I rise from the table and follow her out.
twenty-eight
Angelina
Movement in the gallery. Someone entering late.
My eyes flick up from defense counsel's motion—and the courtroom falls away.
Cole is at the front today. Three feet from the bench instead of his usual post by the door. Close enough to reach me. Too far to reachher.
Her.
Victoria Lockwood. Back row. Brown hair pulled back, professional blazer, pleasant expression. The same face that delivered expert testimony from my witness box. The same woman who's killed fourteen judges and left flowers on their graves.
My heart slams against my ribs. My hand finds the medal under my blouse before I can stop it.
No. Not here. Not in front of her.
Breathe. Your face is stone. You're presiding. You don't flinch.
Victoria's eyes find mine across the room. She smiles. Pleasant. Almost friendly.
I hold the gaze. Don't blink. Don't look away. My jaw aches from clenching and I force it to relax, muscle by muscle. Hands flat on the bench where no one can see them shaking.
Smile while you can.
She holds for three seconds. Four. Then she's rising, turning toward the back door like she just remembered somewhere else to be.
Cole moves, but the gallery is packed—lawyers, reporters, family members of the accused. By the time he reaches the aisle, the door is already swinging shut.
His hand goes to his earpiece. I give him the barest nod.
Later.
"Your Honor? Regarding the scheduling—"
I handle it. Somehow. Voice steady, rulings delivered, gavel down.
The SUV pulls away from the courthouse, and everything I was holding cracks open.
My hands are shaking. Not the fine tremor from the courtroom—full shakes, visible, embarrassing. I press them flat against my thighs.
"Chesca?" The question comes out rough.
"Safe. Mira's been sending updates." Cole's voice is calm. "Jax is teaching her math through racing statistics. Vanessa built her a history video game."
I turn to stare at him. "Vanessa made a video game? In two days?"
"Xander helped with the explosions. Historically accurate explosions, apparently."
A laugh escapes, cracked and wrong-sounding, but real. "She's never going to want to come home."
The word lands wrong.Home.Where I'm heading now. Where Victoria will come.
Cole takes the turn toward my neighborhood, and my hands start shaking again.
"Frost picked her up two blocks from the courthouse." His voice stays steady, like he hasn't noticed. "Extended stay hotel near the Financial District. Three weeks she's been there."
