Chapter 3: Five Minutes

Nine a.m., Conference Room B.

Fourteen people at the table.

Me at the wall, with a coffee carafe and a stack of napkins, because Camille made sure everyone saw exactly what I was for.

"That's Cole," she'd said on the way in, loud, warm, cruel. "She handles our boxes. Don't mind her."

One of Vale's lawyers had actually laughed.

The crime scene photos went up on the screen and my whole body reacted before my brain did — that old animal lean toward the evidence, that itch in my fingers for a legal pad.

I made myself look at the carpet.

Camille presented beautifully. She's good at this part. Voice like a documentary narrator. Slides that looked like a fashion campaign.

Then Sebastian Vale started asking questions.

"Your theory is accidental death during an argument."

"Correct."

"Six firms told me to plead this out. You're telling me it's an accident."

"Six firms were conservative."

"Or six firms were honest." He tapped the table once. "Explain the stairs."

Camille didn't blink. "Ms. Reyes fell during a heated exchange. Theo panicked. That's not murder. That's manslaughter at worst, and juries forgive panic."

"So you're telling the jury he was in the room."

"He found her. He called 911. He was obviously in the house."

"In the house. Was he in the room?"

Silence.

Three seconds. Four.

I have seen lawyers blow a whole reputation in four seconds. It doesn't sound like anything. It's just a person breathing wrong.

"We'd argue he was present at the moment of the fall," Camille said.

"Present. With his hands on her?"

"...Possibly in contact."

"Possibly." Vale's voice never rose. That was the worst part. "My brother's freedom is not possibly important to me."

Marsh jumped in. "Mr. Vale, Ms. Whitlock is one of the finest—"

"Mr. Marsh, I've read your quarterly revenue. You need my ninety million more than you need your dignity, so please stop talking."

Marsh stopped talking.

Vale looked back at Camille. "I'll ask once more. If the jury doesn't buy the fall, what's left?"

"We would... pivot at trial."

"To what?"

"To — that would depend on the testimony."

"You don't have one." He said it flatly. "You have a beautiful slide deck and no plan for the only thing that's actually going to happen in that courtroom."

He stood up and buttoned his jacket.

"We're done. Vale Capital withdraws. I'll take Theo to Boston Monday."

Marsh stood too fast, knocked his water over. "Mr. Vale—"

"The plea offer expires Friday," the consultant said quietly from the screen. "After that the DA goes for the top count. Boston won't be ready. It's life without parole."

And that sentence went through me like a blade.

Life without parole.

I know exactly what that looks like. I know what it looks like when twelve strangers file back into a room and won't meet your eyes, and your father's hand goes still on the table next to yours.

Two voices in my head.

Not your business. You're the file girl. You have a small quiet life and it doesn't hurt anymore.

It always hurt. You just stopped calling it that.

Vale was three steps from the door.

The carafe was still in my hand.

"Mr. Vale."

My voice came out steady. It surprised me more than anyone.

Fourteen heads turned.

Camille's face went white, then red. "Cole—"

"Give me five minutes," I said.

The room made a sound. Someone actually laughed. Marsh said, "Get her out of here—"

"She has a coffee pot in her hand," Camille hissed. "Mr. Vale, I apologize—"

Sebastian Vale didn't look at Camille.

He turned around fully, and looked at me, and something in his face was not surprise.

It was recognition. Like a man confirming a suspicion he'd been carrying since yesterday morning at 8:59 a.m., when he watched a woman in a dishwater blazer read a memo in nine seconds and go pale.