“Your Honor,” Mick’s lawyer said, “you yourself said you don’t like surprises.”

Caroline clutched Willow’s arm. “Isn’t it too late to submit these statements?”

“This is a hearing, not a trial,” Willow reminded her in a low whisper. “It’s up to the judge.”

There was a stir in the back of the courtroom. The judge picked up his gavel and barked an order at the bailiff. Several women entered through the double doors. Caroline recognized models and junior designers she’d met in New York, the ones she and Daria had asked to come forward. They’d demurred, afraid and vulnerable, and Caroline had given up trying to convince them. Now they were here, appearing like a tidal wave through open floodgates.

Despite the judge’s hammering gavel and shouted dismissal, a babble arose in the room.

“This is bullshit,” Mick said, coming up out of his seat as if on fire. “A goddamn witch hunt.”

His lawyers and entourage surrounded him, clearly trying to minimize the damage by hustling him away.

“The hunt is over,” Willow said to Mick as he passed by. “We’ve found the witch.”

Caroline turned to Willow and Aisha. “What just happened?”

“It’s still happening. Let’s go.”

Mick’s accusers had gathered in the domed entryway and on the courthouse steps, talking to the media and pointing the finger at Mick. Holding up cell phone pictures and giving interviews. Women’s voices echoed off the marble walls, and the historic rotunda echoed with the powerful sound of triumph. They spoke of pressure and intimidation, of coercion and threats, economic abuse.

Caroline grabbed Willow’s arm to steady herself. Humility and relief nearly overwhelmed her, washing away the agonizing bitterness of staying silent. “How did everyone get here?” she asked. “Did you know about this?”

“I’ve made it my mission since our trip to New York. Even though they were reluctant to talk about their experience, we persisted and finally persuaded these six. Your friend Daria was instrumental. She said that now that she has a daughter, she can’t let something like this go. And the Sisterhood in Atlanta funded us. The sworn statements are powerful, Caroline. Affidavits. Pictures and videos. At least two women are filing criminal charges. Mick’s got much bigger problems than claiming custody. I don’t think you need to worry about him being willing to sign away his paternal rights now.”

Caroline couldn’t believe it. She should, though, because one thing she had learned from the Sewing Circle was the power in a group of women determined to tell the truth.

“Thank you,” she said. “That sounds so inadequate—”

“Don’t thank us. You started this, Caroline. Now go find your kids.”

Chapter 31

Caroline sat propped against a bank of pillows in Will’s bed, poring over the lengthy investigative article that had come out in the national press with the headline the takedown of a fashion empire.

Early-morning sunlight tracked across the floor. Will had gone to let the dog out for a run, and now he returned with two mugs of coffee. There was nothing quite like the sight of a shirtless man bearing coffee first thing in the morning.

“Bless you,” she whispered, warming her hands around the cup and taking her first sip.

He settled in next to her. “How is it?”

“Delicious,” she said, taking another sip.

“The article, I mean.”

She turned the magazine so he could see. The main image was a dramatic shot of the neo-Gothic courthouse surrounded by six harshly lit, glowering models, looking like a predator’s worst nightmare. The exposé had been written by Becky Barrow. Caroline had met her as Orson Maynard’s intern. Now she was a star reporter, making a name for herself by exposing exploitation in the fashion industry.

Caroline laid the magazine open so they could both look. “Hard to read,” she said. “It’s horrible to think about what he did, what he got away with for so long. I’m glad it’s over now, but I hate that it happened. And to so many.”

In addition to the women who had shown up at the courthouse, there were others, more than she’d imagined—models and assistants and interns and underlings who were initially dazzled by Mick’s affable manner and talent, and later in private discovered his violent nature. They described his abuse in painstaking detail. They stepped out of the shadows with stories of wild parties, bullying, sexual assault.

Mick Taylor was swept out to sea like so many other men who had used their status and power to prey upon women. And like those men, he would soon be washed into the depths of obscurity. Initially he’d attempted to shrug off the accusations. Then, with a non-apology to “those who may feel wronged by me,” he headed to rehab in Sedona. As the storm against him gathered force, he was deserted by all his famous friends. His brand collapsed like a house of cards in the wind. The mounting evidence made it clear that he was facing a barrage of civil suits from his victims, along with criminal charges and prison time. As Willow had predicted, he had willingly surrendered his paternal rights to Addie and Flick.

During their interview for the exposé, Becky had asked Caroline how it felt to bring him down. “I didn’t bring him down,” Caroline was quoted as saying. “The truth brought him down.” It felt strange, seeing her own words framed as a pull quote on the page.

“It’s an exoneration for you,” Will pointed out as he finished reading the article.

“I don’t care about being exonerated,” Caroline said. “I just want to be done. I just want to move on with my life, be a mom to these kids and try to get my business back on its feet.”

He set her coffee mug on the nightstand and folded the paper. “And I just want to marry you,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

She pushed back and gaped at him. “Stop it.”

“Not exactly the answer I’m hoping for.”

“Will.” She studied his face, every line and angle and plane familiar and beloved and longed for. “Don’t you dare kid around.”

“Me? A kidder?” He touched his hand to his heart. “Caroline Shelby, I love everything about you. The way you laugh at my stupid jokes and the way you cry when something touches your heart. The way you talk all the time without stopping and still manage to listen. The way you create designs out of nothing but imagination. The way you take joy in Addie and Flick even though you say you’re scared. You’re all I think about. You’re everything I want. You and your kids and your little dog, too. And sweet Jesus, I mean that from the bottom of my heart.”

Her own heart nearly exploded. She was too overwhelmed to speak. If she said yes, it would change the course of her life. She pictured herself here at Water’s Edge, in this house that was filled with hand-carved woodwork and ancient family treasures. She pictured Addie and Flick playing with the dogs, following Will around, finding the adventures that awaited them in the woods, the bay and the seashore, the lighthouses and little villages strung along the peninsula.

She pictured forever with him. The wild excitement felt like a panic attack.

“You’re not saying anything,” he pointed out.