Sam
The courthouse smells like old wood and disinfectant.
I've been sitting in the gallery for six hours, listening to testimony about Carl Brennan's trafficking operation. The prosecutor is methodical, building the case piece by piece—financial records, witness statements, forensic evidence from the warehouse.
They haven't called me to testify yet. That comes later.
For now, I'm just here. Watching. Listening.
And trying not to fall apart.
The other girls are scattered throughout the courtroom—some sitting with family members, some with social workers, some alone. I recognize a few faces from the warehouse. The girl who brought me clothes—Lily. The one who was sold right before me, the one who didn't fight back when they stripped her.
I don't know her name.
The judge calls for a r
