Over the next weeks, the case grew.
Forensic analysts authenticated the flash drive files. Dates aligned with medical visits. Audio matched Derek’s voice pattern. Neighbors came forward quietly, recalling shouting, crashes, once a scream abruptly silenced.
One neighbor, an elderly woman named Mrs. Patterson, told detectives she had called the police once—but when officers arrived, Derek answered the door smiling, Kiara silent behind him.
“She looked at me like she was apologizing,” Mrs. Patterson said.
Apologizing.
As if enduring violence were an inconvenience to others.
Ridley filed motions attempting to suppress portions of the recordings, arguing privacy violations.
The judge denied them.
The evidence stood.
Still, Derek never requested a plea deal.
He wanted trial.
Of course he did.
Men like Derek believed they could charm juries.
The trial date was set three months from the arrest.
Kiara was discharged from the hospital into protected housing under a confidential address. Marissa arranged trauma counseling. The first session left Kiara shaking for hours—but she returned the next week.
Lauren visited occasionally, careful to maintain professional boundaries but unwilling to disappear entirely.
One afternoon, sitting in the small apartment that overlooked a parking lot and a patch of stubborn grass, Kiara held a small pot of soil in her lap.
“I bought them,” she said quietly.
Lauren leaned forward. “Marigolds?”
Kiara nodded.
She pressed the seeds into the soil carefully.
“I don’t know if they’ll grow.”
Lauren studied her.
“They will.”
Kiara exhaled.
“For the first time,” she said, “I’m more afraid of the quiet than I am of him.”
“That’s normal,” Lauren said gently. “Quiet means you have to hear yourself again.”
Leave a Comment