"We're selling a story." I adjust the collar of my jacket. Navy blue. Pressed this morning. Professional. "The story of a woman who escaped a bad situation and found people who give a damn about her."
"Very romantic."
"It's the truth."
Nacho materializes on my right, uniform crisp, badge polished, expression carved from granite. He's been up since four, coordinating with his deputies, making sure the crowd stays manageable. Dark circles shadow his eyes, but his posture is military-straight.
"Perimeter's secure." His voice is low, meant only for us. "No sign of Callum or his parents."
"They'll be watching." I scan the crowd, the parked cars along the street, the windows of shops facing the square. "Somewhere."
"Let them watch." Carlos drains his coffee. "Let them see exactly what they're up against."
The municipal building looms behind us, red brick and white columns, built in 1923 when Largo Waters was a logging town with aspirations of grandeur. The clock tower at the top shows three minutes to eight. Inside, Mayor Patricia Delgado is probably pacing her office, wondering how her quiet little town ended up on the evening news.
Sorry, Patricia. Collateral damage.
Pedro climbs the steps from the parking lot, white coat exchanged for a charcoal sweater and dark slacks. He cleaned up well. Shaved the stubble he's been cultivating all week. Evencombed his hair, though the cowlick at his crown refuses to cooperate.
"She's ready." He stops beside Nacho. "Nervous as hell, but ready."
"Where is she?"
"Inside. With Rosa Castellano." Pedro's jaw tightens. "The reporter wanted a few more minutes for background."
Rosa Castellano. Investigative journalist. Three years spent digging into the Morrison family's dirty laundry. She showed up yesterday with a folder full of sealed records and a personal vendetta that made her very useful.
Turns out Callum has a history. Previous girlfriends who tried to press charges. Allegations that got buried under settlement agreements and NDAs. A pattern of behavior that his family's money has been covering up for over a decade.
Jessica isn't his first victim. She's just the first one who fought back.
"Two minutes." I straighten my shoulders. "Positions."
My brothers spread out behind me. Carlos on the left, casual but alert. Nacho on the right, badge visible, authority radiating off him in waves. Pedro slightly behind, arms crossed, the concerned medical professional ready to discuss his patient's wellbeing if anyone asks inappropriate questions.
The front door of the municipal building opens.
Jessica steps out.
My chest tightens.
She's wearing a dress I've never seen before. Deep green wool that hugs her curves and falls to her knees. Brown boots with low heels. A cream-colored coat that Carlos bought her last week, though she doesn't know that. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a simple twist, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
She looks beautiful. She looks terrified.
Rosa Castellano follows close behind, with her tablet in hand. Mid-forties. Sharp features. Grey streaks in her black hair that she hasn't bothered to cover. She's wearing a red blazer that stands out against the muted colors of the crowd, a deliberate choice. She wants to be seen.
Jessica's eyes find mine. Wide. Uncertain.
I hold her gaze. Give her a single nod.
You've got this. We've got you.
She takes a breath. Squares her shoulders. Moves to stand beside me on the steps.
"Ready?" My voice is low, meant only for her.
"No." Her hand finds mine, fingers cold despite her coat. "But let's do it anyway."
