Whale Song Lost in the Fog

While the entire internet poured out its sympathy for Nicholas, lauding his “devotion” and “responsibility,” I, Quinn, was crowned the world’s villain.

My social media accounts were unearthed and swamped by hundreds of thousands of vile, hateful comments.

“Why isn’t a woman like her just dead?”

“Sentence her to death already! Skip the psychiatric evaluation—what a waste of resources!”

“My heart breaks for Captain Nicholas. How did he end up with such a lunatic?”

“That poor child drew the shortest straw with a mother like that.”

Then my parents arrived.

They had seen the news and rushed over, frantic. In the visitation room, separated by the glass, my mother wept as if her heart were shattering. “Quinn! How could you be so foolish? That’s Grant! Your own flesh and blood!”

My father trembled with rage. A principled teacher all his life, he now found himself the target of neighbors’ and colleagues’ whispers, his face utterly shamed. “Quinn!” He slammed his fist against the glass. “Tell me the truth! Why would you do this?! If you didn’t want to raise him, you could have sent him to us! Your mother and I would have taken him! How could you—how could you bring yourself to do it!”

Watching their anguish, I felt an invisible fist clench around my heart.

*I’m sorry, Dad. Mom. Just hold on a little longer. Please, believe in me one last time.*

I couldn’t utter a word. I could only keep silent.

And my silence, to them, was a confession.

My father closed his eyes in utter disappointment, took my mother’s arm, and stumbled away. In that moment, their retreating figures seemed to have aged ten years.

Nicholas hired a lawyer for me—a Mr. Joe.

At our first meeting, Joe adjusted his glasses and said, “Mr. Nicholas has briefed me. Mrs. Quinn, the most favorable strategy now is to plead diminished capacity due to a transient psychiatric disorder. Seek a lighter sentence, get treatment, instead of prison.”

I looked at him calmly. “And if I don’t admit to it?”

He was taken aback. “Don’t admit? Mrs. Quinn, there were numerous eyewitnesses—your husband, your in-laws, firefighters. With both testimony and physical evidence, a not-guilty plea has virtually no chance.”

“I want to plead not guilty,” I stated, my voice iron.

Joe’s brow furrowed deeply. “I understand how you feel, but we must respect the facts. You’re gambling with your future.”

“Mr. Joe,” I cut him off, “are you my lawyer, or are you Nicholas’s?”

He fell silent for a beat.

“My request is simple: a not-guilty plea. If you can’t do it, I’ll find someone who can.”

Joe ultimately relented, but the look he gave me was meant for a hopeless madwoman.

The trial date arrived quickly.

Dressed in prison garb, I walked to the defendant’s stand.