I sat in the gallery, my nails digging into my palms, as my mother, Judith, took the oath. Her hands were shaking, but when she looked at Grant, her expression hardened with a desperate, terrifying protective instinct.
“Mrs. Moore,” Vance asked softly, his tone dripping with manufactured sympathy. “When Lauren left home ten years ago, what was her mental state?”
My mother swallowed hard. She didn’t look at me. She stared straight at the jury, her eyes welling with perfectly timed tears. “She… she was unwell. Ever since the accident in Geneva. She was erratic. She yelled at Grant constantly. She couldn’t handle the pressure of losing her swimming career, and she started making up horrible stories. Grant tried to help her. He always tried to help her.”
The betrayal felt physical, like a cracked rib pressing into my lung. Even now, facing the destruction of their son, they were choosing the lie. They were choosing the son who had robbed the nation over the daughter who had bled for it.
