At the heavy oak doors, I pause only long enough to hear Robert say my name again. Not Elena the accusation. Elena the child. Elena the daughter. Elena the thing he could not name.
I do not turn.
I push through.
The hallway outside the courtroom is brighter than it should be after all that dim old wood. Marble floors. Clean air. A vending machine humming near the elevators. A clerk carrying files past me without slowing because to her this is only Thursday and she has deadlines.
Freedom rarely arrives with music. More often it sounds like ordinary building noise after a room of judgment has finally shut behind you.
Marcus catches up before I reach the elevator.
He does not say congratulations. Men like Marcus know better than to confuse victory with relief.
He hands me my briefcase.
“The director wants a debrief at 0800,” he says. “He said your judicial restraint was noted.”
I let out the smallest breath of laughter.
“I was balancing the books.”
Marcus’s mouth almost twitches. That is the closest he comes to smiling in public.