The plane touched down in the rain, the tires screeching against the tarmac like a warning.
Chapter 2: The Resurrection
That Tuesday morning, the federal courthouse in downtown Boston smelled of industrial lemon polish, burned chicory coffee, and the unique, sour sweat of fear that people try to disguise with three-thousand-dollar suits.
I stood in the shadows of the heavy oak doors at the rear of the courtroom, listening to the muffled drone of the proceedings. My brother, Grant, sat at the defense table. Through the narrow glass pane, I could see his navy-blue suit, perfectly tailored, his back rigidly straight. He wore the same calm, practiced expression he had used to convince the world that his little sister was a monster.
Behind him sat my parents, Warren and my mother, Judith Moore. They were dressed as if sheer dignity could still save them. Judith clutched her quilted leather purse with both hands, her knuckles white. Warren stared at the mahogany wood of the judge’s bench like respectability might still miraculously shield what remained of our family name.
