The smell of onions trapped in my hair after sixteen-hour shifts.
The ache in my spine from lifting sacks of flour when we couldn’t afford another prep cook.
Christmas mornings spent checking produce deliveries instead of opening presents.
Three miscarried anniversaries because Victor said the restaurant could not close.
The taste of hospital oxygen after I woke from surgery and discovered Victor had already gone back to dinner service.
Judge Monroe’s voice reached me.
“Mrs. Hale?”
I looked up.
“Would you like to respond?”
Victor turned toward me.
“Oh, absolutely. Let her.”
Gerald Pike whispered something.
Victor waved him away.
Then he smiled directly at me.
“Go ahead, Claire.”
His voice softened into the tone he used at home when he wanted to hurt me without sounding cruel.
“Explain how hauling boxes made you an owner.”
I looked at Grace.
She did not nod.
She did not need to.
