The diner was a low, brick building with a flickering neon sign that read *Open*.

Inside, the air smelled of grease, burnt toast, and damp coats.

Only two booths were occupied by truck drivers staring into their mugs.

In the far corner, next to a scratched window, sat Vanessa.

She looked smaller than she had in the court hallway weeks ago.

Her face was pale, devoid of makeup, and her eyes looked hollow.

Her hands were wrapped around a thick ceramic mug of tea.

A black canvas bag sat on the vinyl seat beside her.

She looked up as we approached our table.

Her eyes were wide and rimmed with red.

“Thank you for coming,” she whispered.

Her voice was barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator behind the counter.

We sat down opposite her in the booth.

Robert placed his briefcase on the table but did not open it yet.

“How are you holding up, Vanessa?” he asked.

“I’m terrified,” she said.

She looked at me, her eyes lingering on my face.

“I didn’t know he was doing this to you,” she said.