Moja córka nie odzywała się od tygodnia, więc pojechałem do niej. Zięć upierał się, że „jest na wycieczce”. Prawie mu uwierzyłem, dopóki nie usłyszałem stłumionego jęku dochodzącego z zamkniętego garażu. Podkradłem się z powrotem i wyważyłem drzwi. To, co zobaczyłem w środku, złamało mi serce…

To było gorsze niż zdarte kolano czy złamane serce nastolatka.

Była to trauma, której wyleczenie zajęło lata — o ile w ogóle kiedykolwiek uda się ją całkowicie wyleczyć.

Kiedy trochę się uspokoiła, powiedziałem: „Sarah, muszę z tobą porozmawiać o czymś ważnym”.

„O co chodzi?” zapytała.

“Mr. Davis came today,” I said. “Michael’s family hired a very good lawyer. They’re going to argue that he had a mental crisis, that he wasn’t in his right mind.”

I saw her face go pale.

“And what does that mean?” she asked.

“That we need your testimony,” I said gently. “We need you to testify, to tell everything that happened from the beginning until now so we can show this wasn’t an isolated episode, but a pattern.”

“I can’t,” she said immediately. “I can’t stand in front of him and talk about this.”

“I know, my love. I know it’s hard,” I said. “But it’s the only way to make sure he pays for what he did.”

“And what if they don’t believe me? What if they think I’m exaggerating?” she whispered.

“They’re going to believe you,” I said. “Because I’ll be there. Mr. Davis will be there. And we have evidence. We have the video I recorded. We have the medical reports. We have everything we need.”

She stayed silent for a long time.

“I’m scared,” she said at last. “Mom, I’m scared.”

“I know,” I said softly. “I’m scared too. But we’re going to do this together.”

She nodded slowly.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I’m going to testify. I’m going to tell everything.”

I hugged her again.

“My brave girl,” I said. “My Sarah.”

The next day, we were discharged from the hospital.

Sarah didn’t want to return to the house she had shared with Michael—and of course she didn’t. Just the idea gave her panic attacks.

“You’re coming to live with me,” I told her. “Your room is still the same. Everything is as you left it.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“I’m not going to leave you alone, Sarah. Never again,” I said.

We arrived at my house at sunset. It’s a small house in a quiet neighborhood. The same house where she grew up. The same house where she learned to walk, to read, to dream.

I walked her to her old room. Everything really was the same. The posters of her favorite bands from when she was a teenager. The books on the shelf. The blue quilt she’d chosen at fifteen.

She sat on the bed. She ran her hand over the quilt.

“I feel like I’m fifteen again,” she said with a sad smile.

“In a way, you’re starting over,” I told her. “But this time you’re not alone.”

That night, I prepared her favorite dinner—enchiladas, the ones I made when she was a child and felt sad. We ate in silence, but it was a comfortable silence. The silence of two women who had gone through hell together and had come out the other side.

After dinner, while I was washing the dishes, my cell phone rang. It was an unknown number. I hesitated, but something made me answer.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Parker, good evening. This is Dr. Reed. I’m a psychiatrist at the county jail,” a male voice said.

My heart raced.

“Yes?” I replied.

“I’m calling to inform you that Michael Vega attempted suicide tonight,” he said. “He’s stable, but we needed to notify you as the victim’s closest relative.”

“Victim,” I repeated. They called Sarah “the victim.” Hearing it said out loud hit me harder than I expected.

“And why are you calling me?” I asked.

“Your daughter is listed as an emergency contact, but we understand she’s not in a condition to receive this information. That’s why we contacted you,” he explained.

“I understand,” I said. “What do you need from me?”

“Nothing for the moment,” he said. “Just that you are informed. The attempt was not successful. He’s under psychiatric surveillance.”

“Does this change anything legally?” I asked.

There was a pause.

“I’m not a lawyer, ma’am,” he said. “But yes, it could affect the case. It could strengthen the mental disorder argument.”

“Of course it does,” I murmured.

“Thank you for informing me,” I said, and hung up.

I stayed there, phone in hand.

Had the suicide attempt been real? Or had it been a strategy, a way to reinforce the mental crisis defense?

I didn’t know.

And honestly, I didn’t care.

The only thing I cared about was that my daughter was safe, and that whatever happened with Michael, I was going to make sure Sarah had the life she deserved.

A life without fear.

A life without pain.

A free life.

The following weeks were like walking in quicksand.

Every day brought a new complication, a new obstacle, a new way in which the system seemed designed to protect the abuser instead of the victim.

Michael’s suicide attempt made the news—not in the big media, but on some local sites.

“Man detained for domestic violence tries to take his life in county jail.”

The comments on social media turned my stomach.

“Poor man. He must be desperate.”

“She must have done something to drive him to that extreme.”

“Women always exaggerate. It was surely just a simple couple’s argument.”

I had to stop reading because if I kept going, if I kept seeing how people defended a man who had kept my daughter locked up like an animal, I was going to lose my mind.

Sarah didn’t read the news or social media. She had deleted all her accounts.

She spent her days in her room, almost all the time in bed staring at the ceiling. She went to therapy three times a week. Dr. Henderson recommended a trauma specialist, Dr. Patricia Rivers.

“How did it go today?” I asked her every time she came back from a session.

“Fine,” she always said.

But I knew she wasn’t fine.

I saw her at night, when she thought I was asleep, crying silently in her room. I saw her jump every time the doorbell rang. I saw her check the window locks again and again.

Fear had installed itself in her in a way that no therapy could cure overnight.

One afternoon, two weeks after leaving the hospital, we were drinking coffee in the kitchen when my cell phone rang.

It was Mr. Davis.

“Emily, I need you to come to my office tomorrow,” he said. “There are updates on the case.”

“Good or bad?” I asked.

“Complicated,” he replied.

The next day, Sarah and I went to his office. It was an old building downtown, smelling of paper and varnished wood. We sat in front of his desk. He had a thick folder of documents.

“Well,” he began, “the prosecution formally presented the charges: aggravated kidnapping, qualified family violence, and attempted femicide.”

“Attempted femicide?” Sarah asked softly. “But he never tried to kill me.”

“Legally, the fact of keeping someone in conditions that endanger their life constitutes an attempt,” Mr. Davis explained. “You were five days without enough water, without food, without medical attention. You could have died.”

Sarah stayed silent.

“The good news is that the charges are solid,” Mr. Davis continued. “The bad news is that the defense is being very aggressive. Edward Sullivan presented a psychiatric report diagnosing Michael with borderline personality disorder and an acute psychotic episode.”

“And what does that mean?” I asked.

“That they’re going to argue insanity,” he said. “They’ll say he’s not responsible for his actions because he was mentally incapacitated.”

“But that’s a lie,” I said. “He knew perfectly well what he was doing. He answered Sarah’s messages from her cell phone so no one would suspect. That’s not something someone in a psychotic episode does.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Davis replied. “And that’s what we have to show. That’s why we need your testimony, Sarah. We need you to explain in detail how the pattern of abuse was calculated, premeditated, conscious.”

Sarah nodded.

“I’ll do it,” she said. “I already decided. I’ll testify.”

“Good. The preliminary hearing is in two weeks,” Mr. Davis said. “You’ll have to give your testimony, and Michael will be present.”

I saw the color drain from Sarah’s face.

“Present? In the same room?” she whispered.

“Yes. He has the right to be present at his own trial,” Mr. Davis said.

“I can’t,” she murmured. “I can’t see him.”

“Yes, you can,” I told her, taking her hand. “And I’m going to be there with you.”

Mr. Davis leaned forward.

“Sarah, I know it’s difficult,” he said. “But I need you to understand something. This man kept you prisoner for five days, and now he’s playing the victim card. If we don’t stop him here, if we don’t show he was fully conscious of his acts, he could go free. And he could do this to someone else.”

Those words hung in the silence of the office.

Sarah closed her eyes. She took a deep breath.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll do it.”

That night, while I was preparing dinner, Sarah came into the kitchen.

“Mom, can I ask you something?” she said.

“Of course, my love,” I replied.

“Why do you think I fell in love with him?” she asked. “I mean… you met him. You spent time with him. Didn’t you ever see anything strange?”

I stopped what I was doing. I put down the knife I was using to chop onions.

It was a question I had asked myself a thousand times.

“Honestly? No,” I said. “He was charming. Always kind. Always attentive. Always said the right things.”

“And now, when you remember those moments,” she asked, “do you see something different?”

I sat in one of the kitchen chairs. Sarah sat across from me.

“Now that I think about it… yes,” I said slowly. “There were small things. Things that at the time seemed insignificant, but now make sense.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Do you remember your birthday two years ago?” I asked. “You organized a dinner with your friends. Michael didn’t want to go. He said he didn’t feel well, that he had a headache. But I noticed how he looked at you when you were getting ready. There was something in his eyes… like resentment.”

Sarah nodded.

“That day, he made a terrible scene before leaving,” she said. “He told me I was dressing like a slut. That my friends were a bad influence. That he preferred we stay home together. But he didn’t want you to know, so he invented the headache thing.”

“And you went anyway?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “But I cried all the way to the restaurant. And at dinner, I could barely enjoy myself because he was sending me messages every ten minutes asking where I was, who I was with, what I was doing.”

“Didn’t your friends notice anything?” I asked softly.

“I was very good at hiding it,” she said. “I smiled. I laughed at the jokes. I posted photos on Instagram showing what a good time I was having. But inside I was anxious, worried, counting the minutes until I could come back home so he’d stop being angry.”

Her voice broke.

“And when I got back, he was waiting for me at the door,” she continued. “He smelled my breath to see if I’d drunk alcohol. He checked my purse. He read all the messages on my cell phone. And then he told me, ‘Married women don’t go out partying alone. You should have more respect for our marriage.’”

“My God, Sarah,” I whispered.

“And the worst part is that I believed him, Mom,” she said. “I thought he was right. I thought I was being inconsiderate. So I stopped going out with my friends. I stopped going to those dinners. I stopped answering their calls. And they… they thought I had become one of those women who forget their friends when they get married.”

Tears ran down her face.

“I lost all my friends, one by one,” she said. “And I didn’t even realize it until it was too late. Until I had no one else but him.”

“That was the plan,” I said quietly. “To isolate you. So you’d have no one who could question his behavior. So you’d have no one to ask for help.”

“He succeeded,” she whispered. “He had me completely alone.”

“But you’re not alone anymore,” I said. “You have me. And we’re going to get your life back. We’re going to recover everything he took from you.”

We stayed in silence for a moment. The water in the pot started to boil. I got up to lower the heat.

“Do you know what hurts me the most?” Sarah asked suddenly.

“What?” I said.

“That I was happy before I met him,” she said. “I had my job, my friends, my hobbies. I liked running on Sundays. I liked going to museums. I liked reading in cafés.”

“And you’re going to do all of that again,” I told her.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I feel like he stole that part of me. Like the Sarah I was before doesn’t exist anymore.”

I approached her. I lifted her chin so she’d look at me.

“That Sarah is still there,” I said. “She’s hurt, yes. She’s scared. But she’s still there. And with time, with love, with therapy, she’s going to come back.”

“Do you really believe that?” she asked.

“I know it,” I said.

We hugged again.

And in that hug, I felt something I hadn’t felt in weeks.

Hope.

Small, fragile.

But there.

The days before the hearing were the hardest.

Sarah barely slept. She had constant nightmares. She woke up screaming in the middle of the night. I ran to her room, hugged her, told her she was safe—but the fear did not leave.

Dr. Rivers prescribed medication for anxiety. It helped a little. But not enough.

One night, three days before the hearing, I found Sarah in the kitchen at two in the morning. She was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, crying.

“Sarah, what happened?” I asked, kneeling beside her.

“I can’t do it, Mom,” she sobbed. “I can’t stand in front of him and talk about what he did to me.”

I sat on the floor next to her.

“Yes, you can,” I said softly.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “When I think about seeing him, when I imagine him sitting there watching me, I feel like I can’t breathe. Like I’m going to faint.”

“I know,” I said. “But think about this. He wants you to be afraid. He wants you to feel small. He wants you to stay quiet, because as long as you’re quiet, he can keep playing the victim.”

“And if I break?” she asked. “And if I can’t finish speaking?”

“Then we take a pause,” I said. “You breathe. You drink some water. And you go on. Because your voice is more powerful than his silence.”

She looked at me.

“How are you so sure?” she whispered.

“Because I know you,” I said. “Because I know you’re stronger than you think. And because you’re not alone. I’m going to be in that room. Mr. Davis is going to be there. Dr. Rivers is going to be there. We’re all going to be there for you.”

Sarah nodded slowly.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to try.”

“You’re not going to try,” I corrected her gently. “You’re going to do it.”

I helped her up from the floor. I walked her back to her room.

That night, I fell asleep in a chair next to her bed, watching her sleep—like when she was a child and had a fever, like when she was a teenager and had her heart broken.

Because that’s what mothers do.

We protect.

We accompany.

And we never, ever give up.

The morning of the hearing dawned gray and cold.

Sarah got up early. She showered. She put on a simple navy blue dress of mine and borrowed a little makeup to hide the dark circles under her eyes.

When I saw her, I thought there was no makeup in the world that could hide the weight of what she was about to do.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But let’s go anyway.”

We arrived at the courthouse at nine in the morning. It was an old building with dark hallways and a smell of dampness.

Mr. Davis was waiting for us at the entrance.

“Good morning,” he said. “How are you?”

“Nervous,” I admitted.

“That’s normal,” he said. “Sarah, let’s go over what’s going to happen one more time, okay?”

She nodded.

„Podejdziesz do mównicy” – wyjaśnił. „Prokurator będzie zadawał ci pytania. Odpowiadaj szczerze i spokojnie. Następnie obrońca przeprowadzi przesłuchanie krzyżowe. Będzie próbował cię zmylić, wzbudzić w tobie wątpliwości, przedstawić w złym świetle. Nie wpadnij w jego pułapki. Po prostu odpowiedz na jego pytania. Nic więcej”.

Sarah ponownie skinęła głową, ale widziałem, że się trzęsła.

Weszliśmy na salę sądową.

I tam był.

Michał.

Siedząc obok swojego prawnika.

Był chudszy, bledszy, miał cienie pod oczami. Ale kiedy nas zobaczył – kiedy jego oczy spotkały się z oczami Sary – coś w jego wyrazie twarzy się zmieniło.

Uśmiechnął się.

Mały uśmiech, prawie niezauważalny.

Ale Sara to widziała.

Poczułem, jak ona się spina, stojąc obok mnie.

„Oddychaj” – wyszeptałam. „Nie daj mu władzy, żeby cię przestraszyć”.

Skinęła głową.

Usiedliśmy na ławkach przeznaczonych dla oskarżycieli.

Sędzia wszedł.

Wszyscy wstaliśmy.

„Proszę usiąść” – powiedział. „Rozpoczynamy wstępne przesłuchanie w sprawie Prokuratury Generalnej przeciwko Michaelowi Vedze Gonzálezowi, oskarżonemu o porwanie ze szczególnym okrucieństwem, przemoc domową i usiłowanie zabójstwa kobiety”.

Moje serce biło tak szybko, że miałem wrażenie, że wszyscy w pokoju je słyszeli.

„Ofiara wezwana do złożenia zeznań” – oznajmił urzędnik. „Panna Sarah Parker Vega”.

Sarah wstała. Podeszła do stoiska na drżących nogach.

Przysięgła mówić prawdę i usiadła. Po raz pierwszy od tygodni podniosła głowę i spojrzała prosto na Michaela.

W jej oczach zobaczyłem coś, czego nie widziałem odkąd to się zaczęło.

Furia.

Prokurator wstał. Był to młody mężczyzna w wieku około trzydziestu pięciu lat, w okularach i szarym garniturze. Nazywał się pan Roberts.

„Dzień dobry, panno Parker” – zaczął stanowczym, ale życzliwym głosem. „Wiem, że to trudne. Będziemy postępować krok po kroku, dobrze?”

Sarah skinęła głową.

„A tak na marginesie, czy możesz nam podać swoje pełne imię i nazwisko?” zapytał.

„Sarah Parker Vega” – odpowiedziała.

„A jaki jest pana związek z oskarżonym?” – zapytał.

„On jest… był moim mężem” – powiedziała.

„Jak długo byliście małżeństwem?” zapytał pan Roberts.

„Dwa lata” – odpowiedziała. „Ale w sumie byliśmy parą przez cztery lata”.

„Rozumiem” – powiedział. „Pani Parker, czy może nam pani opowiedzieć własnymi słowami, co wydarzyło się 22 października tego roku?”

Sarah wzięła głęboki oddech.

Siedziałem w pierwszym rzędzie, dokładnie na jej linii wzroku. Nasze spojrzenia się spotkały. Skinąłem jej lekko głową.

Dasz radę, powiedziałem jej bez słów.

„Był piątek” – zaczęła, a jej głos lekko drżał. „Wróciłam z pracy około szóstej po południu. Michael był w domu. Zaproponował mi kawę. Przyjęłam. Nie miałam powodu niczego podejrzewać”.

„I co wydarzyło się później?” – zapytał prokurator.

„Wypiłam kawę” – powiedziała. „Siedzieliśmy w salonie. Oglądaliśmy telewizję i nagle poczułam zawroty głowy. Bardzo zawroty. Powiedziałam mu, że źle się czuję i że może powinnam się położyć”.

Jej głos trochę się załamał, ale kontynuowała.

“The next thing I remember is waking up in the dark,” she said. “I couldn’t move my hands. I had something in my mouth. I couldn’t scream. It took me a few seconds to realize where I was. I was in the garage, sitting on the cement floor with my hands tied behind my back and duct tape on my mouth.”

A murmur ran through the room.

The judge banged his gavel.

“Order in the court,” he said.

“What did you do when you realized your situation?” the prosecutor asked.

“I tried to scream, but the tape wouldn’t let me,” she said. “I tried to move my hands, but the ropes were very tight. I panicked. I thought… I thought I was going to die there.”

Tears started running down her face, but her voice stayed firm.

“How long were you in that situation?” the prosecutor asked.

“Five days,” she answered.

“Five days,” he repeated, letting the number hang in the air. “And during those five days, did you have contact with the accused?”

“Yes,” she said. “He came twice a day, in the morning and at night. He brought me a glass of water and a piece of bread. He took the tape off my mouth only so I could eat and drink. And then he talked to me.”

“What did he say?” Mr. Roberts asked.

Sarah closed her eyes.

“He told me this was for my own good,” she said. “That I needed to learn. That wives don’t abandon their husbands. That I had been selfish to ask for a divorce. That he loved me too much to let me go.”

“Wait,” the prosecutor interrupted. “You had asked him for a divorce?”

“Yes,” she said. “A week earlier, on Friday, October fifteenth, I told him I wanted a divorce. That our relationship wasn’t working. That I needed space.”

“And how did he react?” Mr. Roberts asked.

“He got very quiet,” she said. “Too quiet. That calm scared me. He told me, ‘I’m never going to let you go, Sarah. I’d rather see you dead.’ I thought he was just angry. I thought…. I thought he would eventually accept it. But a week later, he drugged me and locked me up.”

“Miss Parker, before this incident, had there been violence in your relationship?” he asked.

Sarah looked down. Her hands were shaking.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Can you give us examples?” he asked gently.

“At first, it was only verbal,” she said. “He criticized me constantly. My clothes, my work, my friends, my way of speaking. Then it became control. He checked my cell phone every day. He wanted to know where I was every moment. He called me ten, fifteen times a day. If I didn’t answer immediately, he got angry.”

She swallowed.

“And physically,” she continued. “The first time he pushed me was six months ago. I had arrived late from work. He was waiting at the door. He accused me of being with another man. I tried to explain there’d been a last‑minute meeting, but he didn’t believe me. He pushed me against the wall. It wasn’t a strong shove. It didn’t hurt me. But it scared me.”

“What happened after that first shove?” the prosecutor asked.

„Płakał” – powiedziała. „Prosił o wybaczenie. Powiedział, że kocha mnie tak bardzo, że myśl o mojej stracie doprowadzała go do szału. Obiecał, że to się nigdy więcej nie powtórzy”.

„Czy to się powtórzyło?” – zapytał pan Roberts.

„Tak” – odpowiedziała. „Coraz częściej. I za każdym razem było gorzej, aż trzy miesiące temu mnie uderzył. Potem drugi raz. Potem zaczął mnie łapać za ramię tak mocno, że zostały mi siniaki”.

„Czy zgłosiłeś to policji?” zapytał.

Sarah pokręciła głową.

„Nie” – powiedziała.

„Dlaczego nie?” zapytał.

„Bo się bałam” – odpowiedziała. „Bo było mi wstyd. Bo przekonał mnie, że to moja wina. Że gdybym była lepszą żoną i nie denerwowała go, nic z tego by się nie wydarzyło”.

Otarła łzy.

„A dlaczego?” zapytał łagodnie pan Roberts.

„Bo kiedy nie był zły, był najbardziej czarującym mężczyzną na świecie” – powiedziała. „Przynosił mi kwiaty. Gotował dla mnie. Mówił, że mnie kocha. A ja chciałam wierzyć, że to jego prawdziwe „ja”, że przemoc była tylko błędem. Czymś tymczasowym”.

„Ale to nie było coś tymczasowego” – powiedział prokurator.

„Nie” – odpowiedziała. „Za każdym razem było gorzej. Aż w końcu poprosiłam o rozwód. A potem… potem mnie zamknął”.

„Pani Parker, kiedy pani matka znalazła panią w garażu, co pani pomyślała jako pierwsze?” zapytał.

„Pomyślałam: ‘Dzięki Bogu’” – powiedziała. „Myślałam, że tam umrę. Że nikt mnie nie znajdzie. A potem pojawiła się moja mama i wiedziałam, że jestem bezpieczna”.

Od powstrzymywania łez bolała mnie klatka piersiowa.

„Jeszcze jedno pytanie, panno Parker” – powiedział pan Roberts. „Czy uważa pani, że oskarżony wiedział, co robi, kiedy panią aresztował?”

„Sprzeciw” – wtrącił Edward Sullivan. „To pytanie wymaga spekulacji”.

„Pozwalam na pytanie” – powiedział sędzia. „Może pan odpowiedzieć”.

Sarah spojrzała prosto na Michaela.

„Tak” – powiedziała. „Doskonale wiedział, co robi. Każda jego decyzja była przemyślana. Dosypywał mi narkotyków do kawy, żebym nie mogła się oprzeć. Wiązał mnie w miejscu, gdzie nikt mnie nie słyszał. Odpisywał na moje wiadomości z telefonu, żeby mama niczego nie podejrzewała. Wszystko było zaplanowane”.

„Dziękuję, panno Parker” – powiedział prokurator. „Nie mam więcej pytań”.

Wrócił na swoje miejsce.

Teraz przyszła kolej na obronę.

Edward Sullivan wstał.

Był starszym mężczyzną, około sześćdziesiątki, z idealnie uczesanymi, siwymi włosami i w drogim garniturze. Miał ten wyraz twarzy wyrażający absolutną pewność siebie, typowy dla prawników pobierających fortunę.

„Panno Parker” – zaczął cicho – „bardzo mi przykro z powodu tego, przez co pani przeszła. To musi być dla pani bardzo trudne”.

Sarah nie odpowiedziała. Po prostu na niego spojrzała.

„Wspomniałeś, że mój klient poprosił cię o rozwód. Czy to prawda?” – zapytał.

„Poprosiłam go o rozwód” – sprostowała.

„Ach, przepraszam” – powiedział. „Poprosiłaś o rozwód. A czy mogę zapytać dlaczego?”

„Już to wyjaśniłam” – powiedziała. „Bo w związku była przemoc”.

„Rozumiem” – powiedział. „Ale czy przed tym tygodniem wyrażałaś chęć rozwodu?”

„Nie formalnie” – odpowiedziała. „Ale…”

“So it was a sudden decision,” he interrupted. “Was there anything specific that motivated it?”

“Many things had accumulated,” she said.

“I see,” Sullivan said. “Miss Parker, is it true that my client is diagnosed with borderline personality disorder?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He never told me.”

“And is it true that you threatened to leave him on several occasions during your relationship?” he asked.

“Objection,” Mr. Roberts jumped in. “Relevance?”

“I’m going to establish the relevance, Your Honor,” Sullivan said smoothly.

“I allow the question,” the judge said.

Sarah took a deep breath.

“I didn’t threaten him,” she said. “I told him that if the violence continued, I would leave. That’s not a threat. It’s a boundary.”

“And how did he react when you established those boundaries?” Sullivan asked. “With more violence? Or with panic, with fear of being abandoned, with erratic behavior typical of someone suffering mental instability?”

“Objection,” the prosecutor said. “The lawyer is testifying.”

“Sustained,” the judge said. “Rephrase the question, counselor.”

Sullivan smiled.

“Miss Parker, did you notice any change in my client’s behavior during the weeks before the incident?” he asked.

“He was quieter than usual,” she said slowly. “More absent. As if he were disconnected from reality. I don’t know. Maybe.”

“And when he locked you in the garage, did it seem to you that he was acting rationally?” Sullivan asked.

“It seemed to me he knew exactly what he was doing,” she replied.

“But you aren’t a psychiatrist, correct?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“Then you can’t diagnose whether my client was or was not in his right mind,” he said.

“I know when someone is hurting me deliberately,” she said.

“Objection,” Sullivan said quickly. “The witness is being argumentative.”

“Sustained,” the judge said. “Miss Parker, please limit your answers to the questions.”

Sullivan walked back to his table and picked up some papers.

“Miss Parker, I have here text messages between you and my client,” he said. “May I read some of them?”

“Objection,” the prosecutor said. “Where did you get those messages?”

“From my client’s phone, which was seized as evidence,” Sullivan replied. “These messages are part of the file.”

“I allow them,” the judge said.

Sullivan cleared his throat.

“On October third, you wrote: ‘Michael, I need space. You’re suffocating me,’” he read. “Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Sarah answered.

“On October fifth, you wrote: ‘I don’t know if I can go on with this. I need to think,’” he continued. “Also correct?”

“Yes.”

“On October twelfth, you wrote: ‘I think we should separate,’” he read.

“Yes,” she said.

“So, during the two weeks prior to the incident, you were constantly threatening to leave him,” he said.

“I wasn’t threatening him,” she replied. “I was expressing my feelings.”

“But for someone with borderline personality disorder, for whom abandonment is the greatest fear, those messages could be devastating,” he said smoothly. “They could trigger a psychological crisis. Don’t you think that’s possible?”

“I don’t justify what he did,” she replied.

“I’m not asking you to justify it,” he said. “I’m asking if it’s possible that my client, in a state of mental crisis, acted irrationally.”

“He knew what he was doing,” she said.

“That’s your opinion,” he replied. “But psychiatric science says otherwise.”

He smiled and returned to his seat.

“I have no further questions,” he said.

Sarah came down from the stand. She was shaking. She came back to sit beside me. I took her hand.

“You did very well,” I whispered.

She shook her head.

“He made me look like I was to blame,” she said.

“No,” I told her. “You told the truth. That’s all that matters.”