Footsteps approach. A man in a tailored suit appears—Luca Corzone. The only congenial face in this fluorescent purgatory.
He sets a paper cup on the table and crouches beside me. “Coffee. I asked for real cream; this was the best they could do.”
“Thanks.” My voice scrapes against my throat. “How bad?”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’ve charged you with second-degree murder.” The words feel like the cold metal chair. “You’ll see a judge within the hour. I’ve already spoken with the DA’s office. They’re not opposing bail, which means you’ll be home soon.”
Home. The word feels foreign. Like a place I might not be able to return to without the proper documents.
“Evidence?” I ask.
“They’re relying on timeline inconsistencies and witness testimony. We’ll dismantle both. But for now—don’t speak to anyone. No press, no detectives, no fellow inmates. Understood?”
I nod, but my thoughts are somewhere else—on Stella, who will wake to discover I’m gone, on Noah, who promised to tell her a version of the truth that hurts the least.
After spending a sleepless night in a holding cell, an officer arrives. This time, Luca Corzone is joined by a woman I’m introduced to as Shelly Madison. Both are in crisp suits that speak to their success in court. I’m allowed to change into the suit they brought me, although I have to do so behind open bars where others can see. The fabric clings cold against my skin; dignity, here, comes with a draft.
After what feels like an eternity, a uniformed officer gestures. “Time to go.”
My attorney straightens. “We’ll be right beside you.”
The hallway smells like disinfectants and metal. Every sound ricochets—doors shutting, pens clicking, someone shouting two rooms away. My heels echo like guilt.
We pass a glass window where a reporter waits with a camera. Luca shields me with his body from a lens I hadn’t noticed. The flash detonates again, and I flinch. Luca blocks half the view with his body, steering me toward the courtroom.
Inside, it’s bright and airless. The judge reads the charges in a measured voice that could belong to anyone’s nightmare. Her tone is patient, practiced—like this is paperwork. My name sounds detached, like a brand that no longer fits.
Luca Corzone speaks for me—firm, composed, the way I used to sound when defending someone else’s ruin. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
The words echo slightly, fragile as spun glass.
When the gavel drops, the sound is final, brutal, real.
They release me just past noon.
Outside, daylight feels punishing after the artificial glow. A breeze carries the city’s pulse—traffic, sirens, snippets of conversation.
Noah waits by the curb, arms folded, sunglasses hiding his eyes.
The moment he sees me, he steps forward, opens the passenger door, and my knees nearly fold.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
I manage a nod. My voice won’t work yet.
As the car merges into traffic, I glance at the side mirror.
Behind us, the courthouse looms—stone and steel and judgment.
Ahead, the sky stretches wide and indifferent.
For the first time since last night, I let myself breathe. But the air tastes like fear, and something else—resolve.
Because this isn’t the end of my story. It’s the beginning of my defense.
If this is about Vasquez, about Magpie, about an investigation, then whoever wanted me silenced just made their first mistake. If someone is counting on me breaking, they’re going to be disappointed.
Chapter