Chapter 3

I refused their money.

I told Susan Jennings to her face, when she sent a lawyer to my small apartment with a check and a non-disclosure agreement.

"My daughter's life isn't for sale."

The lawyer, expensive suit, smug face, just shrugged. "Suit yourself. The offer won't last."

I tried to talk to reporters. Other stations. The city paper.

Doors closed. Calls weren't returned.

The Jennings family had long arms. Richard, the councilman, knew everyone. Susan, with her state-level connections, could make careers or break them.

I was just Martha King, a part-time jazz singer with a dead daughter and no power.

My old club owner, Sal, he tried to help. "Martha, these people are poison. You can't win."

"I have to, Sal. For Emily."

I made a sign. "Justice for Emily King. Kevin Jennings Murdered My Daughter."

I stood outside City Hall.

People stared. Some whispered. Some hurried past.

After an hour, two security guards, big guys, came out.

"Ma'am, you can't do this here. You're disturbing the peace."

"My daughter was murdered. There is no peace," I said.

They grabbed my arms. Roughly.

My purse fell. Its contents spilled.

Lipstick. Keys. My worn wallet.

And James's Medal of Honor.

I always carried it. For strength.

It skittered across the pavement, stopping near a polished shoe.

Kevin Jennings.

He was there, with his father, probably for some city council photo op.

He looked down at the medal. Smirked.

Then he stepped on it. Deliberately. Grinding his heel.

"Oops," he said, not looking at me, but at his father. A shared, ugly glance.

Councilman Jennings pulled him away, his face a mask of plastic concern for the cameras that suddenly appeared.

The guards dragged me up.

One of them picked up the medal, dirt smeared on the blue ribbon, the bronze star scratched. He handed it to me without a word.

I clutched it. It felt cold. Violated.

They had trampled on James's honor. On Emily's memory. On me.

The rage inside me burned hotter. This was war.