Chapter 29 #2
“I’ll send them a message. They’ll call you. They’re officially on your case so from this moment on you’ll be protected by client attorney privilege.”
“Okay. Have you heard anything on when?”
“They’ll come tonight or first thing in the morning. Either way, be ready.”
I watch the time count on the top right of my monitor. 8:47…8:48.
The sense of dread threatens to suffocate me, but I call on every cell within my being, and dial Richard. I get voicemail.
“Richard, this is…” I stutter, hit with the realization I sound like I’m calling a client. “Ah, this is Alicia. Call me. It’s urgent. Stella’s fine. But call me.”
I end the call and wonder if he’ll ever hear the message. Chances are he’ll see I called and call back without ever listening.
There’s a light tap on the door and Noah enters. I gesture to the guest chair across the desk.
“I’ve lawyered up,” I say, forcing a smile I don’t at all feel, trying to make light of an unfathomable situation.
I’m innocent. I shouldn’t be so nervous, but I’d be a fool to not perceive the danger. Our legal system is far from perfect. Innocent people get convicted.
“They could come tonight.” My heart hammers in my chest. Outside, the sky is dark, my view of the naked maple partially lit by light from my window and from the street light.
I look to Noah. “No cuffs in front of Stella. No cameras if I can help it. Can we arrange that?”
“The police don’t take requests.”
Of course, he’s right. I know it.
He comes around the desk and pulls me into his arms. I let myself fall into his strength. The rhythm of his steady heartbeat calls me—grounds me.
It’s so late. Well past the end of the workday. Surely they won’t come tonight. They’ll arrive in the morning.
While I might dread it, they are coming, so I need to prepare.
I pull away from Noah. “I’m going to go prepare. Outfit for the arraignment. A bag, just in case.”
He lifts my chin, presses his lips to mine for a soft, comforting touch, then says, “You go do what you need to do. I’ll stay downstairs. If they come now, I’ll be sure they don’t ring the doorbell.”
I nod.
Before I go to prepare, I slip upstairs and tuck Stella into bed. It’s all I can do to maintain normalcy and calm as I brush my lips over her forehead and say, “Goodnight. I love you.”
In the closet, below the fractured light from the chandelier, I marvel at the order and beauty of this room I took such pride in.
When I first moved in, I converted this bedroom into a floor to ceiling dream closet—an entire floor in the house dedicated to me.
My bedroom, bathroom suite, multiple closets, my home office…
a dream. Only somehow my missteps have shattered the dream and locked me in a nightmare.
The house is silent except for the hum of the heat and the faint creak of wood as it settles.
Dorian’s words echo: Be ready. They’ll come tonight or in the morning.
Back in my closet, I gather my purse, remove the jewelry from my wrists, slip my phone and charger inside. Little rituals of control. I line up the lipstick, the watch, the ring dish on the dresser—order I can still make. My body moves automatically, my mind drifts somewhere distant.
As if confirming all of my fears, red washes the ceiling. Then blue. Like sirens inside my body—red and blue pulsing through my veins..
Tremors strike.
But I pull it together.
Stella’s sleeping. They can’t wake her.
I grab the cosmetics bag, hang the suit for the arraignment on the rod where I always hang tomorrow’s outfit, setting the heels out too—and rush to the stairs.
Downstairs, Noah’s waiting—jacket on, phone in hand, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. Noah has the front door open—true to his word, they won’t need to ring the doorbell or knock loudly. Stella is asleep—tucked away on the third floor.
“They’re here,” he says quietly.
The muffled sound of voices. Footfalls on the path.
The detective who interrogated me—Detective Lassiter—smiles. The smile is slick and sure and the way his gaze travels judgmentally through my foyer makes it clear he believes he’s found a murderer—he believes he’s caught the bad guy and the streets are safer.
“Ms. Morgan, I see someone gave you a heads up.”
“Were you hoping to wake my daughter?”
He has the decency to drop his gaze. There’s no justice in involving the children.
“Alicia Morgan, you have the right to remain silent.”
As he reads me my Miranda rights, my throat constricts, as do my lungs, and I fight back a dizzy wave.
As one officer reads the warrant, the other asks for my hands.
The metal bites cold around my wrists. The hallway feels too bright. Stella doesn’t descend the stairs. Thank god.
“Don’t worry about the morning,” Noah says—his voice even, controlled. “She’ll think you’re at work.”
I meet his eyes, and something inside me steadies. “Take care of her.”
The detectives guide me out the door. The night air hits like ice. A car passing slows, watching the scene unfold. Someone’s always watching.
They lead me into the police car, the door shuts, and the sound echoes like the end of a chapter I never meant to write.
The ventilation system hums, a low metallic throb that vibrates through concrete walls. Each pulse feels like it’s syncing with my heartbeat—mechanical, relentless.
No windows. No clocks. Just the sterile smell of bleach and burnt coffee.
I’m sitting in a chair that’s too hard and too cold, spine straight, like posture delivers dignity. The detective who escorted me here has been gone for—ten minutes? Twenty? Time doesn’t move in real minutes down here; it stretches and folds until it becomes thought itself.
When they booked me, I counted each step like it was evidence.
Shoes off. Belt removed. Watch unclasped and dropped in a tray. Smile, Ms. Morgan.
The camera flash had felt obscene, a burst of light that stole something private. The after image still burns behind my eyelids.
Now I wait, fingers curled tight around the armrest, fighting the urge to pace.
Footsteps approach. A man in a tailored suit appears—Luca Corzone. The only congenial face in this fluorescent purgatory.
He sets a paper cup on the table and crouches beside me. “Coffee. I asked for real cream; this was the best they could do.”
“Thanks.” My voice scrapes against my throat. “How bad?”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’ve charged you with second-degree murder.” The words feel like the cold metal chair. “You’ll see a judge within the hour. I’ve already spoken with the DA’s office. They’re not opposing bail, which means you’ll be home soon.”
Home. The word feels foreign. Like a place I might not be able to return to without the proper documents.
“Evidence?” I ask.
“They’re relying on timeline inconsistencies and witness testimony. We’ll dismantle both. But for now—don’t speak to anyone. No press, no detectives, no fellow inmates. Understood?”
I nod, but my thoughts are somewhere else—on Stella, who will wake to discover I’m gone, on Noah, who promised to tell her a version of the truth that hurts the least.
After spending a sleepless night in a holding cell, an officer arrives.
This time, Luca Corzone is joined by a woman I’m introduced to as Shelly Madison.
Both are in crisp suits that speak to their success in court.
I’m allowed to change into the suit they brought me, although I have to do so behind open bars where others can see.
The fabric clings cold against my skin; dignity, here, comes with a draft.
After what feels like an eternity, a uniformed officer gestures. “Time to go.”
My attorney straightens. “We’ll be right beside you.”
The hallway smells like disinfectants and metal. Every sound ricochets—doors shutting, pens clicking, someone shouting two rooms away. My heels echo like guilt.
We pass a glass window where a reporter waits with a camera. Luca shields me with his body from a lens I hadn’t noticed. The flash detonates again, and I flinch. Luca blocks half the view with his body, steering me toward the courtroom.
Inside, it’s bright and airless. The judge reads the charges in a measured voice that could belong to anyone’s nightmare. Her tone is patient, practiced—like this is paperwork. My name sounds detached, like a brand that no longer fits.
Luca Corzone speaks for me—firm, composed, the way I used to sound when defending someone else’s ruin. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
The words echo slightly, fragile as spun glass.
When the gavel drops, the sound is final, brutal, real.
They release me just past noon.
Outside, daylight feels punishing after the artificial glow. A breeze carries the city’s pulse—traffic, sirens, snippets of conversation.
Noah waits by the curb, arms folded, sunglasses hiding his eyes.
The moment he sees me, he steps forward, opens the passenger door, and my knees nearly fold.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
I manage a nod. My voice won’t work yet.
As the car merges into traffic, I glance at the side mirror.
Behind us, the courthouse looms—stone and steel and judgment.
Ahead, the sky stretches wide and indifferent.
For the first time since last night, I let myself breathe. But the air tastes like fear, and something else—resolve.
Because this isn’t the end of my story. It’s the beginning of my defense.
If this is about Vasquez, about Magpie, about an investigation, then whoever wanted me silenced just made their first mistake. If someone is counting on me breaking, they’re going to be disappointed.