44. Waging War
Waging War
Elias
The door opens and the room fills with sound and movement: snapping heels, shuffling papers, murmured voices.
The lawyers come back first, then the superintendent, then the Pearsons.
The air feels different now, though. It’s heavier, charged, like the voltage has been turned up and we’re all waiting for the current to pass through.
Sophie doesn’t bother to stand or greet them. She sits exactly where she is, calm and poised, a pen resting between her fingers.
“Let’s begin, shall we?” she says when they’re all sat down.
No one answers. I can tell they’re nervous, and my confidence is inversely proportionate to their discomfort. I finally reach for the cup of coffee Sophie brought me, and it tastes as dark and strong as her presence.
Sophie glances at the folder on the table—the one they’d slid towards me earlier. She draws it towards her and opens it, eyes skimming the pages.
“Malicious intent,” she reads aloud. “Grievous bodily harm. Premeditation.” She closes the file again, neatly, as if the words bore her.
“The police report, the so-called witness statements, the forensic results—I’ve worked a lot of cases over the course of my long and tiring career, but I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything quite so flimsy in my life. ”
One of the lawyers starts to protest. Sophie glances up over the thick frames of her glasses, and the man’s words die in his throat.
“You realise you’ve got nothing concrete, right?
” she continues. Her tone is conversational rather than confrontational, but that somehow makes her sound scarier than if she’d been screaming in rage.
“No weapon, no eyewitness, no timeline that holds. What you do have is circumstantial evidence at best, and at worst, prejudice. A convenient scapegoat with a background you think makes him disposable.”
Her gaze drifts to the police superintendent. He shifts uncomfortably.
“Here’s what I would like to know: was there a single moment in this investigation when anyone considered the possibility that my client might be innocent?”
Nobody answers; she doesn’t look like she expected them to.
“I thought not,” she says. “I’ve reviewed the file: you searched a student’s dorm room without legal justification.
You leaked his name to the press before the investigation concluded.
You held him in custody for seven days without charge, during which time he’s been repeatedly questioned without appropriate legal representation.
Every single one of those actions is a breach of protocol, and most are grounds for civil action. ”
She pauses, lets the silence stretch. Then she adds, very softly, “Which, rest assured, I will be pursuing fully.”
Sophie rises from her chair. The movement is unhurried and deliberate. The lawyers look up, and there’s genuine fear in their eyes now.
“Now,” she says. “Let’s talk about your client’s son, Birnam Hastings.”
A muscle jumps in her jaw, and I can tell instinctively that she hates him, which means Ophelia did tell her the truth after all.
“He filmed a fifteen-year-old girl without her consent and distributed that footage among his peers. That’s the main charge we’ll be proceeding with, in case you’re wondering.
In legal terms, this is what we refer to as possession of child sexual exploitation material.
Production, possession, and distribution.
In addition to blackmail and harassment. ”
Earlier, I wondered if Sophie would seek vengeance or justice.
It didn’t occur to me she could do both.
The head lawyer opens his mouth; she shuts him up with a look.
“Don’t bother. Unlike you, I never proceed unless I have a bulletproof case. That means concrete evidence. Witness statements. Metadata from the recovered files.”
So much for Birnam’s destroyed phone and all my work deleting files.
“My clients have—” Mr Hastings’ lawyer tries to interject again.
“Your clients have used their influence and wealth to influence and divert the investigation, to protect a predator, and to publicly destroy an innocent young man. Are the Hastings prepared for a trial by jury? Because I can promise you I am.”
This time, it’s Mr Pearson who speaks. He’s been making calculations, rerouting. He recovers fast—he always does. He’s been primed for it. He leans forward, clasping his hands together in that politician’s imitation of humility.
“Mrs Sutton-Knight,” he says, “I must express my gratitude for your support in this matter. We all want the same thing here—a fair resolution. As you know, we’ve always cared deeply about Elias’s welfare.”
Mrs Pearson nods fervently, voice trembling with manufactured empathy.
“We took him in when no one else would. We gave him opportunities, stability, a home. It breaks our hearts to see him in this situation. We only ever wanted what was best for him.”
They’re not anywhere near as clever as they think, because we can all see it: the shift, the turn, the rewriting of history in real time. The Pearsons can smell power in the room and like the opportunistic scavengers they are, they’re already trying to crawl back to it.
Mr Pearson turns to me, that soft, paternal smile plastered on his face.
“Elias,” he says gently, “you know we’ve always considered you one of ours. Let’s not forget everything we’ve done for one another. Mrs Sutton-Knight and I can work together to sort this mess out—perhaps even help you transition back home, once this is all over—”
Home. His words make my skin crawl. I realise, with a sick rush, that Sophie’s interference isn’t going to save me. Even if she gets me out of prison, the Pearsons will have me back under their roof—under their control.
And then what? No Spearcrest, no Harvard. Just the Pearsons, and my entire future in their hands.
I want to say something, but my throat is closed up tight with rising panic.
But Sophie tilts her head slightly, watching them with disdainful curiosity, like she’s examining a pair of insects too stupid to realise they’re pinned to a board.
“Mr and Mrs Pearson.” She steps closer to the table. The Pearsons flinch back instinctively. “I was just getting to you.”
I hold my breath, not daring to breathe. But to my surprise, Sophie turns and looks at me.
“I’m guessing you’ll be pursuing legal emancipation as soon as possible, am I correct?”
I nod, and Sophie echoes the gesture.
“Good. It’s done. Now, you have two options to choose from, and I’ll be by your side whichever you choose.”
I blink at her. I’m not ashamed to say, in that moment, that she scares me a little bit.
“What options?”
My heartbeat stutters, quickening.
“You can choose to forgive and forget. Emancipate—I’ll handle all the proceedings—move on and never see the Pearsons again. I’ll ensure they stay away from you, but not that they’ll face any consequences. Or—” There’s a glint in her eyes that’s pure incandescent darkness. “We could wage war.”
At her words, Mrs Pearson’s eyes fly to mine. She’s incapable of quite hiding her fear; her eyes widen ever so slightly. She doesn’t say anything, but there is a silent plea in her gaze.
I look away.
If life was a movie, and I was the poor hard-done victim-hero who’s been brutalised by an indifferent system, I know what I’d have to choose. I’d do the right thing—the noble thing. Turn the other cheek. Elevate myself above my foes through noble forgiveness.
But I’m not a hero, I never was. And I’ve just spent seven days being treated like I’m something less than human, and I’ve had a lot of time with nothing to do but let my resentment fester.
And, if I’m being totally honest, I fucking hate the Pearsons.
I meet Sophie’s gaze, and the darkness in her eyes, which looks like strength, not malevolence, matches the darkness inside my chest, and maybe that darkness isn’t a bad thing to have after all. If I say what I want to say, then there’ll be no going back.
But I’ve never been one for regret, have I?
“War.”
Mrs Pearson flinches, lips pinched almost invisible. At her side, her husband swallows drily, throat bobbing. They both look taken aback. Against all odds, they’d both assumed I would choose forgiveness.
But Sophie’s lips curl into the ghost of a grin, and even though I know she’d have supported either choice I could’ve made, I also know, with total certainty, that I’ve just made the choice she would have made.
She gives a single nod and turns back to the Pearsons, who are watching us, aghast.
“Here’s what the situation looks like from the outside,” Sophie begins calmly. “You took a disadvantaged, gifted child and turned him into a trophy. You put him on your Christmas cards, your charity pamphlets, your speeches. Look at what good people we are. We don’t hate the poor. Vote for us.”
Mrs Pearson’s mouth opens in protest, but Sophie raises a hand.
“You might well flatter yourself into thinking of what you’ve done as philanthropy.
I, on the other hand, see it for what it is: exploitation.
” She smiles coldly. “Now, being a despicable person isn’t a criminal offence, is it?
And it turns out your idea of charity is a little more than unethical—it’s criminal. ”
The Pearsons glare at their lawyer, who finally has the courage to speak.
“My clients haven’t committed any—”
“Misappropriation of charity funds,” Sophie interrupts him. “False accounting. Fraud by abuse of position. You see, my husband and I happened to have made a pretty sizable donation to your organisation, Mr and Mrs Pearson, last winter.”
Fuck—the gala. It feels like a lifetime ago, now, and I think maybe the memory of Dominic House Observatory will always overshadow the painful memory of the gala. I catch my breath, staring at Sophie.