Page 15 of Judge's Justice

Grace grabs his hand without hesitation. Her tiny hand wrapping around his scarred, tattooed fingers, and pulls him toward the door. He looks back at me one more time before they go outside.

"Lock the door behind us," he says. "Don't open it for anyone but me."

"Okay."

"And Nora?"

"Yeah?"

"You did the right thing. Leaving. Coming here. All of it." His voice is quiet but firm. "Don't let him make you doubt that."

Then he's gone, following my daughter out onto the porch, and I'm standing in the kitchen with tears streaming down my face because a stranger just said the thing I needed to hear most.

I lock the door behind them as he told me to. And through the window, I watch Judge lift my daughter up so she can see the motorcycle better, watch her sign excited questions while he answers every single one.

Watch him be kind with her in a way her own father never was.

And I think: Maybe we're going to be okay.

Maybe we found the right place after all.

Even if it came with complications I never expected. Even if the man protecting us is dangerous, scarred, and part of a world I don't understand. Even if everything is uncertain and terrifying, and nothing like the quiet life I was looking for.

Chapter 4 - Judge

Grace's hands are small and warm when she grabs mine. She's chattering in sign as we walk down the porch steps, her excitement radiating off her in waves.

"Is it very loud? Mama says motorcycles are loud but I can't hear them very much with my aids. Do you have a helmet? Can I touch it? What's your favorite color?"

I sign as fast as she asks. "Yes, it's loud. I have two helmets. Yes, you can touch it. Black."

"Black is boring," she signs with complete confidence. "You should get a red one. Red is exciting."

"I'll consider it."

We reach the bike, and Grace stops, her mouth forming a perfect O. The Harley's not new. I've had it for five years, rebuilt the engine twice, replaced parts until there's probably more of me in it than the original manufacturer, but it's clean. Black paint, chrome that catches the morning light, the Iron Phoenix patch on the saddlebag.

Grace walks around it slowly, her eyes huge. Then she looks up at me.

"Can I sit on it?"

I glance back at the house. Nora's standing at the window, watching. I can't see her expression clearly, but I can read her body language. Arms wrapped around herself. Tense. Still shaking from those texts.

Fucking bastard. Making her feel guilty for leaving. Making her doubt herself.

I want the name. Want the address. Want to know exactly where this piece of shit is so I can pay him a visit and explain, very clearly, what happens to men who hurt women and children.

But that's not my call to make. Not yet.

"Judge?" Grace tugs on my vest. "Can I?"

I refocus. Right. The bike. "Yeah. Come here."

I lift her up. She weighs nothing and set her on the seat. Her legs don't even come close to reaching the pegs. She grips the handlebars with both hands, face serious, like she's about to take off down the street.

"This is so cool," she signs with one hand while holding on with the other. "I feel tall."

"You look tough."