They were expecting a routine hearing. A wrist-slap. A quiet settlement orchestrated by their high-priced shark of a lawyer, Marcus Vance.
They had no idea I was standing twenty feet away.
The prosecutor, a sharp-eyed woman named Sarah Jenkins who was one of the few people who knew my real identity, approached the podium. “Your Honor, the prosecution calls its final, and most crucial, witness. A special consultant for the Department of Justice.”
The judge nodded. “Call your witness, Counselor.”
“The prosecution calls Lauren Moore.”
The silence in the courtroom was instantaneous and absolute. It was the kind of silence that precedes a shockwave.
I pushed the heavy oak doors open.
My black leather heels struck the marble floor. Clack. Clack.
Before I even reached the wooden gate, my mother’s purse slipped from her lap, hitting the floor hard enough to echo. Half the gallery turned. My father rose halfway from his seat, his face draining of blood, caught in a purgatory between shock and pure, unadulterated panic.
