Chapter 23: The Word Is Guilty or Not Guilty

I pulled Kurt's shirt on over nothing and went down the barn steps in bare feet.

The deputy touched his hat.

"Ms. Stauffer. Sorry about the hour. The clerk said you'd want this tonight."

He held out the envelope.

It was heavy and cream-colored, with the county seal in the corner.

I tore it open on the porch rail, in the light from the open door.

Judgment of dissolution of marriage.

The judge had signed it that afternoon.

Under the line that said Respondent, Brent had signed it too.

Under the line that said Petitioner, a clerk's stamp had printed my name.

Lainey Stauffer.

Not Breckenridge.

I read the page three times.

Behind me the door creaked.

Kurt stood in his jeans with his chest bare, lit by the lantern.

"Well?" he said.

"I'm free," I said. "It's done."

"Since when?"

"Since three o'clock. He signed it in his cell."

"Does it feel like anything?"

I thought about it.

"It feels like the first full breath I've taken in four years."

He put his arms around me from behind and rested his chin on my head.

We stood on the porch with the page between us and the burned hills going dark.

On Monday I put on the black dress again.

The courthouse was full by eight.

Reporters lined the front bench.

The second bench held the board chair, the lieutenant governor and the woman from the Heroes program, who sat with her hands tight in her lap.

The hotshots took the back row.

Melanie came in with Biscuit on a short lead, and nobody said a word to her about the dog.

The pilot sat beside me.

He had the card in an evidence bag, and he did not put it down.

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