress has come when he is allowed to narrate his experiences—through play, through conversation, through his recordings—while his mother listens and validates, rather than edits.”
The judge taps a pen lightly against her notes. “We have excerpts of those recordings in evidence,” she says. “You recommended that they be considered. Why?”
“Theo’s recordings are, in my clinical opinion, a child’s attempt to reclaim control over a story that has been written around him,” Dr. Patel says. “He talks about his fears, about paparazzi, about people in cars outside, but he also talks about moments of safety. Quiet dinners. Laughing with his mom. The sound of dryers under their apartment. These details matter.”
My throat tightens at the image of him whispering into my old phone about the hum of the laundromat, that ordinary sound becoming proof of a life that exists outside the headlines.
“Do you believe continued primary placement with his mother is in his best interest?” the judge asks.
“I do,” Dr. Patel says. “With conditions. Ongoing therapy. A formal safety plan regarding digital exposure and physical security. Clear boundaries around his involvement in any future public storytelling. But removing him from his primary attachment figure at this stage, especially given his recent experiences, would likely exacerbate his anxiety and erode his sense of efficacy.”
“And his father?” the judge asks.
“Theo benefits from a relationship with his father as well,” they reply. “He has expressed a desire for that connection, particularly in non-public settings. Structured, consistent visitation with clear communication between parents would support his stability.”
The judge thanks them and dismisses them from the stand. I watch them walk past Theo and offer a small, encouraging smile. Theo gives a half-shrug, rolling the worry stone between his palms.
My ex’s attorney argues a few more points about risk and judgment. My own lawyer counters with police reports, the arrest, Luz’s testimony submitted in writing about Elliot’s escalating behavior and my cooperation. The words wash over me like static—a familiar sound, but my brain refuses to transcribe it.
My focus narrows to the judge’s hands. They rest on the bench, one thumb rubbing the edge of a legal pad. I imagine my entire life with Theo balanced on that fingertip.
“Thank you,” she finally says, folding her notes. “I’m ready to rule.”
My spine goes rigid. I grip the edge of the table, grounding myself in the dings and scratches carved by years of other families’ battles.
“I have considered the prior record of this case, the new evidence presented, and the significant events that have occurred since our last hearing,” she begins. “Those include the verified threats against Ms. Lane, the involvement of law enforcement, the arrest of Mr. Harrow, and the ongoing investigation into institutional misconduct in Crescent Bay.”
The town’s name lands heavy in the air. Out the window, the cliffs stand in their distant line, indifferent witnesses to yet another story unfolding under their watch.
“This is not a simple case of one stable parent and one unstable parent,” she continues. “Both of you have made choices that affected Theo’s sense of safety and privacy. However, the context matters. Ms. Lane’s actions, while at times impulsive and ethically fraught, were largely aimed at exposing serious wrongdoing that directly endangered her and her child. Those dangers have now been, at least partially, addressed by law enforcement.”
My heart hammers so loudly I worry it might carry to the microphones.
“Theo has been clear and consistent, both in his recorded statements and in his testimony today, about where he feels most anchored,” the judge says. Her eyes meet mine. “He identifies his mother’s honesty, even when messy, as a source of safety. He also expresses a desire for a relationship with his father that is not framed as punishment toward either parent. I find his insight compelling.”
A tear spills over, then another. I don’t wipe them away.
“Accordingly,” she says, and my whole body braces for impact, “I’m awarding primary physical custody to Ms. Lane, with joint legal custody between both parents.”
The air rushes out of me in a soundless exhale. My knees go weak under the table. I press my shins into the wood to keep from sliding to the floor.
“This order comes with conditions,” the judge adds, and my head snaps back up. “Theo will continue individual therapy with Dr. Patel, and both parents will participate in periodic family sessions as recommended. Ms. Lane will work with CPS and a security consultant to formalize a safety plan regarding any future public content related to this case or others, including strict rules about Theo’s participation and privacy.”
She holds my gaze for a long beat. “Ms. Lane,” she says, “your commitment to truth-telling has had real, positive impact far beyond your family. The court acknowledges that. It also acknowledges that your work has placed you and your son in real danger. You are not just a storyteller. You are Theo’s mother. Your first duty is not to the public record; it is to your child.”
The words land like a gavel inside my chest, reverberating through every late-night edit, every upload bar, every moment I chose an episode over a board game.
“If, in future, your public work again compromises his safety or wellbeing,” she continues, “this order may be revisited. I recommend—strongly—that any future storytelling involving real, ongoing harm be undertaken with professional guidance and a clear firewall between your son’s life and your audience.”
My voice comes out hoarse. “Yes, Your Honor,” I say. “I understand.”
“Mr. Lane,” she says, turning to Theo’s father, “you will have scheduled parenting time every other weekend, one evening a week, and specified holiday arrangements, all subject to the safety plan. You are both expected to communicate about Theo’s schooling, medical care, and major decisions without using him as a messenger or a pawn. If I hear about either of you weaponizing his experiences for public sympathy or online narratives, I will not be impressed.”
My ex mutters a tight “Yes, Your Honor.” For the first time that day, he glances my way. I meet his eyes for a second, then look back at Theo.
“That is the order of the court,” the judge finishes. “We’ll set a review hearing in six months to assess compliance and Theo’s ongoing wellbeing.”
The gavel cracks down. The sound jolts through my bones, sharp and final.
Everything after that blurs. Papers exchange hands. Attorneys lean in with low-voiced instructions. The courtroom empties in pockets. When I finally stand, my legs shake so hard I have to steady myself on the table. The wood feels familiar under my palm, like the edge of my kitchen counter when I lean there between takes.
Theo weaves through the departing crowd and barrels into me. I fold him into my arms, bury my face in his hair, breathing in the scent of shampoo and nervous sweat.
“We did it,” he mumbles into my chest. “Well, you did.”
“You did,” I say, pulling back enough to look at him. “You were brave and clear and…way too wise for eleven.”
“Twelve,” he corrects automatically, then grins. “Almost thirteen.”
I laugh, wet and shaky. “Let me keep you eleven for one more day in my head.”
We walk out of the courthouse together, past the security desk, past the bulletin board plastered with flyers for charity balls and regatta fundraisers—Crescent Bay’s polished calendar ticking on, uninterrupted by the small earthquake in Courtroom 3B.
Outside, the wind hits us with a rush of salt and exhaust. Down the hill, I see a sliver of the bay, whitecaps shredding themselves against the rock shelf where teenagers still dare each other to sneak smokes after dances. Somewhere beyond, the cliffs hold the memory of a girl in a prom dress, a dock, a confession caught on tape.
Theo slips his hand into mine. “Are you going to talk about this on the podcast?” he asks. His voice holds genuine curiosity, not accusation, but the question slices through me anyway.
I look at him, at the courthouse behind us, at the distant line of water that has swallowed so many secrets. The judge’s words echo in my mind: Your first duty is not to the public record; it is to your child.
“I don’t know yet,” I answer honestly. “I think I need to figure out how to tell stories without living inside them first.”
He nods like that makes sense. “Maybe you start with less murder,” he says. “More…what happens after.”
We cross the street together, heading toward the parking lot and whatever passes for normal now. My phone buzzes in my bag—probably a reporter, or Sadie, or another notification about Elliot’s arraignment schedule—but for once I don’t reach for it.
I squeeze Theo’s hand instead and wonder, with a fresh kind of fear and hope, what version of our lives I’m willing to share next—and what I’m finally ready to keep just for us.