Behind her, across the room, Cole shifts his weight. Ready, but not moving yet.
"Eighteen months," Victoria says to the glass. "Eighteen months of legal channels. Lawyers. Advocates. Police who told me to be patient. Judges who said there wasn't enough evidence." She turns to face me. "And by the time I found her—"
Her voice breaks. She doesn't finish. She doesn't need to.
"The people who destroyed my sister are still out there. Protected by judges likethem." She gestures at the photographs on the coffee table. "So I started correcting the balance."
"Correcting the balance." I keep my tone neutral. "Is that what you call it?"
"What would you call it?" Victoria returns to the couch. Sits. Composed again, grief tucked back behind purpose. Her back to Cole once more. "They had power. They abused it. They protected monsters and called it justice. Someone had to stop them."
"And me? What monsters have I protected?"
Victoria tilts her head. She's reciting from memory now—I recognize the cadence. Someone else's research. Someone else's conclusions.
"The Orozco case. Five years ago. Three girls recovered from a trafficking operation. You gave the driver eighteen months." Her eyes harden. "Six months after his release, they found a fourth girl in Tijuana. Sixteen years old. She'd been sold before the raid—traded to another network. And the man who drove her there walked free."
The Orozco case. I remember it.
"Julian Orozco was twenty-two years old. He drove a van once because his cousin told him it was furniture." I don't let my voice waver. "He didn't know what he was transporting. He cried on the stand when he found out."
Victoria's expression flickers—a crack in the certainty.
"The cousin," I continue. "Roberto Orozco. He ran the operation. He made the sale. He's serving thirty-five years in federal prison because I made sure of it. Julian was a pawn—a scared kid who made one terrible mistake and cooperated fully with the prosecution."
"You're defending yourself." Victoria's voice sharpens. "They all defend themselves. 'It wasn't my fault. I didn't know. I was just following orders.'"
"I'm telling you what happened."
"Whathappenedis a girl died in Tijuana. And you—"
"Whoever gave you that case file left out half the story." I lean forward. "Who was it? Who told you about Orozco?"
Victoria stops breathing.
"My sources are reliable."
"Your sources told you Julian Orozco was a trafficker. He wasn't. He was a delivery driver who didn't ask questions." I hold her gaze. "Who gave you his name?"
"I verified—"
"You verified what they wanted you to verify. Who are they?"
Victoria's jaw tightens. She reaches into her bag.
Behind her, Cole straightens. I keep my eyes on Victoria.
But it's not a weapon. It's a photograph.
My father. In the Meadowbrook garden. Sitting on the bench by the roses, face tilted toward the sun. He looks peaceful. Content. He doesn't know someone is watching him.
Papà.
I didn't think—I never thought to protect him. He's already lost to me in so many ways, his mind retreating further each month, but his body is still there. Still vulnerable. And I didn't think to—
A tremor builds in my fingers. I press them flat against my thighs. I won't give her that.
"Giovanni Castellano." Victoria's voice has gone soft. Clinical. This is the voice she uses with her victims. Gentle. Almost kind. "Room 114. Donepezil, 10 milligrams daily. The nurses change shifts at seven. The night attendant takes a smoke break at eleven."