Chapter 2

A Name from the Past “What did you find?” “You were right. Veronica had a private bank account in the Caymans. Started transferring money six months before she died. All in her name. No mention of Aidan.” Cassidy’s jaw tenses. “Amount?” “Just over two point eight million.” “Jesus.” She swipes rain off her cheek. “Motive for him, or motive for her?” “That’s the thing,” Maddox says. “Her assistant? Went missing three days after the murder. Veronica listed her as a beneficiary on a separate policy. Half a million. No media mention. No police report.” “Eva Merrill. Nineteen. No priors. No paper trail after that Friday.” “Had no knowledge. Or says he didn’t.” Cassidy is quiet for a long time. “Dig deeper,” she says. “You think Veronica was planning to disappear?” “I think someone was,” Cassidy murmurs. “I just don’t know who yet.” She hangs up and steps back onto the sidewalk. Across the street, Darla’s black car is parked crooked under a broken streetlight. The window is rolled down halfway—A cigarette burns low in her hand—Their eyes meet through the traffic. Darla doesn’t wave—Doesn’t smile—They both know what this is. Not a case—Not a conviction. That night, Cassidy stands in front of her bathroom mirror with her shirt unbuttoned, collarbones bare, skin pale under the white light. She touches the scar beneath her rib—The one no one ever sees. The one Darla once kissed like a vow before everything broke. She looks at herself—Her eyes are tired. She doesn’t recognize the woman staring back—She closes the mirror—Walks away. And dials the number she swore she’d never call again—Aidan’s voice is quiet. “How the hell did you get a phone?” she snaps. “I’m not angry. I’m professionally infuriated. You’re in jail, Voss. You don’t get to make midnight calls like we’re dating.” Then, with surgical precision: “What if we were?” Because her body answers first—In the heat behind her ribs—The ache down her spine. The way her breath hitches when he speaks like that—low, close, like he’s whispering through a keyhole. “I’m working,” she says. “I know.” A pause. “That’s why I called. You don’t trust me yet. You shouldn’t. But when you start to—because you will—I need you to remember something.” “I’m not the one lying.” She stiffens. “Then who is?” “The woman you’re trying to resurrect,” he says softly. “My wife.” The line goes dead. Cassidy stares at her phone—Her pulse pounds under her skin like a warning—Or a promise. She just rewrites her closing statement in her head, over and over again, like a prayer carved in bone: Not guilty—Not yet. Not yours—Not ever. Not love—Just fire. The courtroom is colder on Monday. Not physically—though the air vents hum loud enough to drown the bailiff’s voice—but in the way people look at her now. The press row is full. The front benches lined with rubberneckers who want blood dressed as justice. Darla’s team wears matching navy suits like they’re auditioning for sainthood. And Aidan—Aidan sits beside her in a grey three-piece suit with no tie, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make the jury wonder. Cassidy doesn’t look at him—Not at first. She looks at the judge—At the jury box—At the way Darla rises before she does. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Darla begins, her voice smooth as lacquer, “this is not a case about wealth. Or charisma. Or how a man smiles at a camera. This is a case about control. About what happens when a woman says no—and the man who loved her decides that’s no longer acceptable.” Cassidy’s jaw tightens—Darla doesn’t look at her—She doesn’t have to—Every syllable is cut for Cassidy’s skin. “He didn’t just kill his wife,” Darla continues, “he cleaned up after her. Smiled for the cameras. Hired the best.” The jury glances at Cassidy then—Just for a second—And then Darla turns. They call the housekeeper first—Then the neighbor—Then the officer who responded. Cassidy doesn’t object until she has to—But when she stands, the air shifts. Her voice is low—Unyielding. “You said you heard shouting?” “Yes,” the neighbor says. “And what did you hear, exactly?” “I couldn’t make out words. But it sounded… heated.” Cassidy nods. “And did you call anyone?” “Did you see anyone leave the penthouse?” Cassidy leans in slightly. “So just to confirm—you heard a vague argument. Didn’t intervene. Didn’t call for help. Didn’t see a weapon. Didn’t see anyone leave. Didn’t witness the victim’s death. But you’re here to tell this jury what exactly?” The woman flushes. “That it sounded dangerous.” Cassidy smiles. Cold. Sharp. “Dangerous isn’t illegal, ma’am. If it were, half of Manhattan would be in prison.” A soft chuckle from the jury—Cassidy turns—Walks back—Sits—Doesn’t look at Aidan. But he looks at her. And in that split-second—something almost like admiration flickers behind his gaze. At lunch, she skips the firm and finds the only empty booth in a café two blocks from the courthouse. It’s dim, smells like burnt espresso and old vinyl booths—Perfect. She’s halfway through her notes when a voice cuts through. “You always eat alone now?” Cassidy doesn’t look up. “Only when I want to digest.” Darla slides into the seat across from her anyway—Orders nothing—Just stares. “I didn’t know he could get under your skin.” Cassidy flips a page. “He hasn’t.” Darla leans forward. “You forget—I know the difference between your courtroom face and your real one.” Cassidy freezes—Just for a breath. “That a warning?” she asks. “It’s a memory.” Darla’s voice dips. “He’s dangerous, Cass.” “Are you sleeping with him?” The question is a punch. Cassidy meets her gaze, eyes dead calm. “Would it matter?” “Because it’s your blind spot. It always was.” Cassidy stands—Tosses a bill on the table. “We all have blind spots, Darla. Yours is thinking you still know who I am.” But her hands are shaking. That night, Cassidy watches the security footage again—Only this time, she sees something else. In the mirrored bar cabinet—A third person—Just for a flicker. Cassidy freezes the frame. She hits record—Captures the clip—Sends it to Maddox with one line: And then she does something she hasn’t done in years. She locks her front door. Closes the curtains. Turns on the shower. And sinks to the floor. Because the truth is changing shape. Because Aidan Voss might be guilty of everything but murder. Because Cassidy O’Connell is falling. And she doesn’t know if there’s a damn thing left at the bottom. The next morning, she arrives in court before anyone else. It’s just her and the janitor buffing the marble, the echo of her heels carrying through the gallery like a countdown. She stands in the empty well of the courtroom, eyes on the judge’s bench, as if daring it to see her for what she is: not just a lawyer, not just the defence—but a woman. hanging by a thread of belief so thin she no longer knows if it’s faith or delusion. Maddox: The woman in the footage is Eva Merrill—She left the city the day after the murder. I traced her to a storage unit in Jersey—Guess what we found? Cassidy’s throat goes tight. A wine glass. Smeared with lipstick. Tagged—Bagged—Labeled with a time that doesn’t match the police report. Maddox (cont’d): Call me—I think you’ve got reasonable doubt… and maybe an accomplice. She stares at it, the knot behind her eyes pulling tighter. Someone who knew exactly how to frame a story—And Cassidy O’Connell has just found her first crack. By the time court begins, the air is different. Darla feels it too—Cassidy sees it in the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes—In the stiffness of her posture—She doesn’t know what Cassidy knows. Not yet—But she feels the shift—Cassidy adjusts her cuffs, stands as the jury files in. The next witness is the forensics lead—M. E—Marjorie Lantz—Seasoned—Clinical—Her voice is crisp. “The wound was a single horizontal slice across the carotid. Based on blood spatter and coagulation, we estimate time of death between 11:40 and midnight.” Cassidy waits—Lets Darla walk through her questions—And then she stands. “Yes. Both the victim’s and the defendant’s.” “And any foreign DNA?” Lantz hesitates. “No. The samples were degraded.” Cassidy takes a breath. “Would it surprise you to learn there’s now a second glass? Matching print. Matching wine. Matching lipstick?” Murmurs ripple through the gallery—Darla stiffens. Lantz blinks. “I—was not made aware.” Cassidy holds up the photo—Admits it into evidence—The judge allows it, barely. “Is it possible the scene was staged?” Lantz doesn’t answer for a long moment. “Yes,” she says. “It’s possible.” Cassidy nods. “Thank you.” She sits—Slowly—Feels Aidan’s gaze press into her side like heat through fabric. She doesn’t look back. The trick is to sound curious while refusing to be led. “You want to explain that stunt?” Darla’s voice is tight. “It wasn’t a stunt. It was evidence. You should try using it sometime.” Darla’s jaw flexes. “That photo won’t hold in court.” “It doesn’t have to. It just has to plant a seed.” Darla steps closer. “Why are you doing this?” Cassidy lifts her eyes. “Doing what?” “Letting him crawl under your skin.” “Maybe I’m just doing my job.” “You were better when you hated men.” Cassidy laughs. “I’m still excellent at that.” Darla softens. For just a second. “You think he didn’t do it?” “I think he didn’t do it alone.” And Cassidy leans in, voice low. “You’re looking for a motive in his hands. I’m looking for the knife in hers.” Then she walks away. That night, her apartment feels foreign—Like it belongs to someone who sleeps through storms. The file on her desk is open—The faces inside don’t blink. Veronica Voss—Beautiful—Unstable—Three therapists in two years—A sealed record in California. A sister who stopped speaking to her in 2018—A past that doesn’t match the socialite smile. Cassidy lifts the printout of the storage unit log—Eva Merrill’s name is there. March 2nd. Eleven hours after the murder. She flips to the final page—A shipping label—Addressed to V—Renaud—A known alias. Veronica didn’t die running—She died staying too long. And someone—maybe more than one someone—helped write her ending. The next morning, Aidan is brought into the conference room for a private consult—No shackles—Just two guards outside. He sits across from Cassidy. She doesn’t greet him—Just slides the file across the table. He doesn’t touch it. “You knew about Eva,” she says. Cassidy leans forward. “Don’t lie to me.” He lifts his eyes. Steady. Infuriating. “I knew Veronica was planning something. I didn’t know who helped her.” Aidan’s smile is grim. “Because once, I loved her. And guilt is a hard habit to break.” Cassidy studies him. “And me? Am I just your next alibi?” “No,” he says. “You’re the one person I don’t want to lie to.” She stands—The chair scrapes—His voice follows her to the door. But something in her shifts. By Wednesday, the press has named her The Ice Queen Defender. The tabloids splash her face next to his: THE SIREN AND THE SNAKE? Twitter is worse. Men who’ve never seen the inside of a courtroom call her dangerous. Women call her a traitor—They all want her to burn or win, but never both. Cassidy shuts her office door on it all—Then she locks it. The file is spread wide across her desk, crime scene photos mapped out in a grid only she understands—angles, timestamps, missing minutes. She’s building the shape of a lie no one’s willing to say out loud. A woman like Veronica doesn’t just die clean in a locked apartment. A man like Aidan doesn’t leave a mess unless he wants someone to find it. And Cassidy? Cassidy was made for this—Her phone buzzes once. She stares at the message—Breath caught—Then the second ping. She’ll talk—On one condition—You come alone. The diner is off the highway, windowless, half-dead neon blinking OPEN in red. Cassidy arrives just before midnight, hair pinned back, no makeup, a lawyer’s ghost in civilian clothes. Eva Merrill is already there—hood up, legs curled under her in the booth, shaking like a girl who knows too much and still wants to run. Cassidy slides in opposite—Doesn’t offer a name—Eva doesn’t offer one either. “I didn’t kill her,” the girl says. Cassidy nods. “But you helped her disappear.” “She promised it’d just be for a little while. That she’d come back after she got the account settled.” Cassidy leans forward. “So Veronica was planning to leave.” Eva nods. “She said the city was poison. That she was being watched. She didn’t say by who. Only that she had to get out before someone got to her first.” Cassidy’s voice is flat. “Did Aidan know?” “She said he did. That he gave her the money to shut her up. But then…” Eva swallows. “She called me that night. Said plans had changed. Said she was scared.” Cassidy freezes—The murder was clocked at 11:42. “She said ‘he found out.’ I didn’t know what she meant.” Cassidy’s voice is ice. “And you didn’t call anyone?” “I was afraid. I still am.” Eva looks up. Her eyes are hollow. “I thought it was him. But now…” Her voice trails off. “Now I’m not so sure.” A new shape starts to form—Something worse—Something harder. “Do you still have the call?” Eva nods. “It’s on a backup phone. I’ll send it.” Cassidy pulls a card from her pocket—Slips it across the table. “This number only. You don’t talk to press. You don’t leave town. If I find out you lied to me—” Cassidy stands. “Then you’ve just changed the trial.” Back at the office, the recording waits in her inbox—She doesn’t sit—Just hits play. Veronica’s voice is jagged—High—Panicked. “Eva. Something’s wrong. He knows. He—he said the money was gone. He found the Cayman account. I think he switched it. I think—” Glass shatters—A scream cuts the line—Cassidy’s hands go cold. And now the knife in her spine has a name. She confronts him in holding—Just Cassidy—Woman—Betrayed. “You told me you didn’t know about the money.” Aidan sits still, hands folded, face unreadable. “I didn’t.” “I suspected. But I didn’t act.” “You switched the accounts. She thought you were going to kill her.” She slams the file down. “She was terrified, Aidan.” “And now she’s dead.” That lands like a blade. His voice is low. “I never touched her.” “But you scared her.” He doesn’t deny it. Cassidy presses her hands to the table, hard. “You lied to me.” “No,” she snaps. “You manipulated me. Like everyone else in your world. And if you think I’m going to stand in front of that jury and pretend you’re some tragic, misunderstood husband—” He stands——Too fast—But Aidan doesn’t move toward her—Just looks at her. Something in his expression cracks. “I didn’t kill her,” he says. “But I didn’t love her either. And she knew that. Maybe that’s the real crime.” Cassidy turns. “Then maybe I should be prosecuting you.” Because they both know— That night, Cassidy writes her opening again—Only this time, the defence is no longer about innocence. Because in this trial, no one’s innocent. Not Veronica. Not Aidan. Not Cassidy O’Connell. And the only verdict left is whether justice wants a body… The next morning, the courtroom is standing room only. Spectators line the back wall, mouths tight, eyes gleaming. Reporters are pressed shoulder to shoulder, notebooks poised, every one of them waiting to watch Cassidy O’Connell fall apart—or catch fire. She walks in wearing black—Hair slicked—No earrings—No warmth. Aidan is already seated—Doesn’t look at her—She doesn’t want him to. The judge gives the usual warnings—Phones off—No recordings—No disruptions. Then: “Prosecution, call your next witness.” Darla stands, calm as water in a glass. “The State calls Dr. Lawrence Abernathy.” Cassidy barely moves—Just clicks her pen once—Then again. Dr—Abernathy takes the stand—Thin—Precise—Speaks like he measures every breath. Darla walks him through the wounds, the blood loss, the likely timeline. Then she lays the trap. “Doctor, based on the bruising pattern on Mrs. Voss’s upper arms, would you say there was a struggle?” “Yes. Defensive wounds consistent with physical confrontation.” “And the angle of the incision?” “Left to right. Suggesting a right-handed assailant.” “And is the defendant right-handed?” But her mind burns. She rises slowly. “Dr. Abernathy, how deep was the cut?” “No. A slight arc downward.” “Unusual, isn’t it? For a right-handed attacker to cut in a downward arc across the neck of someone facing them?” Abernathy hesitates. “It depends on position.” Cassidy nods. “Let’s talk about that. In your opinion, could the wound have been self-inflicted?” “It’s too clean. Too deliberate.”