Something in the Way (Something in the Way #1)(91)

“Lake!” Tiffany caught up with me at the entrance since we had to go through security. “Don’t ditch me,” she said. “Dad’ll kill me if I come home without you.”

Maybe she was making a joke. I couldn’t tell. My stomach hurt, and my mom’s pumps kept slipping off, already rubbing against my heels. “It’s almost one.”

We went through the metal detector and retrieved our purses from the conveyor belt. “Maybe they’ll be running behind,” she said.

“Maybe they won’t.”

In the lobby, the line to talk to someone was too long. A large calendar on the wall displayed a list of names, so I went there instead.

Tiffany stood next to me, scanning it. “There he is,” she said, pointing. “Sutter, M. Courtroom eight.”

I turned to her. “But where would his lawyer be?”

“I have no idea.”

I bit my bottom lip, looking around us. Men and women in suits hurried down the hall in both directions. The clock above reception ticked down . . . four minutes to go.

I took off for courtroom eight, our only shot, the click of my slippery heels echoing off the walls. A week ago, I’d been on a horse, hugging Manning’s middle while the sun warmed us, inhaling the scent of pine trees-and-Manning with every breath. He’d helped me conquer my fear, but he’d also taught me something about myself. As I checked the numbers over each courtroom, I realized what he’d said was true. The sick feeling in my gut told me this was my Ferris wheel, my Betsy Junior. It was as bad as boarding an airplane. I had no control over Manning and me, and I never really had. Whatever choices I’d made that night, they’d led us here, but that wasn’t me being in control. That was my selfishness. I’d pushed and pushed, trying to get him to see me differently. To want me. To love me. This was my fault. I had to show up for Manning, no matter what happened; it was the only thing I could control in this moment.

Tiffany and I arrived at the same time, pulling open the door to courtroom eight together, all brown wooden pews and worn carpeting inside.

Manning stood before a judge in an orange jumpsuit, his back to us, a head taller than anyone in the room. The judge, elevated above the rest of us, looked down at Manning and spoke words I barely registered. “ . . . count of attempted robbery in the first degree . . . felony . . . do you understand the nature of the charges?”

The brown-haired, suit-wearing man next to Manning looked over his shoulder at me. Dexter? I mouthed to him, but he just glanced at the ground and turned forward again.

Manning nodded once. “I do.”

The judge shuffled some papers. “Are you entering this plea freely and of your own will?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Do you understand that by pleading guilty, you’re giving up your right to a trial?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Guilty? I must’ve misheard. My ears rang. Not guilty—that’s what he’d said. I took a few steps farther into the room, my heels sticking on the threadbare carpet. Tiffany grabbed my elbow to pull me back.

“I understand there’s a plea bargain on the table,” the judge continued. “The prosecutor will now state the terms of the agreement to the court.”

A man at the table to Manning’s left stood. “Your honor, we’re offering to reduce the charge from attempted robbery to burglary in the first degree with a low-term sentence of two years.”

The judge looked at Manning. “Do you understand the terms of the plea agreement?”

“I do.”

“Two years?” I asked aloud. A few people looked over at me.

Tiffany tugged on my elbow while the judge asked questions I didn’t understand. “Let’s sit,” she said.

I ripped my arm from her grip and walked toward the divider separating the gallery from the court. Tiffany hurried after me.

“Mr. Sutter, how do you plead to the charge?” the judge asked.

Manning didn’t even hesitate. “Guilty, Your Honor.”

Tiffany and I looked at each other. No. He had no reason to plead guilty. It must’ve been a mistake. It had to be. I went for the gate, but Dexter turned, put his hand up to stop me, and shook his head.

“The court will accept your plea of guilty . . . sentenced to two years for a felony charge . . .”

I gripped the sides of my head, covering my ears. “Manning,” I said. “Please don’t.”

Manning turned as quickly as he could, his hands cuffed in front of him. My vision blurred with tears, but our eyes met, his imploring me.

“What are you doing?” Tiffany asked him. “You’re not guilty.”

“Ma’am,” the judge said. “Please don’t communicate with the inmate.”

“It’s okay,” Manning said immediately, his voice hushed. I didn’t even think he understood what he was saying. He came to the wall. “Everything’s okay. You shouldn’t be here.”

A man in uniform started toward us.

Dexter checked over his shoulder. “Time to go, Manning.”

“Not yet,” I said, but my voice came out as a whisper. I had to undo this. All of this had started because I’d gone over to talk to him on the wall, because I’d forced him to let me in the truck, made him drive me around when we should’ve gone straight back. “I can help—”