I didn’t react. I didn’t shift. I let my face stay as calm as water before a storm.
Because I knew the folder was fake.
And I knew who had made it.
When the judge asked if the defense had more witnesses, my father’s attorney smiled. “Yes, Your Honor. We call Mr. Wallace Grady, Mrs. Thornton’s former superior officer.”
A man in a pressed suit took the stand, swore in with smooth confidence, and began testifying that I’d abandoned my post, been dismissed, been cast out.
The gallery gasped. Someone laughed again—sharp, delighted—like the ending they wanted had arrived on schedule.
I watched Grady closely. Wrong terms. Wrong timelines. Unit names said like he’d read them off a website ten minutes ago.
My lips curved into the smallest smile.
A reporter in the front row noticed. Doubt planted itself in her eyes like a seed.
My father didn’t see it. He was too busy enjoying the room.
