Red: Claimed by the Keeper in the Tower

POV Red

The courtroom smells like old wood, sweat, and something sharp that makes my stomach twist. I stand with my hands clasped together, trying to look innocent while my whole body shakes. I count the faces in the gallery to keep from screaming. Forty-three. I count them again. Not one of them looks at me like they believe I'm innocent.

My roommate Becca is in the fourth row, her hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. She's the only one who still believes in me, but her faith can't save me. I learned that six days ago when the bail hearing went to hell.

"Murder in the first degree." The prosecutor's voice cuts through the room. "Premeditated. Calculated." He paints a picture of me I don't recognize—a monster who planned and executed the death of another human being. He talks about evidence, about motive, about how I carefully covered my tracks for months.

My chest feels hollow, like someone reached inside and ripped everything out.

I'm twenty-two. I'm a junior at Tulane studying art history. The worst thing I've ever done was cheat on a freshman art history exam. Now they're saying I killed someone.

My lawyer leans close, his breath hot against my ear. "Keep your face still. Don't show any emotion."

"I'm not feeling anything," I whisper back, though my heart is hammering against my ribs. "I don't understand how this is happening."

He doesn't answer, which tells me everything.

"Rosemary Jensen."

The judge speaks, and the room goes dead silent.

Harlan Knox. Fifty-three years old with silver temples and eyes that don't just look at you—they see right through you. My lawyer couldn't find anything useful in his clean public record, but looking at him now, I see things records don't capture.

I hold his gaze. Looking away feels like admitting guilt, and I didn't do this. His eyes are a pale grey-blue, and I can't tell exactly where he's looking, but I know he's focused only on me. The room blurs around us. There's just his face, mine, and thirty feet of charged air between us.

"The court finds the defendant guilty on all charges."

Becca gasps. My lawyer's hand tightens on my arm. Someone in the gallery cries out.

These sounds are distant, underwater.

My throat closes up. I breathe through my nose and count the wood panels behind Knox's head, telling myself my knees won't buckle because I won't let them.

Knox continues, his voice measured and severe, until he reaches my name again. Something changes in his tone then—a slight shift, a crack in his composure that I can't name yet.

"Rosemary Jensen is hereby sentenced to transportation to the Ile de Couverture penal colony, under joint French and Spanish colonial jurisdiction, for a period of no less than fifteen years."

"No!" Becca's voice cracks across the room. "No, that's wrong. She didn't do this. She couldn't have done this."

"Order in the court." Knox's voice is instantly composed again. "Bailiff, remove that woman if she cannot remain silent."

A murmur ripples through the gallery. Someone shushes her.

I don't turn around.

Fifteen years. The number sits in my chest like a stone, too heavy to comprehend. My lawyer is already whispering about appeals.

"We file tomorrow morning," he says under his breath, his fingers digging into my arm. "This isn't over."

"It feels over," I say, my voice trembling.

"It's not," he insists. "The evidence was circumstantial. We'll get this reversed, Rosie. I swear it."

"Don't swear things you can't guarantee," I say, my voice shaking. "Just file the appeal."

Knox brings the gavel down.

The sound echoes like a closing tomb. As the room erupts into the low roar of forty-three people who got exactly what they expected, Knox doesn't look at the gallery or the clerks. He stays on me.

A clerk leans in, whispering something to him, and the connection snaps. I'm suddenly just a convict again, a body in handcuffs being steered toward a door of no return.

Becca's voice cuts through the chaos, raw and breaking. "Rosie. Rosie, I'm going to fix this. I promise you, I'm going to fix this."

I want to scream that promises mean nothing, but the words won't come out. My throat won't open around them.

I don't look back. I can't.

This is a mistake, I tell myself. Someone will fix this. There are systems for this. Someone will find the truth and I'll go back to my textbooks and my ordinary life.

I tell myself this as the courtroom door clicks shut behind me.

The hallway hits me with fluorescent light that makes my eyes ache. Guards flank me on both sides. The air out here is different—no wood, no dread, just concrete and recycled nothing, and somehow that's worse.

I don't think about the evidence.

I think of Knox's eyes. The way they lingered a beat past the gavel. The way his voice changed when he said my name, just slightly, just enough.

I don't have a name for what I saw there.

I will.