For the first time in six weeks, Naomi could see something beyond hatred in her eyes.
Confusion.
Linda slowly stood.
“I’ll do it.”
The victim advocate grabbed her wrist gently.
“You don't have to.”
“I know.”
Linda stepped into the aisle.
A bailiff moved closer to Naomi.
Daniel stood halfway, uncertain whether he should intervene.
Naomi remained still.
Linda crossed the courtroom.
Every footstep echoed.
When she reached the defense table, she stopped three feet away.
Up close, Naomi could see how much Linda had aged during the trial.
Seventy years old.
Silver hair.
Fine lines around her mouth.
Eyes swollen from months of grief even when they remained dry.
Linda looked down at Naomi’s restraints.
Then at her face.
“What could you possibly have to tell me now?”
Naomi stood.
The bailiff positioned himself beside her.
Naomi whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Linda’s expression twisted.
“Don't.”
“I’m not apologizing for killing him.”
Linda’s eyes flashed.
“Then what are you apologizing for?”
Naomi’s voice shook.
“For failing.”
Before Linda could answer, Naomi leaned forward.
Linda hesitated.
Then allowed the embrace.
Naomi’s cuffed hands could barely rise around her.
For one second, neither woman moved.
Then Naomi whispered near Linda’s ear.
“You saved my life thirteen years ago.”
Linda stiffened.
Naomi felt it.
“You probably don't remember me.”
Linda pulled back slightly.
Naomi continued.
“The East River flood.”
Linda stopped breathing.
“Lincoln Avenue underpass.”
“You went into the water.”
Linda stared.
Memories moved behind her eyes.
A summer storm.
A flooded roadway.
A child disappearing beneath brown water.
Linda had been fifty-seven then.
She remembered throwing off her shoes.
Remembered somebody yelling not to go in.
Remembered grabbing the railing and moving through waist-deep current.
Remembered black hair floating.
A child’s hand.
She remembered dragging a ten-year-old girl toward higher ground.
The girl coughing.
Crying.
Clinging to Linda’s coat.
Linda whispered:
“That was you?”
Naomi nodded.
“You told me to breathe.”
Linda’s mouth fell open.
Naomi continued.
“You stayed until the ambulance came.”
“I never forgot your face.”
Linda stepped backward.
The prosecutor shifted uneasily.
Judge Whitmore watched.
Naomi lowered her voice.
“Years later, Ethan showed me a photograph of you.”
“He asked why I stared at it.”
“I told him.”
Linda looked almost offended by the cruelty of coincidence.
“My son knew?”
“Yes.”
Naomi’s tears spilled.
“He laughed.”
“He said, ‘Of course my mom jumped into a flood for a stranger. She once climbed onto a roof to get a cat.’”
A sound escaped Linda.