Semua Bab EYES OPEN: Bab 151 - Bab 160

The rain thickens as we drive back to Clerkenwell, water streaming down the side windows of the dark sedan in heavy, distortion-filled lines.Neither of us speaks for the first ten minutes.Rhys drives with one hand on the wheel, his knuckles pale against the leather. His other hand remains clamped over mine on the center console, thumb stroking the band of my ring in a constant, subconscious rhythm."He wants to drag Evan into it," I say quietly, looking out at the blurred grey lights of the city.Rhys doesn't break his gaze from the road. "He is using whatever he thinks will make you hesitate.""Evan is just three years old," I say, my voice tightening. "He doesn't understand courtrooms. He doesn't understand why his father asked him to paint a dog.""Derek doesn't care about what Evan understands," Rhys replies, his tone dropping into that flat, dangerous register. "Derek cares about creating a story where he is the wronged husband. He thinks if he throws enough noise into that cou

The Signal Strategy office on a Wednesday morning smells of fresh espresso, polished oak, and new paint.The east light streams through the tall steel-framed windows, washing over the open-plan floor where Priya and Saoirse have already set up the autumn campaign boards. It is my first full week back at my desk, and despite everything, the space feels like an anchor.Behind the glass wall of my private office, Clara is fast asleep in her bassinet under Nora's watchful eye. Nora refused to stay at the apartment today, insisting that if I was going to be working, she was going to be the official gatekeeper of the fifth floor. Arlo is sprawled out across the rug near her feet, his one white ear forward, guarding the room with his usual quiet authority.Priya walks into my office carrying two porcelain mugs, setting one on my desk with a quiet, satisfied smile."The east light suits you," she says, leaning her hips against the edge of the dark wood. "Much better than Harlow.""Everything

The lockdown inside the remand facility takes effect within twenty-four hours.Moss confirms it on a Saturday morning call. Derek’s cell has been cleared of paper, pens, and personal items. The guard on his block who took five hundred pounds to carry a cream envelope out of the gates has been suspended, pending an internal investigation.Rhys listens to the prosecutor on speaker in our kitchen while he makes coffee.His face doesn't relax when Moss finishes speaking. He sets the kettle down, his broad hand flat against the cold quartz counter, his dark eyes fixed on the east window where the morning light is just beginning to cut through the city haze."Thank you, Moss," Rhys says flatly, and ends the call.Arlo sits near his feet, his one white ear forward, watching Rhys with his amber eyes.I come up behind my husband, sliding my arms around his waist, pressing my chest flat against his back. I feel the hard, coiled tension in his muscles, the way his body stays braced even in our o

Seven days before the trial, London turns cold.A sharp, crisp autumn wind sweeps through the streets of Clerkenwell, rattling the glass of our steel-framed windows and scattering golden leaves across the pavement below. Inside, the apartment is warm, quiet, and smelling of brewed coffee and cedar.I sit on the sofa with Clara in my lap. She is three months old now, her hands discovering her mouth, her dark eyes tracking every movement in the room. Arlo lies on the rug beside us, his chin resting on my foot, his one white ear forward in his endless, silent vigil.Rhys comes out of the study.He wears a dark knit jumper, sleeves pulled up to his elbows, exposing the thick forearms that carry the quiet power I rely on. He doesn't go to the kitchen. He walks straight to us, dropping to his knees on the hardwood floor beside the sofa.He reaches out, his thumb gently smoothing the soft, dark hair on Clara's head before his hand moves to my knee, his fingers squeezing firmly through the de

Derek takes the oath with his right hand raised high, his chin lifted, his shoulders thrown back. He looks like a man stepping onto a stage to receive an award rather than a defendant testifying in a double-felony criminal trial.Miller stands beside the defense table, looking like he wants to disappear through the floorboards."Mr. Vann," Miller begins, his voice strained and quiet. "Please state your name for the court.""Derek Vann," he says clearly, his voice echoing through the high-ceilinged room."Mr. Vann, I want to direct your attention to the events of Monday, June 14th," Miller says, reading from his notes. "The day you escaped from transport custody. Can you explain to the jury what was going through your mind?"Derek doesn't look at Miller. He doesn't look at the twelve jurors sitting in two neat rows to his left.His eyes lock onto mine in the front row of the public gallery."I wasn't trying to escape the law," Derek says, his tone smooth, measured, and dripping with re