Three years later, one line remained on the page: *Final appeal denied. The sentence is to be carried out as scheduled.*
The climate control hummed in my chambers. For three years, I had left the prosecution, trial, and appeals to the courts assigned to them.
The evidence had carried the case without my help. Now the final document sat before me.
I had interfered only at the initial arrest. Every later ruling came through the same process Chloe had once manipulated.
I signed *Eleanor Vance Hughes* and slid the paper into the outbox.
Through the one-way glass, I watched Chloe strapped to a gurney in the pale green execution chamber. Three years in Blackgate had left her gaunt.
Her hair hung thin around her face, and her eyes moved constantly.
The confident courtroom lawyer was gone.
