Chapter 9
Jackson County Courthouse — Side Entrance
Eleanor stood in the narrow, limestone-cool hallway outside the courtroom doors. She could hear the muffled roar of the gallery—the restless, hungry energy of a crowd that wasn’t there for justice, but for a show.
She closed her eyes and pressed her palms flat against her navy pencil skirt, smoothing a wrinkle that didn’t exist.
Breathe. Five seconds in. Five seconds out.
She ran through her mental checklist: motion to suppress.
Section 403. Witness order. But her brain kept betraying her, flashing images of a dark stairwell and the scent of cedar.
She could still feel the rough friction of his denim against her thigh.
It was a physical brand, hidden beneath silk and wool.
“You are Eleanor Harper,” she whispered to the empty hallway. “You are a defense attorney. You are a wall.”
She reached for the heavy brass handle. Her hand stayed steady, but deep in her gut, a cold, tight knot of dread and something else—something hot and rebellious—twisted.
She pushed the door open.
The wall of sound hit her first. And then she saw him.
Reid was already seated. He didn’t look up immediately, but she felt the exact moment he registered her presence. It was like a shift in the air.
Then, slowly, he glanced over his shoulder. Briefly.
Her stomach didn’t flip; it bottomed out so hard she had to grip the back of a spectator’s bench.
But in the dim, hallowed light of the courtroom, his eyes weren’t those of a District Attorney.
They were the eyes from the stairwell.
Check, she told herself. Put it in check.
She forced her chin up, her gaze hardening into the “Ice Queen” stare that had survived Charleston. She walked past the prosecution table, her heels clicking a rhythmic, defiant tempo on the hardwood. She didn’t look at him again. She couldn’t.
If she looked at him, the wall wouldn’t crack.
It would shatter.
Reid
The courtroom was louder than usual.
Whispers rolled through the gallery in low waves. The back row was packed with baseball caps, branded tees, and the unmistakable glow of phone screens held too low to be obvious.
VANISHED IN THE VALLEY. Mountain Mystery Week.
Someone even wore a lanyard with a podcast logo hanging from it, like a credential.
Reid adjusted his cuff and took his seat at the prosecution table.
This wasn’t a trial.
It was a misdemeanor theft hearing.
But half the county had apparently decided it was a live broadcast.
Judge Harlan entered through the side door, robe settling over his shoulders with practiced ease.
The room rose.
“Be seated.”
They did.
One phone buzzed. Another chimed.
Judge Harlan didn’t raise his voice.
“If anyone in this courtroom believes this proceeding is content,” he said calmly, “you are mistaken.”
A few heads ducked.
“Cell phones will be silenced. Not dimmed. Not tucked under a notebook. Silenced. If I see one more screen light up, it will be confiscated.”
A man in a Vanished tee shifted uncomfortably in the back row, ball cap still firmly planted on his head.
Judge Harlan’s gaze locked onto him.
“Son,” he said evenly, “take off that hat in my courtroom.”
The young man yanked it off quickly.
“And while you’re at it,” Judge Harlan added, “remember where you are.”
Silence fell hard and fast.
“This is a court of law,” he finished. “Not a studio.”
Reid hid the faintest smile.
Good.
Eleanor was already at the defense table when he looked over.
Navy pencil skirt. White silk blouse. Low ponytail back in place. Tan heels. Open-toed. French pedicure.
He shouldn’t have noticed that.
He did.
She moved with that same contained precision she used in argument—controlled.
No one in the room would have guessed she hadn’t slept.
Her eyes had flicked toward him once when she came in.
Only once.
Now she kept them on her file, opening it as if nothing had happened the night before.
As if she hadn’t been against brick.
He respected the line she’d drawn between court and brick walls. Between counsel table and his shirt in her fists.
He hated being on the wrong side of it.
Professional. Untouchable. Game face.
He respected it.
Didn’t mean he had to like it.
“Counselors,” Judge Harlan said, peering over his glasses. “I expect today’s arguments to concern the facts before this court. Not whatever is trending on social media.”
A few suppressed laughs in the gallery.
Judge Harlan didn’t look amused.
Reid rose.
“Ready for the State, Your Honor.”
Eleanor stood a half-beat later.
“Ready for the defense.”
Her voice was steady. Cool. Almost serene.
He began.
Laid out the State’s position cleanly. Efficiently.
She countered—sharp. Concise. A little sharper than usual.
He pressed a witness harder than he might have last week.
She objected faster.
They moved like they always did—a certain rhythm.
At one point, he leaned slightly toward her at counsel table while a document was passed forward.
“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re reaching.”
“Am I?” she said without looking at him.
Judge Harlan cleared his throat.
Both straightened immediately.
The gallery leaned forward.
They were waiting for sparks.
Reid pivoted, adjusted, closed his argument.
Judge Harlan ruled.
Measured. Predictable.
Court adjourned.
The gallery began buzzing before the gavel fully settled.
As Eleanor gathered her files, Reid leaned slightly closer.
“Game face looks good on you, Ellie.”
He should’ve kept his mouth shut. Let her pretend last night belonged to a separate universe.
Her hand paused mid-stack.
She did not look at him.
“Focus on your own arguments, Counselor.”
But the faintest color touched her cheek.
“Counselors,” Judge Harlan said dryly. “Save the sidebar commentary for chambers.”
A ripple of restrained laughter.
Reid straightened, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Eleanor swept past him toward the aisle, the hem of her pencil skirt brushing against his knee as she went.
It was accidental—the narrow space between the tables made it inevitable—but for a heartbeat, the courtroom vanished.
The faint scent of her perfume—something crisp with vanilla—closed in around him.
It was the same scent that had been lingering on his skin since midnight.
He wasn’t seeing a defense attorney; he was seeing the woman who had hauled him down by his shirt collar twelve hours ago.
She didn’t look back, but as she tightened her grip on the files in her arms, he caught the slight tremor in her hand.
Enough for him to know she was replaying the brick wall, too.
And this time—she didn’t pretend she didn’t like it.
Outside the Courthouse
Reid stepped out into sunlight and noise.
The square was louder than it had been before court.
Two local stations had set up tripods near the fountain. Lila’s crew hovered closer to the base of the steps. A cluster of college kids in Vanished tees waited like spectators outside a stadium, one of them holding up a cardboard sign:
FREE THE VALLEY GHOST.
Wrong case. Wrong county. Still good on camera.
Sheriff Burke Scott stood near the railing, arms crossed, hat low against the glare.
Scout Wilson leaned against a column, scanning faces.
Deputy Luke Hale was fielding questions near the sidewalk, calm as ever.
Reid descended the steps.
Burke met him halfway.
“This is getting out of hand,” Burke said quietly.
Reid glanced at the crowd. “It’s a festival now.”
“Festival’s fine,” Burke replied. “It’s the edges I don’t like.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’ve got people filing public records requests on cases they read about on Reddit.”
Reid’s brow lifted. “Sinclair?”
“And Lauren Pierce,” Burke said. “And anything else with the word ‘disappearance’ attached to it.”
Sinclair. His tightest case on the board. The one holding up half his reelection pitch and what was left of the Pierce family’s patience.
“I get Sinclair. Lauren Pierce. Missing women. Hell, I even get the ghost-tour nonsense.” He tipped his hat back a fraction. “But what’s Harper got to do with any of it?”
Reid’s expression closed slightly.
“I think she handled a case in Charleston,” he said. “Something high-profile. Something they’ve decided fits their story.”
Burke glanced toward the camera crews and banners crowding the square.
“Well,” he muttered, tugging the brim of his cap low again, “I’ll be glad when this whole damn circus packs up and heads back to South Carolina.”
Reid’s attention shifted to Lila’s crew.
“They’re pushing?”
“They’ve already filed,” Burke said. “Sinclair file. Interview transcripts. Forensics summaries. Anything they can spin.”
“Those records aren’t public,” Reid said.
“Correct.”
“And?”
“And I don’t intend to make them public,” Burke replied evenly. “But that won’t stop them from asking.”
Reid exhaled slowly.
“You want more deputies on these steps?” Burke asked.
Reid didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It’s starting to look like we may need it.”
Burke gave a short nod. “I’ll put another body up here besides Baker. For visibility. I don’t like when the media starts crowding the entrance.”
Reid’s gaze drifted toward the side exit. Eleanor emerged, blonde hair catching the sunlight.
Game face still firmly in place.
Lila noticed her immediately.
“Here we go,” Scout muttered from behind them.
Lila moved toward Eleanor with practiced confidence.
“Ms. Harper,” she called smoothly. “Any comment on the renewed interest in your Charleston acquittal? Does the defense always get this close to the prosecution in Sylva, or was that kiss just for our listeners? #HotSideBar"
Reid felt the tension shift beside him. Burke didn’t move.
Eleanor stopped at the bottom of the steps. One hand smoothed her skirt—a precise, unnecessary gesture.
Composed. Calm.
“That case was adjudicated in a court of law,” she said evenly. “Like every case I handle. And as for my private life, it’s not evidence.”
Lila tilted her head. “And the records requests on Sinclair and Lauren Pierce?”
“Public records are governed by statute,” Eleanor replied. “I suggest you and your audience familiarize yourselves with it before you start hunting ghosts.”
A faint ripple of laughter from the crowd.
Lila smiled thinly. “We’re only asking questions.”
Burke stepped between them.
“And I’ve answered them,” he said calmly. “Anything else goes through proper channels.”
“Cut,” Lila said quietly.
She lowered her mic.
But the phones didn’t.
One girl in a Vanished tee turned her back to the building, whispering a mocking recap into her front-facing camera about “The Ice Queen of Charleston.”
Reid watched Eleanor as she moved toward her car.
Professional. Unshaken.
But her shoulders were a fraction tighter than they’d been in court.
She fumbled her keys once before the lock caught—enough to matter.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
She didn’t hesitate out of fear. She stared at the screen with a weary, bone-deep exhaustion. It was the fifth call in twenty minutes. She didn’t answer. She locked the screen, but as the display faded, a row of notifications stacked up like a wall:
#HotSidebar.
#HotDistrictAttorney.
New Comment… New DM… Mentioned in a Thread…
She climbed into the car and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat like it was radioactive.
Reid watched her drive away.
He knew that look.
The world was calling, and it wasn’t asking—it was demanding a piece of her.
Burke watched the crews pack up.
“They’re going to keep pulling,” he said quietly.
“I know,” Reid replied.
Burke’s gaze drifted briefly toward the far side of the square—the edge of the crowd where a man stood watching the courthouse steps.
He wasn’t holding a phone.
He wasn’t wearing a podcast shirt.
He was a man in a worn canvas coat, watching the building like he was waiting for it to bleed.
Burke adjusted his hat, his eyes narrowing as the man turned and disappeared into the shadows of the alley.
“Make sure nothing follows her home,” Burke said quietly.