Chapter 36
Calloway
I’ve never sat in a courtroom like this before, certainly not from this position.
As a killer, I’ve been meticulous about staying away from the justice system. Yet here I am, third row back, wearing the face of a stranger.
The scratchy brown wig itches against my scalp, transforming my signature dirty blond waves into something mundane.
Thick-rimmed glasses that aren't prescription blur my vision slightly, but they're essential to the illusion.
Most impressive is Thorne's makeup work: subtle prosthetics that change the shape of my nose, shadowing that hollows my cheeks differently, even something that makes my jaw appear more square.
When I looked in his bathroom mirror this morning, a complete stranger stared back.
Detective Ramirez sits two rows ahead, close enough that I can see the tension in her shoulders. She's questioned me three times about my Gallery installations, memorized every angle of my face. Today, those sharp eyes pass over me without recognition.
Thank you, I think toward wherever Thorne is right now.
My heart hammers against my ribs in a way I’ve never experienced. Not during my kills. Not even when I was...when that photographer violated me.
This is different. This fear isn’t for myself.
It sits in my chest like a cold, heavy stone, making it hard to breathe as I watch Jiya from across the courtroom.
She sits perfectly still, her face a careful blank.
I recognize that expression. I’ve worn it myself.
It’s the face you make when you’re controlling every muscle to prevent anyone from seeing what’s underneath.
The fluorescent lights wash out her vibrant complexion. Her pink hair has been pulled back into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. No makeup. No jewelry. Nothing of the vibrant, dangerous woman I love.
My fingers twitch with the need to touch her, to let her know I’m here, that she’s not alone. Instead, I fold them in my lap and maintain my own mask of calm.
The gallery is crowded with reporters—Oakley among them—and curious onlookers. None of them know that the person they’re staring at has rid the world of seven predators who escaped justice. None of them understands what she’s sacrificed.
The prosecutor, a man with silver-streaked hair and the grim certainty of a mortician, lays out the narrative brick by damning brick. Jiya at the bar. Jiya talking to Briggs. Jiya in the elevator. He presents it as a clean, simple story for the jury he hopes to one day convince.
Beside her, Darius is an island of bespoke calm. He makes the occasional note, his expression unreadable. He looks like a man who has already read the last page of the book and is merely waiting for everyone else to catch up.
“Your Honor,” the prosecutor begins, “the state has compelling physical evidence. DNA analysis of samples taken from the victim’s apartment reveal the defendant’s hair and saliva on the deceased and his clothing.”
My hands clench into fists in my lap. Her hair. Her saliva. On him.
“The defense doesn’t dispute Ms. Kline’s DNA was present,” Darius says, rising to his feet.
“She works as a bartender at Penumbra, where she had an interaction with the victim on the night of his death. He was a customer at her bar. They spoke, he hit on her, there was some flirtation, physical contact—a hand on an arm, leaning close to hear over loud music.”
Hit on her. The words slice through me like broken glass. My jaw locks tight as I imagine this dead man’s hands on her, the way he must have looked at her. The rage builds in my chest, hot and familiar.
If you weren’t already dead, I’d kill you myself.
“This is entirely consistent with a normal interaction between a bartender and a customer who was clearly interested in her,” Darius continues.
“However, Your Honor, the prosecution’s own evidence contradicts their theory.
If Ms. Kline had been in the victim’s apartment, as they claim, there would be fingerprints and DNA evidence throughout the residence.
Yet none of her prints were found anywhere in his home, and her DNA appears only on the victim himself and his clothing—exactly what we’d expect from brief physical contact at the bar earlier that evening. ”
The prosecutor shifts uncomfortably. “The defendant could have worn gloves and been extremely careful—”
“Ah, but that’s exactly my point,” Darius says. “The physical evidence shows brief contact at a public venue that same evening, not a premeditated murder requiring such extraordinary precautions.”
A murmur runs through the courtroom. I force myself to unclench my fists, to breathe. Focus. This is about saving her, not indulging my jealousy over a corpse.
When the prosecutor moves to play the surveillance video, I see Darius’s shoulders straighten by a fraction of an inch.
“The state will now present the surveillance footage, Your Honor.”
The judge nods. “Proceed.”
My gaze flicks to Darius again, who seems unruffled in his impeccable suit. I’ve always admired his composure, but today it feels like a lifeline.
As the tech cues the video on the large screen, Darius rises to his feet. His voice is calm, but it cuts through the murmuring courtroom like a scalpel.
“Objection, Your Honor. The defense moves to have this evidence declared inadmissible.”
A ripple of surprise runs through the courtroom. My back straightens. This is it.
Judge Harlow frowns over her reading glasses. “On what grounds, Counselor?”
“On the grounds that it is a fraudulent fabrication,” Darius states, his voice carrying to every corner of the room.
“We have a preliminary analysis from a digital forensics expert who has found definitive markers of AI-based manipulation. The state’s entire case rests on this deepfake.
As such, we move for an immediate dismissal of all charges. ”
The room erupts. Whispers become a roar. I keep my face a mask of stone, but my heart is a frantic drum against my ribs.
“Silence!” The judge’s gavel cracks against the wooden block. “I will have order in my courtroom!”
The prosecutor is on his feet, his face flushed a deep, indignant red. “This is outrageous, Your Honor! This video was obtained directly from the building’s security system. It is authentic!”
“That’s demonstrably false,” Darius replies, the picture of professional confidence. “Our expert is prepared to testify that it is not.”
The judge’s lips press into a thin, hard line. Her gaze sweeps from the furious prosecutor to the unshakable Darius.
“That is enough.” She points her gavel at them. “Counselors, my chambers. Now.” She bangs the gavel again. “This court is in recess for fifteen minutes.”
As the bailiff calls for everyone to rise, I catch Jiya’s eye. For a fraction of a second, her mask of indifference cracks, and I see a flash of raw, desperate hope before the blankness slams back into place. It’s enough.
The prosecutor gathers his papers with sharp, angry movements, his shoes clicking aggressively on the marble as he follows Darius and the judge into chambers. I remain seated as the gallery empties, my eyes fixed on the door where Jiya disappeared.
Xander’s digital poison was a masterpiece. A lie so subtle it looked like truth until you put it under a microscope.
Now, we just need the judge to drink it.
The fifteen minutes stretch into an eternity. When the side door finally opens, I barely breathe. My muscles coil tight, my body a spring ready to either launch or collapse.
“All rise.”
We are back on the record. Judge Harlow settles into her chair, her face an unreadable mask.
“Having reviewed the digital evidence in chambers,” she announces, her voice devoid of emotion, “this court has significant concerns regarding its authenticity. Therefore, for the purposes of this preliminary hearing, the video file presented by the state is deemed inadmissible pending a full, independent forensic analysis.”
A collective intake of breath sweeps through the gallery. I grip the wooden bench in front of me, my knuckles white, the wood groaning under the pressure.
This is Darius’s moment. Before the prosecutor can even process the blow, Darius is on his feet.
“Your Honor, in light of the court’s ruling, the defense moves for an immediate dismissal of all charges.
” He turns, his voice like polished steel.
“Without the video, the state has failed to present a single piece of evidence placing my client at the scene of the crime. They have no opportunity, no weapon and no motive. They have failed to meet the minimum burden for probable cause. To continue to hold Ms. Kline is a violation of her fundamental rights.”
The words hang in the air, clean and lethal. I risk a glance at Jiya. Her expression is still a careful blank, but I see the barest lift of her chin.
The prosecutor leaps to his feet.
“Your Honor, the state would also like to note for the record that this is not an isolated incident. A year ago, another patron of the defendant’s bar, John Cole—a healthy man in his forties—died of what was initially ruled a cardiac arrest. The toxicology report later confirmed he was poisoned.
” He gestures toward Jiya. “Two healthy men, two poisonings that mimic heart attacks, one bar in common.”
Darius rises slowly, an expression of profound boredom on his face. “Objection, Your Honor. Is the prosecution now introducing historical fiction into the proceedings?”
The judge looks at the prosecutor, her patience clearly wearing thin. “Counselor?”
“The state is conveniently omitting a few key facts,” Darius says, his voice like ice.
“They investigated Mr. Cole's death a year ago. They knew it was poison a year ago. They looked at my client a year ago.” He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle in the silent courtroom.
“And they found nothing. No connection. No evidence. No charges. One has to wonder why the police are so determined to connect my client to any unsolved poisoning in the city, regardless of the lack of evidence.”
“Your Honor!” the prosecutor sputters, his face flushing with indignation. “Counsel is implying—”
“I’m implying nothing,” Darius cuts in, holding up a placating hand.
“I’m merely stating the facts. The police had their chance to build a case a year ago and failed.
To reanimate this cold case now is a desperate attempt to smear my client because their actual case just evaporated before our eyes. ”
The prosecutor’s composure finally shatters. “The defendant’s connection to Elisha Briggs, combined with the highly specialized nature of the poison, is not a coincidence.” His voice rises, cracking with desperation. I know that sound. I’ve heard it in the last moments of my own victims.
The judge removes her glasses, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Evers makes a compelling argument. The state’s case, as it stands, is tenuous at best.”
I hold my breath.
“However,” she continues, “this court will not dismiss a murder charge while a primary piece of evidence is under review. To do so would be premature.”
The hope in my chest turns to ice.
The judge looks from Darius to the prosecutor. “Here is my ruling. The motion to dismiss is tabled. However, as the state has currently failed to provide sufficient evidence to justify holding the defendant without bond, I am setting bail.”
The prosecutor’s face falls. A major loss. I fight to keep the triumph from my face.
“Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars,” the judge declares. “The state crime lab will expedite its analysis. This hearing is in recess for two weeks, at which point we will reconvene.”
The gavel cracks down, a sound of finality. The courtroom erupts. Journalists rush for the doors. Oakley catches my eye, giving me a subtle nod before disappearing into the chaos.
Jiya is led away through a side door—not back to a cell, but to be processed for release.
I rise slowly, adjusting my suit jacket. The performance isn’t over.
As I move toward the exit, I pass close enough to Darius to hear him murmur without looking at me.
“It’s done. The club. Nine.”
I give no sign I’ve heard him, continuing smoothly toward the door, my mind already racing, calculating how quickly Thorne can arrange the bail money. Jiya will be free within hours.
We have two weeks. It’s a new clock, and it’s already ticking.