Echoes of Justice
Chapter 1
The first scream echoed off the courthouse walls before Elena Marquez even saw who it belonged to.
She spun around in the hallway, case files clutched to her chest, just in time to see a woman shoved against the marble pillar by two uniformed bailiffs. Reporters swarmed forward like a feeding frenzy, cameras snapping, microphones lunging. Rain streaked in from the open double doors, soaking the tile floor and adding a slick shine to everything. Outside, jeepneys honked and thunder rolled over General Santos City, a storm building both in the sky and inside the courthouse.
Elena’s heart kicked once, hard. The accused—Teresa Alonzo, her client—was crying out her children’s names. “Please—let me see them—” Her wrists were cuffed, her eyes wild. The bailiffs dragged her toward the courtroom door as if she were a bomb about to go off.
“Enough!” Elena’s voice cracked through the chaos. “She’s with me.” She thrust her badge and paperwork at the bailiff. “Uncuff her before trial. That’s the deal.”
The taller bailiff gave her a flat look but eased his grip. Teresa sagged, trembling. Elena slipped an arm under hers and guided her through the crush of bodies. Cameras flashed. She felt their heat even through her eyelids.
Then, without warning, it hit her—the whisper.
Not a sound exactly, but a low vibration in her skull. He’s here.
She froze mid-step. Teresa hadn’t spoken; her lips were pressed white. Yet the words vibrated in Elena’s mind with the sting of a live wire. Her fingers went numb. For a moment she was ten years old again, crouched under a cot in Cotabato, trying to block out her parents’ shouting and the strange voices that sometimes bled through walls and skin.
Not now. Not here.
“Elena?” Teresa’s voice wobbled, thin as tissue. “Please.”
Elena forced a steady breath, anchoring herself with the weight of her leather case file. “You’re safe,” she lied. “Let’s go.”
They entered the courtroom. The storm outside rattled the stained-glass windows, casting fractured light across the jurors’ faces. Ceiling fans churned uselessly. The scent of wet coats and cheap coffee mixed with tension so thick she could taste it. Reporters lined the back wall like a row of vultures.
“Court is now in session,” Judge Collier snapped, gavel hammering like a gunshot.
Elena guided Teresa to the defense table. Her own hands were shaking; she flattened them against the wood—a ritual she had learned in law school to mask nerves. She caught the jury’s eyes one by one, searching for cracks. The whispers edged closer, flickering at the corners of her consciousness like moth wings.
He’s still alive.
The words sliced through her thoughts. She inhaled sharply. She had sworn off this ability after Manila—sworn off the headaches, the ethical landmines, the nights of insomnia. Yet here it was, sliding back into her skull like a blade.
The prosecutor launched into his opening statement, voice booming. “This is not self-defense. This is premeditated murder—” Elena barely heard him. Her gaze swept the courtroom automatically, tracking exits, faces, anomalies. That was when she saw him.
Near the prosecution’s table stood a man who did not belong to the usual circus of lawyers and aides. He was tall—well over six feet—with broad shoulders filling a navy suit, dark hair damp from the rain. One hand tucked into his pocket, the other balanced a thin leather folder. He wasn’t scribbling notes or shuffling papers; he was watching. Watching everything.
And watching her.
Their eyes locked. A flicker of recognition—or maybe challenge—passed between them. For a heartbeat, Elena’s mind went silent, as if even the whispers were holding their breath.
The clerk announced him: “Adrian Vale, consultant to the prosecution.”
Of course. She had read his journal articles, debated his theories in study groups. The profiler who claimed empathy could predict violence. The man law enforcement treated like an oracle.
He nodded slightly. A warning or a greeting—she couldn’t tell.
Elena forced herself to focus on the witness being sworn in. She rose for cross-examination, voice steady even as the migraine brewed behind her eyes. Her questions cut precisely, but the whispers pressed harder, jagged edges scraping her skull.
He’s going to find me.
Her client hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. Elena’s nails dug into the podium wood. She felt sweat bead at the base of her spine.
When she sat down again, Teresa grabbed her wrist. “I didn’t do it,” she hissed.
“I know,” Elena whispered back, though her voice trembled. Because the whisper in her head was louder than Teresa’s voice: He’s still alive.
The judge called a recess. Elena shot to her feet, desperate for air. She nearly collided with Adrian Vale in the aisle.
“Marquez,” he said quietly. His voice was a low vibration, neither hostile nor warm. Up close, his eyes were startlingly steady—dark brown flecked with gold, as if catching the courthouse’s fractured light. “You’re good in there. Your client’s lucky.”
“You’re with the prosecution,” she said, sharper than she intended.
“Consultant,” he corrected. “Profiler.” He extended a hand. She hesitated, then shook it, her palm cold. His grip was warm and firm. A subtle tremor passed between them—an echo of something she couldn’t name.
“You think she’s guilty?” she asked, her voice quieter now.
“I think she’s terrified,” he said. “And terrified people can be unpredictable.” His gaze dipped almost imperceptibly to her temple, as though he could sense the headache throbbing there.
She pulled back, papers clutched to her chest. “Excuse me.”
Outside, the storm had turned the courthouse steps into a waterfall of silver. She descended quickly, heels slipping on wet concrete. The whispers pulsed harder now, overlapping, a static hiss. She yanked her coat tighter and scanned the street out of habit. Jeepneys hissed past, headlights carving the rain. Someone across the road raised a phone, aimed it toward her. She looked away.
By the time she reached her car, her hands were trembling. She slid inside, locked the doors, and pressed her forehead to the steering wheel. Her breath came fast, shallow.
He’s coming for you, too.
The whisper chilled her spine. She jerked upright, eyes sweeping the parking lot. Nothing but puddles and tail lights.
She drove home in silence, every wiper swipe a metronome for her thoughts. In her apartment, she spread the case files across her kitchen table, the photographs and reports splayed like tarot cards. Her migraine drilled deeper, and her fingers traced the bruises on Teresa’s photograph.
In the next room, her phone buzzed—a blocked number, then silence.
Elena exhaled shakily. She could still feel Adrian Vale’s hand, steady and warm, as though it had anchored her for half a second. She knew he would not be a simple adversary. Maybe not an adversary at all.
Thunder cracked, rattling the window. For a moment she thought she heard a chorus of whispers beyond Teresa’s—a hundred voices, a city’s worth of secrets clamoring at the edge of her mind.
“I’m not losing it,” she murmured aloud. But she knew exactly what was happening.
Her gift was waking up.
And if she didn’t control it, it would devour her.
