Then he stood.
His legs shook so hard his torn sneaker made a faint tapping sound against the floor.
“Your Honor,” he said, voice barely there, “before I answer, I need to show you something.”
Dorian’s attorney frowned. “Show what?”
Lucas reached into his blue backpack, the one his mother had bought at a thrift store and patched with a dinosaur sticker over the torn front pocket.
Dorian sat up.
“Lucas,” he said sharply. “Sit down.”
Lucas did not.
His fingers closed around the old phone hidden beneath his math workbook. It had a cracked screen, a corner held together with clear tape, and a battery that died if it got too cold. It used to belong to Marisol before she upgraded to the cheapest plan the store would allow. She thought she had lost it months ago.
Lucas had not lost it.
