Clayton shook his head as he waved Colin out of his office. “Egomaniac.”
Colin tossed his head back and laughed as he strode down the hall. “Goddamn right!”
Colin hated these types of cases most of all—child abuse, neglect, parents turning violent on their own kids. Today’s victim was ten-year-old Randy Blaire. A neighbor, Agatha Neilson, had seen it all from her window. Cases like this always clawed at the place where Colin still carried Joshua’s pain, stirring memories of what he had survived. He never cut theabusers any slack and always pushed for the harshest sentence the law would allow.
The courtroom wassilent except for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the faint scrape of chairs as people shifted in their seats. Colin rose from the Commonwealth’s table, adjusting his tie more out of habit than necessity.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” he said, voice steady, controlled. “The Commonwealth calls Mrs. Agatha Neilson to the stand.”
The bailiff escorted a small, silver-haired woman to the witness box. She clutched her purse to her chest as though it might anchor her against the tide of eyes fixed on her. Once sworn in, she sat stiffly, her hands twisting in her lap.
He moved closer, careful to angle his body so he didn’t loom over her, his tone softening to match the caution in his posture. “Mrs. Neilson, what did you see from your living room that afternoon?”
She glanced toward the defendant’s table—where Jacque Blaire sat staring at the tabletop—then back to Colin. Her throat worked as she swallowed. “I saw Mr. Blaire—Jacque—outside with his son,” she said. “I saw him punch Randy. More than once. Hard. Then he threw him against the wall.”
Gasps rippled softly through the gallery.
Colin’s expression didn’t change. It couldn’t. But inside, his pulse was steady and cold. “How clearly could you see what happened?”
“Very clearly,” she said. “My window was open and looked right into their yard. No trees or anything in the way.”
He nodded, letting her find her rhythm. “Had you seen anything like this before?”
She hesitated, eyes glistening. “I’ve heard yelling, lots of it. Sometimes I’d see him grab Randy, rough him up, but nothing like this.”
“Did anything in particular lead up to the assault?”
“They were arguing,” she said. “Something about a school paper. Randy was trying to explain, but then his father just… seemed to snap.”
Colin made a note he didn’t need to make. His mind had already memorized every word.
“What did Randy do afterward?” he asked quietly.
She looked down. “He just lay there. Didn’t move for a bit. Then he got up, really slowly. He looked dazed.”
“And Mr. Blaire?”
“Walked inside. Didn’t even look back.”
Colin took a breath through his nose, steady but sharp.
How many times had he seen this pattern? The bruises. The silence. The too-small voices trying to sound brave. He felt the familiar ache rise in his chest, a mix of anger and helpless empathy.
“What did you do then?”
“I called the police,” Mrs. Neilson said. “I was scared for that boy.”
Colin nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
He stepped back for a moment, letting her words hang in the air. He didn’t look at Blaire. He didn’t need to. He’d seen that kind of father before—too many times. The kind who thought power was the same as love, and that fear could take the place of respect.
No wonder Joshua still woke with nightmares.
Colin cleared his throat and stepped forward again, his tone quieter now, gentler. “Mrs. Neilson, why did you feel it was important to testify today?”
Her lower lip trembled. “Because… because someone has to stand up for Randy,” she whispered. “I can’t just pretend it isn’t happening.”
A long silence followed, broken only by the faint scratch of the court reporter’s keys.
