All Chapters of Heartbreak And Wars: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

Blake's PovThe ankle monitor weighs more than its physical mass suggests.I sit on my couch, staring at the black device strapped above my foot, feeling like a modern-day Hester Prynne with my scarlet letter reimagined in plastic and electronics.It’s not a scarlet letter that the world can see, but one that reminds me every second of my punishment, of my standing in a system that has already judged me guilty in the court of public opinion.I shift my foot, trying to get comfortable, but the strap digs in, pressing a reminder of my restrictions.“Stop looking at it,” Wes calls from the kitchen, where he’s making coffee.He’s been staying over since my release, unofficial guardian, roommate, and stubborn best friend all in one.The smell of fresh coffee curls through the apartment, a small comfort, but not enough to lift the weight of the monitor, the accusations, the invisible eyes that track me even in my own home.“Hard not to,” I mutter. “It beeps if I go more than fifty feet from

Jordan's PovI watched Blake's interview from my office, door closed, volume low. My assistant thinks I'm on a conference call. In reality, I'm watching the person I've been avoiding for two weeks bare his soul on television.He looks tired. Sincerely, nothing like the criminals I've prosecuted in the past. But then again, the good ones never do.I’ve seen manipulative types, people who smile while spinning lies, crooks who can charm the press while lying through their teeth. Blake isn’t like that. Not even a fraction of it.Rachel Torres is handling the interview well, tough questions without being antagonistic. I watch her lean in, the way she tilts her head slightly, her voice firm but measured.Blake’s responses are measured, careful. I can see Thompson’s coaching in every pause, every diplomatic non-answer about who might have framed him.The kind of coaching that teaches you to stay calm when the world assumes you’re guilty, that tells you what to reveal and what to hold back.

Jordan's PovWe eat in relative silence, sandwiches unwrapped on paper plates, the awkwardness thick enough to slice.I'd forgotten how much Blake loves pastrami on rye from this specific deli, but watching him eat now, I can see the nostalgia is tainted by everything that stands between us."I've been following your crowdfunding campaign," I say eventually. "It's impressive. Almost seventy thousand now?""Seventy-two as of this morning." Blake takes another bite, and I can tell he's choosing his words carefully. "It's overwhelming, honestly. All these strangers believing in me when people who actually know me have doubts."I set down my sandwich. "I never said I doubted you.""You didn't have to. It's in every carefully worded text, every day you didn't call, every excuse for why you couldn't visit." Blake meets my eyes. "I'm not an idiot, Jordan. I know what doubt looks like.""It wasn't doubt. It was fear.""What were you afraid of?"I'm quiet for a long moment, staring at my han

BLAKEThompson's office is downtown, in one of those buildings that tries too hard to look prestigious with its marble lobby and overpriced art.I've been here four times now, and each visit feels more surreal than the last, like I'm an actor playing the role of "defendant" in someone else's legal drama.Wes drives me, since I can't go anywhere without notifying my parole officer.The ankle monitor has a GPS range, and downtown is right at the edge of it. One wrong turn and I'd be violating my bail conditions."You okay?" Wes asks as we ride the elevator to the twelfth floor."No. But I'm here."Thompson's waiting in a conference room, documents spread across the table like evidence at a crime scene. He looks tired but energized in that way lawyers get when they've found something useful."Blake, thanks for coming." He gestures to a chair. "We've had some interesting developments.""Good interesting or bad interesting?""Potentially very good." Thompson slides a folder across the tabl

Blake's PovThompson schedules an interview with Sarah Chen for Thursday afternoon.He wants me there, watching through the two-way mirror in his office conference room, listening to her responses, seeing if anything jogs my memory about our working relationship."She's not a suspect," Thompson clarifies as we wait for her to arrive. "At this point, she's a potential witness.”“We need to establish whether she had contact with Brennan after he left, whether she accessed your credentials, whether she noticed anything unusual in the system.""And if she's the one who helped him?""Then we handle it carefully. We don't accuse, we don't pressure. We just gather information." Thompson adjusts his tie. "Let me do the talking. You just watch and listen."Sarah arrives fifteen minutes early, looking nervous. She's younger than I remembered, mid-twenties, fresh out of grad school when she started at the organization.She's wearing business casual and carrying a laptop bag, like she came straig