Resolve.
Cold. Focused. Unforgiving.
Because men like Evan Lemaire don’t stop. They escalate and repeat. They depend on silence, power, and the system looking the other way while they feed their appetites.
But not this time.
This time, we don’t look away. We don’t excuse. We hold the line.
This isn’t a simple case. It’s a pattern. It’s evil. And I’m here to burn it out at the root.
The court moves forward the way it always does. Motions. Arguments. Procedure wrapped in ritual and language meant to be orderly.
I do my job meticulously. The evidence has been presented—the video, timeline, and consent that never existed.
I know this case and what I’ve proven. I know what justice looks like when it’s done correctly. And somewhere between the last exhibit and the closing words, something shifts.
It’s subtle. Almost nothing.
But I’ve learned to recognize when my work is done, and the outcome is no longer in my hands.
Now all that’s left is to wait for the verdict.
I’m backin my office waiting for the jury’s verdict when Richard shows up. He doesn’t knock or ask if I have a minute. Just opens the door and comes in, tossing a folder onto my desk. It lands where my coffee should be.
“Another one,” he says.
The words are flat. Too flat. My gaze drops to the label before I can stop myself, and my stomach tightens hard enough to hurt.
“Same drug,” Richard continues, leaning back against the doorframe, arms crossed. His jaw works once, biting back something sharper. “Same m.o. Different girl.”
I flip the folder open.
Photos. Reports. A story that’s already too familiar.
“But this time, she almost didn’t make it,” Richard says.
My fingers still on the page.
“She was found behind the frat house in a dumpster. Sanitation workers pulled her out. Started CPR. Bought her enough time for EMS to get there.”
Not because anyone called for help. Not because anyone panicked.
Trash day saved this girl’s life.
Richard’s mouth tightens. “Evan Lemaire and another kid. Anaccomplice this time. He couldn’t carry her to the dumpster on his own. Dead weight’s heavy.”
I stare down at the file, at the clean language and tidy formatting meant to make something monstrous manageable. This isn’t a bad night, or a misunderstanding, or a mistake made once.
This is repetition. It’s growing confidence. It’s a man who believes there are no consequences and acted accordingly.
My hand curls against the folder, paper creasing under my grip.
Emily. Now this girl.
Different names. Same belief that women are objects you can drug, use, and discard when you’re finished with them.
Richard watches me for a beat. “You okay?”
