Chapter 1 – Ellie
I stood at the base of the long steps at the entrance to the building that loomed in front of me. My heart was hammering in my chest, a wave of anxiety crashing over me.
“Deep breaths, Ellie,” I muttered to myself. “It’s just a presentation.”
I inhaled softly, my sweaty palm smoothing out the invisible wrinkles in my black skirt. I tucked my light brown hair back behind my ear, my hazel eyes squinting against the gentle breeze.
My phone vibrated in my back pocket, the sudden buzz startling me. I flinched, breath hitching as I reached for it.
The caller was my friend, Aria Bennett.
“What the hell, Aria?” I whispered, ascending the steps. “I could be on the podium right now, and this phone call would put me in trouble.”
“The fact that you’re speaking to me means you’re not on the podium, so chill,” she replied on the other line, her sharp voice devoid of remorse.
“I could’ve been.”
“But you’re not,” she insisted.
I let out a frustrated exhale and pushed the front doors open. “Where are you anyway?”
“Yeah, about that…” she drawled lazily.
I slowed down, my head tilting slightly to the side. “Please, don’t tell me you’re not gonna make it.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“Aria!”
“Something came up, okay?” she said, a hint of regret lacing her tone. “But I promise, I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”
“You better.” I turned a corner, my shoes clicking against the floor.
“Look on the bright side.” She chuckled lightly. “There’ll be no Aria around to distract you. That way, if you crash and burn, you’re not gonna pin it on me.”
I paused, my lips suppressing a smile. “You know what, fuck you.”
“Yeah, you wish.” She laughed on the other end of the line.
“Get off my phone, you crazy bitch.” I chuckled, my heart warm with affection.
“Don’t go easy on them in there,” she said. And with that, she ended the call.
I stopped in front of the makeshift courtroom and slid my phone back into my pocket. “Here goes nothing.”
The doors parted, and I walked in, confident on the outside while struggling with my anxiety on the inside.
My eyes scanned the legal review hearing room. It wasn’t a real courtroom, but the atmosphere was just as intense. Faculty panel, a retired judge, a few legal observers, and a small audience.
I could work with that.
The university seal hanging behind the panel seemed to be watching me like a silent authority. It made me uncomfortable. And the mean faces in the hearing room weren’t helping my anxiety either.
Again, this wasn’t the real deal; it was just a student presentation. Yet it still made my palms sweat.
“Miss Hendy?” a cold, feminine voice cut through my thoughts.
I raised my head, snapped back to the present.
One of the panel members, an elderly woman wearing wire-rimmed glasses, gestured toward the podium at the center. “We don’t have all day.”
“Right,” I muttered under my breath, tightening my grip on the case file in my hand.
The file was labeled: State v. Daniel Vetrov (2018), a high-profile bombing of a shipping warehouse that killed six people and left a dozen injured.
I reached the podium, placed the file down, and exhaled softly. I raised my head, swept my gaze across the room, and began, my voice a bit shaky at first. “My name is Eliza Hendy. Third-year Criminal Justice student.”
A pause.
“This review is part of a reform module that focuses on wrongful convictions and systemic failure.”
My voice began to steady by the second—my racing heart too.
“What case were you assigned?” a man from the panel asked me.
I faced him squarely. “State v. Daniel Vetrov: a 2018 conviction tied to a terror-linked bombing at a shipping warehouse that resulted in six fatalities and multiple injuries.”
They stared at me with rapt attention, and some were already scribbling down God-knows-what.
“That’s an open-and-shut case,” another panel member said, his voice calm and nonchalant. “Fingerprint evidence was found at the scene. Not to mention a financial motive and a full confession within forty-eight hours.”
Lucas Bradford. That’s this man’s name. His reputation preceded him.
He was known for always interrupting and pushing students to their limits. Dr. Bradford had a knack for twisting people’s words and leaving them confused. He was every Criminal Justice student’s nightmare.
I pulled myself together, refusing to cower under his intense gaze. Instead, I looked him straight in the eye and said, “True. The culprit came clean less than two days after the incident. But that’s exactly the problem.”
“Please, enlighten us,” he replied, leaning back in his chair, as if eager to hear what rubbish I was about to spill.
“Daniel Vetrov used to work at the docks,” I began, my voice audible and steady. “The man had no prior records. No known affiliation with extremist groups. He had no history of violent behavior.”
The retired judge gave a faint nod, like I was onto something impressive.
What a confidence booster.
“Tell me, how can a man with such a clean record turn into a mastermind behind a coordinated bombing?”
“In my experience, the innocent ones are usually the worst,” Dr. Bradford said, his voice cutting through the momentary silence.
“Even in situations where the family contacted a legal aid reform, claiming their son was either framed or paid to confess to protect someone bigger?” I paused. “I don’t think so.”
Silence.
I continued, “Yes, on the surface, it looks like an open-and-shut case. But the deeper I looked, the more flaws I found. Like this one, for instance.” I picked up a remote and clicked it.
The screen behind me came alive.
“What you’re seeing is CCTV footage showing Vetrov near the warehouse at about 21:14,” I explained, my gaze shifting between the audience and the screen. “The issue is that mobile tower pings from his device place him about three kilometers away at that exact time.”
Glances were exchanged.
I faced them again. “So it’s either someone went to a lot of trouble to tamper with the tape, or Vetrov somehow had the ability to be in two places at once.” I let the words sink in. “Which is more likely to be the case?”
Murmurs rose amongst the panel members, and Dr. Bradford wouldn’t take his eyes off me. He looked at me in a way that was rather unsettling, especially because I had no idea what was going on in his head.
I cleared my throat and moved on. “The explosive materials were traced back to a private company that just happened to shut down less than a year later.”
Another pause.
“Their reason?” I continued, “‘Internal discrepancies.’”
“How convenient,” someone from the audience muttered.
“My point exactly,” I acknowledged.
After a fleeting stillness, another member of the panel raised a question. “What about the confession? What do you make of that?”
“I’m glad you brought that up,” I said, looking right at her. “You see, the language used was…precise, well-structured, and technical. A little too advanced for Vetrov’s educational and professional background.”
Silence.
“It was almost as if he were reciting lines from a script written by someone with a much higher IQ,” I added. “No offense to Vetrov.”
A scattered chuckle rippled across the audience.
The retired judge, a blonde woman in her late fifties, leaned back, watching me in silence. I wasn’t sure if she was impressed or triggered.
“That’s a bold claim, questioning Vetrov’s ability to express himself using some…technical terms,” a panel member chipped in. “Surely you’ve got proof, or something close to it.”
I flipped to a highlighted section of the file on the podium. “It says here that phrases like ‘detonation sequencing’ and ‘structural impact yield’ appear multiple times in his confession.” I paused, letting that sink in for a bit. “Pretty big words for an ordinary dock worker, if you ask me.”
The silence was heavy, and I could see that some people were already shifting in their seats.
“Finally,” I said, softer and more confident, “every piece of evidence seems to point in the same direction.”
I waited.
Then continued, “This doesn’t read like an investigation. It reads more like a constructed narrative—that was successfully sold to the general public.”
That was it, the blow that broke the camel’s back.
The room shifted, and the frown on their faces was unmistakable.
One of the panelists glared at me. “Miss Hendy, are you suggesting evidence fabrication?”
I swallowed hard, knowing I had to tread carefully at this point. “I’m suggesting the possibility of systemic manipulation.”
Another sneered. “Based on what, a student review?”
“I understand my position,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “But the inconsistencies remain, regardless of who points them out.” A brief pause. “And that’s why I’m making this request.”
“What request?”
I hesitated for a second. “A formal flag on the case.”
The previous speaker rubbed his forehead, exchanging hidden glances with the woman next to him.
“I’m requesting an independent review,” I went on, “access to sealed records, reevaluation of forensic evidence, and interrogation procedures.”
The retired judge raised her brows but said nothing.
“You do realize that this is just a school project, right?” another panelist asked, attempting to blow me off.
“I’m aware,” came my response. “But I’m also aware of the reality of this case.”
Silence.
“That way, we can, at the very least, confirm whether the man serving that sentence is actually guilty of the crime,” I concluded.
The silence in the room was longer this time, all eyes pinned on me. No one said a word or moved a muscle; they just sat there, watching. My request had clearly struck a nerve, and I’d walked a line I couldn’t uncross.
Some of the panelists were skeptical; others were uneasy. And somewhere at the back, a strange man was watching me, not like a student but like a problem.
My heart skipped a beat when I spotted him, but I didn’t shake. I gathered my papers with careful hands and stepped down from the podium. I wasn’t sure what was going on in their heads, and I didn’t even want to know.
I’d made my point and tendered my request. Nothing else to say or do here. On my way out, I didn’t look at the panel members or the audience. I just headed toward the door.
I breathed a sigh of relief the second I stepped out of the hearing room. With my hand on my chest, I struggled to catch my breath as my heart pounded against my ribs.
“Congrats, you didn’t completely crash and burn,” a familiar voice said to me.
I turned, and there she was, leaning against the wall, arms folded with a crooked grin tugging at her lips.
“You’re unbelievable,” I said, mirroring her smile. “You said you weren’t gonna make it.”
“So what? I lied,” Aria said, shrugging. “Sue me.” She pushed off the wall and walked toward me.
I let a soft exhale, shooting a quick glance at the hearing room. “How’d I do in there?”
“Well, you just accused a closed federal case of being staged.” She stopped in front of me. “And you did that in a room full of people who built their careers defending the very systems you pointed your finger at.”
“Oh, God, I’m fucked.” I lowered my head in dismay, fear creeping into my mind.
“Come off it.” She tapped my shoulder. “That was a pretty bold move for an overly cautious girl. You just made yourself an enemy of the system. I’m proud.”
I raised my brows, unsure how to feel about that statement. “That’s not exactly comforting.”
“Yeah, it’s not supposed to be.” Her lips curled into a mysterious grin.
“Aria, I’m serious.”
“Relax,” she said, taking my hand. “You didn’t do anything wrong, other than piss off the people who have the power to fail you.”
“Not funny!” My face turned ugly, and I pulled away from her.
She laughed. Laughed still as she hurried behind me, trying to catch up. “Hey, wait up.”
“Fuck off!” I kept going, my heels clicking against the fine, polished floor.
“Can’t do that; you’re stuck with me.” She appeared in front of me, arms wide open, smiling from ear to ear. “Listen, I wasn’t kidding when I said I was proud of what you did in there.”
Her words melted my heart, and her broad smile was slowly easing my anxiety.
Aria was my exact opposite. She was bold, fearless, funny, and relentlessly so. The 22-year-old journalism student was inquisitive to a fault. She was five-foot-five with a naturally soft, feminine build.
Her blonde hair fell in loose, messy waves, and her striking blue eyes were far too observant for her own good. Although just a year older, Aria Bennett played the role of both a friend and a big sister in my life.
The girl was a blessing to me. All round.
“Coffee?” she asked. “You look like you need three.”
I chuckled. “Make it four.”
“Come on.” She nodded toward the exit. “Let’s go to Joe’s.”
Joe’s was a café downtown where I worked as a part-time barista.
As we headed out of the building, I glanced back one more time at the hearing room. The panelists didn’t know this. But this wasn’t just a university project for me. It was also a fight for justice because I’d met Vetrov’s relatives.
The second we stepped out into the open, I spotted a familiar figure across the street. It was the same strange man at the back of the room. He stood sentinel, watching me.
My heart skipped a beat.
“Earth to Hendy,” Aria’s voice sliced through my thoughts.
I blinked.
“You all right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” I replied.
By the time I looked back across the street, the man was gone. Vanished as if he had never been there.
Who was he?
Was he even real, or was I just seeing things?