Brent’s mouth sets in a hard line. “We tried, at first. But Carter and Hughes made it clear that if we caused trouble, we were out. No jobs, no references, nothing. The firm’s reputation was worth more than any one client. And later—” He shrugs. “Later, it felt like it was too late. We needed a smoking gun. We needed the right moment.”
James’s hand squeezes mine. “We kept working on it. We built the case, piece by piece, and when Carter retired, we finally had room to maneuver. Then you showed up.”
I blink, startled. “Me?”
James’s smile is real, a little sad. “You were the first person to ever call us on our bullshit. To dig, even when we told you to stop. You reminded us thatthismattered. That lives are hangingin the balance, and that no one deserves to die, no matter how heinous the so-called crime.”
I bite my lip. I want to say thank you, but it’s not enough. I want to scream at them, but it won’t change the past. Nothing will bring my dad back from the dead, so all I can do is press my hand over the folder and try to steady myself.
Brent watches me, his gaze steady. “You still want to pursue this?”
I nod.
James’s voice is soft. “It won’t be easy, but we’ll be with you every step of the way, baby girl. You can count on us.”
I close the folder, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. The evidence is heavy in my lap, but the real weight is somewhere in my breast—a deep, pulsing ache I didn’t know I could feel.
For a moment, no one speaks. The kitchen is silent, except for the tick of the fridge and the slow cool-down of the range top.
I look at the men, both waiting. Both uncertain. Both, in their own way, as raw and exposed as I am.
I clear my throat. “Thank you,” I say, and this time, I mean it.
James gives my hand one last squeeze before letting go.
Brent leans back, eyes on the city outside. “It’s not over until you decide it is, Marnie. And again, we’re with you every step of the way. For as long as you want.”
I let myself believe it.
And for the first time in years, I think I want to try.
For a long time,none of us moves. The coffee is gone; the sun has shifted, spotlighting the dust on the marble. I run my finger along the lip of the mug, unsure what to say or do next. The folder is heavy in my lap, my thumb hooked under the edge. I want to keep looking, but I also want to burn it, or maybe just throw it out the window and pretend none of this ever happened.
But my dad is dead, and I can’t. I have to face this.
James pours another cup, this time for himself, and sits beside me again, closer than before. His thigh presses lightly against mine. The weight is warm and reassuring, helping me to loosen a bit.
Brent's the one who finally talks. “You ever notice how the world doesn't reward people for telling the truth?” He says it like a man who's tested the hypothesis.
I shake my head. “I guess I thought it did, if you yelled loud enough.”
He smiles, wry and thin. “That's what I used to think. My dad—he was an asshole, but he had this rule. ‘Never show weakness. Never admit you’re scared. If you do, they’ll eat you alive.’” Brent looks up at the city beyond the glass, expression tense. “He started hitting me when I was five. Once, he broke my nose and told everyone I tripped over my own feet. I lied for him every time, right up until the day he died.”
He stops, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “Only time I ever told the truth was in court. Didn’t matter. No one cared, so I stopped trying. But your dad—Stanley—he didn’t stop. Even when itfucked him. That’s what made me furious, I think. He wouldn't play the game.”
I stare at Brent, not sure what to say. It's the first time I've ever heard him talk about anything personal, and it leaves a strange, heavy ache in my chest.
James clears his throat, softer than I've ever heard. “I, too, have a sad story which brought me to criminal justice. My brother was eight years older. He was smart. Brilliant, really. But he got arrested—wrong place, wrong time, drugs that weren’t even his. Our parents mortgaged everything, fought for him, but the system didn’t give a shit. He died in prison.” James looks down at his hands, knuckles white. “Turns out the DA’s office lied, the lab faked a result. It was overturned, but too late. I was sixteen. Decided that day I was going to ruin every bastard who did that to him.”
James’s eyes are haunted, but he finds my gaze again, and for a second there’s nothing between us but the shared understanding of loss.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it.
The huge man gives a slow shrug. “Life goes on. You make something of it. But that’s why I couldn’t let your dad’s case go, not really. Even if I told myself I had.”
I let the words hang for a minute, soaking them in. I never thought of these men as anything but wolves—untouchable, hungry, perfectly at home in the glass and steel. But now I see the cracks, the glue that holds them together. It’s not money, or power, or even a win in court. It’s their haunted pasts, and the difficult experiences they’ve encountered.
I close the folder and set it on the counter. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” I ask, the question too simple to be a real accusation. “If you were always committed to Stanley’s case, why didn’t you say so? Why the whole rigamarole, with me taking on two men, and inserting pens and Sharpies, and fingers and all that, into me?”
