Chapter 8 - EMILY STOOD UP
Four months after the attack, Emily stood for the first time.
Not walked.
Stood.
Two physical therapists supported her.
Bars on both sides.
Her face went white from effort.
I stood six feet away because she had ordered me not to hover.
“Blake.”
“Yes?”
“You’re hovering from farther away.”
“I’m innovating.”
She laughed.
Then immediately cried because laughing hurt.
The first step came twelve days later.
Tiny.
Ugly.
Perfect.
She moved her right foot.
Then left.
Sweat rolled down her face.
I had seen men finish twenty-mile movements carrying equipment heavier than some adults.
Nothing had ever looked harder.
Afterward she collapsed into the chair.
“How was that?”
I crouched.
“Terrible.”
She stared.
“Excuse me?”
“Form was awful.”
She threw a therapy towel at me.
Good.
For a few minutes she was herself again.
Recovery was not a straight line.
She walked one day.
Had a panic attack the next.
Some mornings she wanted every case update.
Others she demanded that nobody mention Cameron.
Her therapist helped her separate safety from certainty.
“We cannot promise nobody dangerous will ever exist again.”
Emily hated that sentence.
So did I.
But we learned another one.
“We can build choices.”
New locks.
Different phone procedures.
Independent local police contacts outside the sheriff’s office.
A victim advocate.
A therapist.
A lawyer.
Neighbors who knew what had happened.
Not a fortress.
A network.
When federal prosecutors asked whether Emily would testify before a grand jury, they emphasized she could decline.
She asked for twenty-four hours.
That night she barely slept.
At breakfast:
“I’m doing it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because Cameron counted on pain making me disappear.”
She looked at me.
“I don’t want my entire recovery to be about proving something to him.”
“Then don’t.”
“It isn’t.”
A pause.
“It’s about Hannah.”
So Emily testified.
Not because I wanted justice.
Not because prosecutors needed a compelling victim.
Because she chose to.
That distinction became the foundation of everything that followed.
Afterward, she came home exhausted.
We were living temporarily in a small accessible rental.
She sat on the couch.
“Did you feel brave?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She looked offended.
“I was terrified.”
“That’s usually when brave counts.”
She studied me.
“You stole that from General Hale.”
“Maybe.”
Then she leaned against me.
And for the first time since the hospital—
we talked about something other than the case.
May you like
What color to paint the kitchen someday.
It felt absurdly important.
