The day Lyra’s trial opened, it drizzled.
Her lawyer tried claiming “lesser role,” that she was coerced by Crowley and the Shepherd’s people.
The prosecution submitted three pieces of evidence.
First: Hardware store CCTV—she chose the wrench herself, set to thirty-six millimeters, tried it three times.
Second: Bank records—over twelve years, she gradually moved $74,000 from the garage account.
Third: Forensic report—the DNA paper was real, the stamp fake.
Convictions stacked: eleven years.
When the gavel fell, she gripped the railing, looking for someone in the audience.
Mom wasn’t there.
Dad sat alone in the back corner, listening the whole time.
After court, I waited at the steps.
He walked over, umbrella tilted heavily toward me, half his shoulder wet.
“Dad.”
“Hm.”
“Let’s
