Page 31 of Blades Out
"Hard-earned." She turned back, eyes bright with something that looked dangerously close to tears. "I'm proud of you."
My throat tightened. "I got a job."
"I heard." Marsha settled onto the couch, patting the cushion beside her. "Café at the hockey arena, right? Steady paycheck?"
"Yeah." I perched on the edge, hands knotted in my lap. "Five days a week. Benefits after ninety days."
"That's huge, sweetheart." She reached over, squeezed my knee once. "You've grown so much. I remember when keeping a shift at the grocery store felt impossible, and now look—you're building something real."
The tension in my shoulders eased slightly. This was Marsha. The woman who'd advocated for me when case workers gave up. Who'd shown up to every court date. Who'd answered phone calls at three in the morning when nightmares made breathing impossible.
The closest thing I had to family.
Which meant whatever came next, I could survive it.
Marsha's expression shifted. Still gentle, but something grim settled into the lines around her mouth. The warmth in her eyes dimmed, replaced by the careful neutrality she wore in courtrooms.
"Liv." She leaned forward slightly, hands folded between her knees. "I need you to listen to me, okay? I need you to stay calm."
My heart stopped. "What happened?"
She drew a slow breath. Let it out even slower. "Your father is being released."
The world dropped out. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. It actually dropped—floor tilting sideways, walls receding, everything familiar twisting into something unrecognizable and hostile.
I went still. Completely, utterly still. Cold flooded through my veins like someone had replaced my blood with ice water. My lungs forgot how to expand. Breath came in shallow, insufficient gasps that didn't reach deep enough to matter.
"No."
The word came out barely audible. Cracked and small.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart." Marsha's voice came from somewhere distant, filtered through the ringing in my ears. "I found out this afternoon. I came as soon as I could."
No. No. No.
My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against my thighs but couldn't make them stop.
"He—" My throat closed. "He can't. They sentenced him. Fifteen years. At least. He's supposed to?—"
"Your mother recanted her statement."
The words hit like a physical blow.
Nausea surged up my throat. I swallowed hard, tasting bile, fighting the urge to double over and vomit on Marsha's shoes.
"She what?"
"Yesterday morning." Marsha's tone stayed carefully even, practiced and professional, even though her eyes betrayed her fury. "She went to the prosecutor's office. Said she'd lied. That her original testimony was coerced. That she was afraid and confused and didn't remember things clearly."
My vision blurred. Memories clawed up from the place I'd buried them—screaming, blood on kitchen tile, my mother's face swollen beyond recognition, the way she'd whispered tell them the truth through broken teeth.
She promised.
"Her testimony combined with yours was the foundation of the case," Marsha continued, each word landing like broken glass. "Without it, the prosecution doesn't have enough evidence to maintain the conviction."
"But I—" My voice cracked. "I testified. I was there. I saw?—"
"You were a child." Marsha's hands tightened into fists. "Defense argued your memories were unreliable. Influenced by trauma. They claimed your mother's recantation proved their case—that everything was exaggerated or misremembered."
