Nash continues smoothly, his voice casual but with steel underneath.
"I may be deemed a small lawyer from Oakridge by some people in this room. Just a local attorney handling minor cases in a rural town. Nothing impressive. Nothing important. But I think everyone in this courtroom seems to have forgotten something rather crucial about my professional background and credentials."
He pauses deliberately, letting the tension build throughout the room.
Timothy looks confused and slightly worried. Kael's smirk falters just slightly around the edges.
"I was part of Morrison & Associates," Nash says casually, dropping the name like a bomb. "One of the most prestigious law firms in the entire state. Perhaps you've heard of them, Mr. Hamilton? Considering they've beaten your firm in several high-profile cases over the years. The Henderson case. The Millbrook Development lawsuit. The State vs. Thornbury. Should I continue?"
Timothy's face goes visibly pale. Morrison & Associates is legendary in legal circles.
Everyone knows their reputation, or more importantly fears going up against them.
"And I'm still part of that firm," Nash adds with a sharp dangerous smile. "I didn't leave. I didn't retire. I simply relocated my practice to serve clients in rural communities who couldn't afford city lawyers. But I maintain my full partnership.I maintain my complete access to firm resources. I maintain all my professional connections and network. I never stopped being a Morrison & Associates attorney."
He looks directly at Kael with cold eyes.
"Which is perfectly ironic, because our actual lawyer…Ms. Bell's proper legal representation for this proceeding…has been watching you and your pack's movements ever since Reverie arrived in Oakridge six months ago. Long before we even met her. Long before she ever walked into our lives. We've been documenting everything. Recording everything. Preserving everything. Building a case."
The courtroom erupts in shocked whispers and exclamations. Kael's face turns bright red. Timothy looks like he just got punched in the stomach. The judge bangs her gavel for order.
Nash turns smoothly toward the back of the courtroom and gestures with one hand to the double doors.
"Your Honor, if I may formally introduce Ms. Bell's actual legal counsel for this proceeding."
The heavy courtroom doors swing open dramatically with a loud creak.
A man walks in with long confident strides that echo on the hardwood floor.
"I present Harold Morrison from Millbrook," Nash announces clearly. "Or as he's known officially in legal circles throughout the state—Harrison Gregory Markif. One of the best and longest-running lawyers in state history before his brief semi-retirement to Millbrook five years ago."
Wait.
Harold Morrison.
The sweet kind older man who helped us with Millie on the road when we reached Millbrook. The one who seemed like aharmless retired grandfather who liked helping young couples in trouble.
But the man walking down the center aisle doesn't look like that gentle grandfather anymore.
Not even close.
He's cleaned up in an immaculate three-piece suit—navy blue with subtle pinstripes, perfectly tailored to his frame. His gray hair is professionally styled and slicked back instead of the messy windblown look from Millbrook. His beard is trimmed neat and precise instead of slightly wild. He wears expensive-looking designer glasses with thin metal frames. Polished Italian leather shoes that probably cost a thousand dollars.
A silk tie with a subtle pattern. A watch that gleams gold on his wrist. He walks with the confident bearing of someone who's spent decades commanding courtrooms and winning impossible cases and destroying opponents.
He looks easily ten years younger than the man we met in Millbrook. More vigorous. More sharp. More dangerous. More powerful. This is a man who could destroy careers with a single motion. This is a man who wins cases.
He fooled us all.
Harold—Harrison—reaches the front of the courtroom with purposeful strides. He sets his expensive leather briefcase down on our table with a solid thunk. He gives me and the pack a quick wink, a flash of the warm kind man we met in Millbrook, before his expression shifts completely to pure professional intensity and legal focus.
He's been helping us this whole time.
Nash knew.
"Your Honor," Harrison says with a voice that fills the entire room with authority and command. "Thank you for allowing me to present on behalf of my client, Ms. Reverie Bell. I apologize for my theatrical entrance, but I thought it important to makea statement about underestimating small towns and the people who choose to live in them."
Judge Hawthorne smiles slightly. "Mr. Markif. I wondered if we'd see you before you fully retired. Welcome back to my courtroom."
