Chapter 3

The knowledge that Mark had a wife and child of his own, and that Sarah was playing the doting "Auntie" to them, festered inside me like a poison. The contrast was a physical sickness. I remembered all the times Sarah had sighed with exasperation when Lily asked for a story, or complained about the cost of her ballet classes.

A specific memory surfaced, sharp and ugly. Lily, just four years old, had spilled juice on one of Sarah' s legal briefs. Sarah hadn' t just gotten angry; she had screamed at her, calling her a clumsy, expensive mistake. I had stepped in, pulling my crying daughter into my arms while Sarah furiously tried to blot the papers dry, her face twisted with a resentment that, at the time, I had mistaken for stress. Now I saw it for what it was: pure contempt.

A terrible, chilling thought began to form in the deepest, darkest corner of my mind. What if Lily' s death wasn't just an accident Mark was callously dismissing? What if, for Sarah, it was a convenience? A problem solved? The thought was so monstrous I almost retched.

The day of the preliminary hearing arrived. Mark' s lawyer, a slick man in an oversized suit, approached me in the courthouse hallway. He offered a settlement, a disgustingly low number that was meant to be an insult.

"Mr. Thompson is deeply sorry for your loss and wants to resolve this amicably," the lawyer droned.

I looked past him at Mark, who was standing down the hall, smirking.

"Tell your client I' m not interested in his money," I said, my voice flat. "I want justice."

I walked into the courtroom and took my seat. My lawyer gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. The judge entered, and we all rose.

"The defense calls..." the bailiff began.

A figure in a sharp, dark pantsuit walked to the defense table. My blood turned to ice in my veins. The world seemed to tilt and spin, the sounds of the courtroom fading into a dull, rushing noise in my ears.

It was Sarah.

She placed her briefcase on the table, gave Mark' s shoulder a confident pat, and then turned to face the judge, her expression cool and professional. She was his lawyer. She was defending the man who killed our daughter.

Mark caught my eye from across the room and gave me a slow, arrogant smirk. It was a look of pure triumph.

Something inside me snapped. The grief, the betrayal, the rage-it all erupted in a single, primal roar. I launched myself from my seat, vaulting over the low barrier separating the gallery from the court.

"YOU KILLED MY DAUGHTER!" I screamed, my hands outstretched, aiming for Mark' s throat.

Bailiffs grabbed me, but I fought with the strength of a madman. It was Sarah who reached me first. She threw herself between me and Mark, her body a shield protecting him.

"David, stop it! You' re making a scene!" she yelled, her face inches from mine. She wasn't scared; she was furious, embarrassed.

"He killed her! And you' re defending him!" I spat, struggling against the arms that held me.

"Everyone deserves a defense, David," she said, her voice dripping with the self-righteous tone she used in court. "It' s my professional duty. Now you' re causing a disturbance and ruining my case!"

Her case. Not our daughter' s justice. Her case.

The hypocrisy, the absolute soullessness of her words, was more than I could bear. With a final surge of strength, I tore one arm free.

CRACK.

The sound of my hand connecting with her cheek echoed through the stunned silence of the courtroom. She stumbled back, her hand flying to her face, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

"All rise!" the bailiff yelled. "This court is in recess!"

They dragged me back to my seat, my body trembling, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The room cleared out in a flurry of whispers and shocked looks. But Mark didn' t leave. He waited until the room was nearly empty, then walked calmly over to me, a smug, predatory smile playing on his lips.