The waterfront was glowing.
Paper lanterns floated across the bay, casting golden light over the rebuilt boardwalk. Children laughed, elders prayed, and a hundred drones hovered above, streaming the event live to millions around the world.
It was the Kingsley-DeLuca Foundation's first public festival—an annual memorial for the lives lost to cartel violence.
Linda stood at the podium, wind tugging at her dark silk dress, the bronze thorned rose gleaming behind her.
Reporters filled the aisles.
Cameras blinked red.
The world held its breath.
She began to speak.
—
“My name is Linda Kingsley."
A hush fell.
“I was born into privilege. Raised in lies. Educated by criminals in velvet suits who called themselves my family."
Flashbulbs erupted.
“I stand here not because I'm innocent—bu
