“He said no,” Tony interrupted, his voice hard. “We’re going to trial.”
Rosalind’s gaze flicked to Tony, and something cold passed through her eyes. “You’re making a mistake, Mr. Gallagher. Both of you.”
“We’ll take our chances,” Tony said.
Rosalind slid the document back into her briefcase and snapped it shut. “Very well. I’ll see you inside.”
She smiled before turning and walking away, her heels clicking against the tile.
Mom’s hand tightened on my arm. “Simon—”
“I’m not taking a plea deal,” I said. “I’m not guilty of what she’s accusing me of.”
“But you confessed,” Dad said quietly.
“I know.” My voice cracked.
Tony stepped closer, his hand brushing against my lower back, a brief, grounding touch that no one else would notice. “We’re going to win this,” he said quietly. “Trust me.”
I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
But the fear in my chest wouldn’t let me.
The courtroom felt smaller than the last time I was here.
Rows of wooden benches filled the gallery, already packed with people. My parents sat directly behind me, with Sadie between them. The Silver Shadows filled the rest of the row and spilled into the one behind it. I could feel their presence like a wall at my back.
Tony sat beside me at the defense table, his briefcase open, documents spread out in front of him. He looked calm, composed, every inch the professional.
I felt like I was going to throw up.
Rosalind sat at the prosecution table across the aisle, her posture perfect, her expression serene. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t acknowledge me at all.
It was worse, somehow, than if she’d glared.
The door to the judge’s chambers opened, and the bailiff stepped forward.
“All rise,” he announced.
The room erupted in the sound of shuffling feet and rustling fabric as everyone stood.
Uncle Alex entered, his black robe flowing behind him, his expression stern and impartial. He took his seat at the benchand gestured for us to sit.
“Please be seated,” he said.
I sank into my chair, my hands gripping the edge of the seat.
Uncle Alex looked out over the courtroom, his gaze sweeping across the gallery before settling on the jury box. Twelve people sat there. Twelve people who’d known me for years, some my whole life, who would decide my fate. Some looked curious. Others looked bored. A few looked uncomfortable, like they didn’t want to be here.
I didn’t blame them.
“Ms. Winthrop,” Uncle Alex said, his voice carrying through the room. “You may deliver your opening statement to the jury.”
Rosalind stood, smoothing her skirt, and walked toward the jury box.
She didn’t look at me.
