I flinch before I can stop it. My body remembering what my mind tries to forget—crowded spaces, no escape route,hishand on the small of my back steering me where he wanted me to go,hisvoice in my ear telling me to smile, to behave, to stop embarrassing him in front of his colleagues—
Cole's hand closes around my elbow. Steady. His palm warm through my blazer. Not pushing, not pulling—just there.
The touch cuts through the memory like a blade through fog. I'm in an elevator. I'm going to work. I'm not twenty-six anymore, not pregnant, not trapped in a marriage that's slowly crushing me.
I'm here. I'm safe. I'm—
The elevator stops on four. Three people exit. The pressure eases, but Cole's grip stays, and my skin burns where he's touching me, and I can't tell if I want to pull away or lean into the warmth.
That terrifies me more than the crowd does.
"You can let go now." My voice comes out controlled. Judge Castellano, back in place.
His hand drops immediately. "My apologies."
The elevator empties. We're alone. Three floors to go.
"Don't do that again."
"Understood."
I should leave it there. I don't. "I don't need to be handled."
"No." Something flickers across his face. "You do not."
The doors open on twelve. I step out without looking back, but I feel him behind me.
He's watching. He's always watching.
I don't know yet if that's a threat or a promise.
The DeLuca hearing runs long.
Four hours of objections and evidence disputes and hollow-eyed family members in the gallery. The mother of one victim sits in the front row, clutching a photograph I can't see from the bench. Her daughter's face, probably. The girl who won't come home.
I keep my expression neutral. The mask firmly in place.
But underneath, something aches. Something always aches during these cases.
Do your job. Feel it later.
Cole sits in the back of my courtroom like a statue. I don't look at him, I can't afford the distraction, but I feel him there. That patient stillness. Those dark eyes tracking every person who enters and exits.
At 2:47, the prosecution calls Dr. Victoria Lockwood.
A blonde woman in mid-forties, with credentials that take two minutes to read into the record. She takes the stand with the practiced ease of someone who's testified dozens of times, settles into the witness chair, and describes the compound found in the victim's system with clinical precision
"A synthetic opioid derivative," she explains, her voice calm and professional. "Designed to suppress respiratory function while maintaining consciousness. The victim would have been aware of what was happening to her. Unable to call for help. Unable to fight back."
The mother in the gallery presses a hand to her mouth. A sound escapes, half sob, half keen, that she immediately smothers.
Don't react. Don't you dare react.
I keep my face neutral. Make a note on my legal pad. Pretend my hand isn't shaking.
A strong witness. Prosecution's best asset. The kind of expert testimony that makes juries weep and defense attorneys sweat.
I don't look at the back of my courtroom. I don't need to. I know he's there, still and watchful, and I hate how that knowledge sits in my chest like something warm.