CHAPTER 230: STORIES

The prosecutor, Ms. Desmara, stood now. A small woman with sharp features, she looked like she’d been waiting for this moment all day.

She approached the jury box slowly, arms behind her back, then turned to face the room.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, her voice measured and calm, "the defense has painted Maria-Isabel Williams Lewis as a desperate mother. A victim. A woman with no options. And today, we were presented with a surprise witness meant to reinforce that narrative."

She paused, walking over to the evidence screen.

"But allow me to remind you of the facts. There are two dead men. Two. One of whom was found hidden in a refrigerator, a calculated decision made after he was killed. The other, stabbed over a dozen times while unconscious."

She turned to Maria, who sat rigid in her seat.

"Does that sound like a woman acting in the heat of the moment?"

She clicked the remote. Photos appeared on the screen—crime scene photos. The jury flinched. Even Ethan tensed beside Maria.

"This," Desmara said, gesturing to the grisly images, "is not self-defense. This is rage. This is cleanup. This is someone who had hours—hours—to call the police, to seek help, to protect her daughter in any legal, humane way."

Maria looked away.

Desmara let the silence stretch before turning back to the jury.

"And this woman..." she said, holding up a photo of Elena Araya, "shows up from the shadows with a story of her own abuse. Is it moving? Yes. Is it tragic? Of course. But let’s not forget—she is not on trial. And her word is not evidence of what happened in that apartment."

She turned now, narrowing in on Ethan.

"And Mr. Anderson? The defense attorney has hidden the fact that he has a personal connection to the defendant. A man who has manipulated this courtroom before, bending the truth to serve his guilt."

Ethan’s jaw tightened.

"And yet here we are," she continued, circling back to the jury. "A double homicide. That is not survival. That is evasion. That is fear of getting caught."

Desmara turned fully toward the jury, her voice now dropping.

"Sympathy is powerful. But so is justice. We do not convict based on pain, or motherhood, or tears. We convict based on the law."

She stepped back.

"Ask yourself: would a truly innocent woman bury a man in a fridge and not speak a word... until now?" She sat down, eyes sharp as a dagger.

The court went still.

Maria swallowed hard. Ethan leaned in, whispering, "She’s playing the only hand she has—doubt. But we still have the truth."

Across the room, one juror scribbled furiously. Another looked up from the photo display, her brow furrowed. It was working, but not on everyone.

—-

Evening – The Shepherd Family Estate

The sun was long gone when Stefan pulled into the driveway. The house glowed gently, lit by warm amber lamps through the wide windows. He sat in the car for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, trying to shake off the weight of the day.

Aveline’s voice still echoed in his mind. "I’m not hurting myself. I’m surviving."

He exhaled, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

In the living room, Stanley was sprawled on the couch with a book, glasses sliding halfway down his nose. Steve sat in the armchair, covered with a soft throw, legs still weak but mobile enough now that he could move from room to room with support.

And Steve looked brighter tonight. Less pale. He was smiling at something Stanley had said.

Stefan paused by the doorway.

"I ran into Aveline today," he said, without ceremony.

Stanley looked up. "That’s the girl you wanted to propose to?"

Stefan gave a dry chuckle. "Yeah. That one."

Steve sat up a little straighter. "And?"

Stefan walked over, poured himself a glass of water from the bar cart. He didn’t sit—just leaned against the table, choosing his words carefully.

"She was at the hospital. Came in for a routine checkup."

Stanley raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

Stefan looked at him evenly. "The kind of women do when they’ve been sexually active with... multiple partners. She does it weekly."

The silence that followed wasn’t judgmental—just surprised.

Steve rubbed a hand down his face. "That’s a hell of a first impression."

"I already saw her with two men," Stefan said quietly. "Three, actually. I didn’t mean to. It just... happened."

Stanley whistled under his breath. "Well. That’s complicated."

Stefan finally sat. Not like a man who wanted to unburden himself—more like someone who needed to stop standing.

"She’s not... what I thought," he murmured. "But she’s not broken either. She’s sharp. Tough. Exhausted in a way that goes beyond being tired. I don’t think she trusts softness anymore."

Steve watched him, brow furrowed. "So why are you telling us this?"

"Because," Stefan said, staring at his hands, "I wanted to hate her. It would’ve been easier. But I can’t. And I don’t know if that means something... or just means I’m in over my head."

Stanley stood, crossed to the bar, and poured himself a drink. "People carry their damage differently. You’ve got yours. She’s got hers. Doesn’t mean you have to fix her."

"I don’t want to fix her," Stefan said. "I just... saw something today. Something real under all of it. And it felt familiar."

Steve’s voice came quieter now. "Are you scared you care, or scared she might?"

Stefan didn’t answer.

Stanley gave him a rare, unguarded look. "We all carry someone we can’t name yet. Maybe she’s just yours for a while. Doesn’t mean she has to stay."

They let the silence stretch after that. Not heavy. Just quiet.

In the next room, Mara was putting the twins to bed, unaware that her brothers were sitting in the soft hush of their own confessions.

–

The water poured over Stefan’s shoulders, hot and steady, fogging the glass. He stood still beneath the stream, head bowed, palms pressed flat against the tiles. For the first time in what felt like months, he let himself feel something other than duty.

Steve was improving.

It wasn’t miraculous—but it was real. His legs had twitched again that afternoon. The scans showed progress. The serum had begun to awaken dormant nerves. A quiet victory, a miracle stitched into science.

For a flicker of a moment, Stefan had felt peace.

But peace didn’t last.

Not with the memory of Aveline’s voice curled up inside his chest like a coil of smoke.

Not with the questions.

He turned off the shower, grabbed a towel, and padded into his room. Water still dripping down his back, he went to the drawer where Steve had once kept his files. Stefan had seen it briefly—a folder, tagged with Aveline’s name, tucked among other quiet investigations the family had run when she first entered their world.

He pulled it out.

Sat on the edge of the bed.

Started reading.