Chapter 2

The recess was called without explanation. Judge Miller simply lifted her gavel, brought it down once—a sound like a door closing—and said, "Fifteen minutes," before rising and disappearing into chambers.

The gallery exploded into whispers the moment she was gone. The sound was like a physical thing, a wave of voices that crested and broke against the walls. Clara heard fragments as she reached for her coat, trying to cover herself again: "Did you see—" "Those are—" "How old—" "Who did that to her—"

She did not look at Julian. She did not need to. She could feel his stare on her back like a hand pressed flat between her shoulder blades, and she knew what she would see if she turned: a man who had just watched his carefully constructed world begin to crack.

The coat felt heavy on her shoulders. She buttoned it slowly, deliberately, her fingers working the buttons one at a time while the whispers continued around her. Eleanor was hissing at Julian in the corner of the defense table, her voice too low to catch, but Clara could read the shape of it in her posture: one hand gripping his arm, her lips barely moving, her eyes darting around the room.

Julian's lawyer had not moved. The thin man in the grey suit stared at his yellow legal pad as if the answer to every question he had ever asked was written there, and he was terrified to look up.

Clara walked toward the back of the courtroom, toward the heavy wooden doors that led to the hallway. She needed air. She needed to be somewhere the walls did not press in on her.

She made it three steps before a hand caught her elbow.

"Ms. Vasquez."

The voice was female, low, and entirely without warmth. Clara turned. Standing behind her was a woman she did not recognize—short dark hair, a grey blazer that did not quite match the grey pants, and the flat, assessing gaze of someone who had spent her career watching people lie.

"I'm Detective Lena Ortiz," the woman said. "I need to talk to you. Now."