My father barely looked at the record.
“Impossible!” he shouted. “Chloe would never associate with Victor. She’s a good girl. Those records are fabricated.”
Julian left the registration page on the screen. My father was the first to look away.
After a doctor sedated my mother, an officer took her home. She could no longer finish the autopsy. My father stayed until Julian covered my body, then walked out with his coat hanging open.
I followed him home. His polished shoes clicked through the marble foyer. With no one there to meet him, the sound carried.
He stopped beside the console table. The purple orchid had browned at the edges and folded over its pot. I had watered it every Tuesday.
Files for his upcoming trial covered the study desk. Before every hearing, I sorted the motions, e
