Chapter 2

"My son did not kill himself."

My voice cut through the noise of the command center. I looked at Bentley Shannon, whose face was pale and slick with sweat.

"This is your choice, Mr. District Attorney. Not mine. You can save your daughter, or you can continue to protect a murderer. You have six chances left."

I remembered the fourth appeal. I had stood before him in his polished mahogany office. He didn't even look up from the papers he was signing.

"Mrs. Thornton," he had said, his tone dripping with condescending pity. "Grief can make us see things that aren't there. The medical examiner is the best in the state. The police have closed the case. You need to accept it and let your son rest in peace."

I had slammed my fist on his desk. "Rest in peace? He was run down like an animal and left to die on the side of the road! Did you even look at the evidence I submitted?"

"The evidence I've seen," he said, finally meeting my eyes with a cold glare, "is a tox screen full of opioids and a statement from his girlfriend about his depression. Your 'evidence' is compromised by your relationship with the deceased. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a city to run."

My lawyer had pulled me out of the office that day, advising me to drop it. "You can't fight the D.A.'s office, Carolynn. They will bury you."

I couldn't drop it. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Dustin. Not the broken body on the slab, but my laughing, vibrant son crossing the finish line, arms raised in victory, his future as bright and open as the sky. He was not a boy who would throw that away.

The livestream audience gasped as I picked up the second tool. A pair of hemostats.

Chelsi Shannon fell to her knees. "Please, no, not again. Bentley, do something! Give her what she wants!" she shrieked, clawing at her husband's suit jacket.

"I can't!" he yelled back, his composure gone. "The report says suicide! That's the only report there is!"

He was lying. I held the hemostats over Dallas' s other arm.

Before he could finish his sentence, I clamped the tool onto the delicate skin of her forearm. I didn't break the skin, but I squeezed just hard enough to leave a deep, painful-looking mark.

The girl' s small body jerked on the table.

"Six chances," I repeated, my voice a dead monotone.

The world outside my sterile room went insane. The police were in a frenzy, trying to trace my location. I could hear sirens in the far distance, a mournful cry that was too little, too late. They wouldn't find me. The broadcast was being routed through a dozen encrypted servers in three different countries. I had planned this for months. I was a CSI. I knew their methods.

The comments on the feed were a river of fury.

She' s a monster. Find her and put her down.

I hope they give her the needle.

I curse you, Carolynn Thornton. I hope you rot in hell for what you' re doing to that baby.

I felt nothing. Let them curse me. Let them hate me.

"Your curses mean nothing to me," I said, speaking to the faceless mob. "I'm already in hell. I've been there since the day my son was taken from me. If this is what it takes to clear his name, I will pay any price."