Complete Me (Stark Trilogy, #3)(13)

I’m not sure when I stood up, but I’m standing when my eyes meet Damien’s. My hands are fisted in my skirt, and I’m silently screaming at him to tell me what happened. He remains silent, and though I search his face, I can find nothing helpful in his expression. It is completely blank.

He slips in behind the counsel table, and he is only inches from where I stand. My heart lurches, because he is no longer looking at me, and a cold wave of fear settles over me. Then he shifts, his eyes once again meeting mine. I blink away tears and reach out for him. He takes my hand in his and squeezes it.

It’s bad, I think. Whatever it is, it must be very, very bad.

Damien releases my hand, and my sense of foreboding increases. He sits at the defense counsel table, and I take my seat, as well. There is already one witness—a janitor—who saw him arguing on the roof with Richter before Richter fell to his death. Could there be another witness? It is the only thing I can think of, and worry consumes me.

Then the judges are back at the bench and Ollie returns to the gallery. The bailiff calls the proceedings to order just as Ollie sits beside me.

“Do you know what’s happening?” I whisper.

“No.” His forehead is creased, and he looks as confused as I feel.

The tall judge begins to speak in slow, controlled German, and although Herr Vogel and Maynard and Damien stay perfectly still, the other attorneys at the defense table begin to shift in their seats. They weren’t privy to what was said behind closed doors, and from my perspective, they look like men about to explode.

Behind us, the spectators in the gallery begin to whisper. The gloom that has filled this space has lifted. I don’t understand how or why, but I am sure that something shocking is happening. Shocking, but good.

I glance at Ollie, afraid that I’m seeing too much, but he meets my eyes and holds up his hand. His fingers are crossed, and in that one moment, I could kiss him. Whatever his issues with Damien in the past, right now he is on Damien’s side. He is on my side.

And then suddenly the judge is finished, and he’s standing, and he’s filing out of the room with the other judges behind him. As soon as the door behind them has shut, the courtroom explodes into a cacophony of sounds, some cheers, some shouts, but some boos and catcalls. One of the attorneys takes pity on me. He turns and faces me. “The charges,” he says in a thick German accent. “The charges have been dropped.”

“What?” I say stupidly.

“It’s over,” Ollie says, pulling me into a hug. “Damien’s free to go home.”

He releases me and I stare at him, my body cold with shock. I’m scared to believe it. Afraid that I haven’t heard right and someone is going to tell me that I’ve misunderstood and the trial will be recommencing any moment now.

I turn to face Damien, but his back is still to me. The prosecutor now stands in front of him, speaking earnestly, but in such a low voice that I cannot make out the words. Maynard stands beside Damien, his hand on Damien’s back, the gesture almost paternal.

“It’s true?” I ask the German attorney. “You really mean it?”

His smile is broad, but his eyes are soft with understanding. “It is true,” he says. “We would not joke about such a thing.”

“No, of course not. But why? I mean—” But he turns away in response to a question from another attorney. Then I see that the prosecutor has moved away from Damien, and a wave of pure joy sweeps through me and I no longer care how or why.

“Damien,” I say, and my voice sounds light. His name feels delicious on my lips, and I want to capture this moment and hold it close to me. This singular instant when I got back the man I feared that I had lost.

He begins to turn, and I anticipate how he will look when I see his face. His eyes alight with joy, his features stripped of the worry that has been weighing on him since the indictment came through.

But that is not what I see. Instead of warmth, I see a chill in his eyes. And there is nothing joyous in his expression. Instead, it is flat and cold and desolate.

I frown, confused, and reach out for him. “Damien,” I say, leaning over the bar to take his hands. His fingers close tight around mine, as if I am a lifeline in stormy waters. “Oh, God, Damien. It’s over.”

“Yes,” he says, but there is a harshness in his voice that sends a shiver through me. “It is.”

Damien holds my hand, but says nothing during the ride back to the hotel. He is shell-shocked, I think. Probably unable to believe that the nightmare is really over.

We are alone—the attorneys having hung back to take care of all the administrative stuff that goes on once a trial reaches its conclusion, and I can only assume that there is even more to do when the conclusion is unexpectedly premature. I let the silence linger until we pull up in front of the hotel, but then I can’t take it anymore.

“Damien, it’s finished. Aren’t you happy about that?” Personally, I’m about to explode simply from the joy of knowing that Damien is free and safe.

He looks at me, and for a moment his expression is blank. Then his face clears as he smiles. It’s not huge, but it is real. “Yes,” he says. “About that, I couldn’t be happier.”

“About that,” I repeat, confused. “What else is there? What’s going on? Why were the charges dismissed?”