When I finally finished, I flushed the toilet and staggered out of the stall. I placed my palms on the sink basin and stared into the mirror. As I was transported back to that horrible place, tears overran my eyes, sending mascara-blackened tears down my cheeks.

The morning I was due in court, my mother had come into my room to dress me. She had put me in a simple black dress that had scratchy material and made my skin itch. My protests about the fabric fell on deaf ears as my mother brushed my hair. She swept it back on the sides with black barrettes. She ignored me once again when I protested that I wanted to wear my usual ponytail. That morning she seemed to be in an almost trancelike state of going through the motions. She didn’t talk to me or my brother or sister. We had exchanged looks among ourselves during the period of silence.

As I eased down onto the hard chair in the witness stand, I kept my head tucked to my chest. I didn’t dare look across to the defendant’s table. I knew if I did I would lose all my nerve, and I wouldn’t be able to give the carefully rehearsed answers that the prosecutor had gone over with me. Earlier that week, I had spent several miserable afternoons reliving in horrific detail the night of my father’s murder.

My stomach twisted tighter and tighter into knots as Mr. Greenly led me through the events of that night. I swallowed hard to keep down the bile rising in my throat. I didn’t want to do anything wrong, least of all throwing up. I knew everyone was counting on me to put Willie away. Most of all, I felt I couldn’t screw up because I owed it to my father to get him justice.

The questions seemed to go on and on. Finally, we got to the one I was dreading the most. Mr. Greenly approached the witness stand. He leaned on the railing and gave me a reassuring smile. “Samantha, is the man you saw shoot your father present in the courtroom today?”

When I stared into Mr. Greenly’s dark blue eyes, he nodded encouragingly. Slowly, I began turning my head to the defense table. All the while, I kept my gaze on my lap, staring at the silk handkerchief my mother had slipped into my hand right after they called my name. “He’s over there,” I whispered.

“I’m sorry, but I need you to repeat that,” Mr. Greenly said.

Raising a shaking hand, I pointed at the table. “He’s there.”

The defense attorney’s voice caused me to jump. “Your Honor, the witness has not visually identified my client.”

I pinched my eyes shut. My body trembled so hard my knee knocked the microphone stand, causing a loud screech to echo throughout the room.

“Samantha,” Mr. Greenly’s kind voice said.

“I can’t,” I murmured.

“Samantha, the court has to have you look at Mr. Bates in order for your testimony to be recorded.”

Tears of agony overflowed from my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. With my eyes still shut, I pictured my father’s smiling face in front of me—the way his strong arms felt when he drew me in for a tight hug. And it was then I felt my father’s strength enveloping me.

I opened my eyes wide and stared at Willie. Sitting in a suit and tie, he looked much different from the way he had that night. But all I had to do was imagine him in the leather vest he had worn before, and there were no doubts.

As he sneered at me, I pulled my shoulders back and once again pointed at Willie. “Him. He’s the man who killed my father.”

I was jerked out of my flashback at the sound of the bathroom door flying open. “Sam?”

Lifting my head, I gazed at his reflection in the mirror. “Sorry. I just needed a minute.”

Bishop’s expression was filled with concern. He closed the gap between us and came to stand beside me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Sam. You just bolted from the courtroom, and I come in here and find you in tears.” He put his hands on my waist and turned me around to face him. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

I knew that I had two options. I could concoct an elaborate lie by saying that seeing Ansley had brought back memories of a young girl I had seen murdered. Or I could tell him the truth about my father—or at least the version that wouldn’t out me as an agent.

In the end, it was a no-brainer. I chose the second. “You know how my father died when I was eight?”

“Yeah,” Bishop replied.

“Well, he didn’t just die. He was murdered by a biker named Willie Bates.”

Bishop’s blue eyes widened. “Go on.”

Leaning back against the sink, I told him everything about that night. Then I told him about having to testify at the trial. “When Ansley took the stand, it sent me reeling with a flashback. I had to get out of there.”

Bishop drew me into his strong arms. His hands ran along my back. “I’m so sorry, babe,” he murmured into my ear.

It meant so much to have Bishop’s sympathy, because he knew what it was like to lose a loved one to a violent death. A quiet “Thanks” left my lips, but no other words seemed adequate.

He pulled back to look me in the eye. “Now it all makes sense about the way you felt about bikers. It went deeper than just what happened to Marley.”

“Yes. It does.”

“No one should have to go through what you did as a kid.” Bishop’s hands came to cup my cheeks. “If I could take the pain and hurt away from you, I would.”

Tears pooled in my eyes at his kind words, and I knew he was sincere about taking away my pain. Once again, he was such a paradox of appearing so tough outside and being so tender on the inside. Words seemed inadequate to express my gratitude. All I could murmur was “You really are the sweetest man I know.”