Thunder cracked, shaking the courthouse walls as Jesus Dominguez sat, hands trembling, words caught in his throat.
The jury’s eyes pressed down on him—sharp, searching. He stared at his shoes. The prosecutor’s question hung heavy: ‘Tell us exactly what happened.’
His breath came out slow. ‘I let bad things happen,’ he whispered, voice thick as old syrup. ‘I didn’t stop her.’ All the lights felt too bright. Memories clawed at him: slammed doors, distant cries muffled behind thin walls, and fear curling up by his feet every night.
Karina’s angry voice echoed inside him. ‘They’re fine,’ she’d snap whenever he’d speak of Yennia or little Jesus Jr. The children were quiet shadows, appearing and slipping away—never safe, never heard. He kept silent then, too, afraid to break the spell of peace that came from ignoring things unseen.
Pain flashed across Dominguez’s face. ‘I found them gone,’ he said, voice cracking. ‘She said they were with family.’ But the lie grew heavy, filling the house, pressing into every silent corner. His hands closed into fists. ‘I should have done more.’
Pictures from the storage unit and the car were held up. Faces frozen in time. No more running. No more pretending. Guilt crushed the breath from his chest as sentences were handed down—her life behind bars, his next three decades owed to regret.
As he was led away, he turned one last time to the empty seats, wishing for a moment he could hear laughter or see small hands waving. The hallway echoed with the heavy steps of justice, and questions trailed behind him like shadows that never fade.