The file folder felt heavier than a stack of papers had any right to be. It sat on Lauren Hayes' lap, pressing down on her thighs like a heavy weight, the sharp edges digging cruelly into the fabric of her silk pajamas. The morning sun was just beginning to bleed through the sheer curtains of the living room, long, pale shadows spilling across the floor, but Lauren felt none of the warmth.
She stared at the name typed on the cover in bold, unforgiving black ink.
The People v. Grey Knight.
Lauren rubbed her temples, trying to massage away the headache that had been brewing since she opened her eyes. She had grabbed this case yesterday in a moment of sheer, blind panic. She hadn't read the details. She hadn't looked at the charges. She had simply seen the "High Profile" stamp and the projected billable hours, and she had snatched it off Petra Steele's desk before anyone else at Vance & Steele law firm could get their hands on it.
It was an act of desperation. A Hail Mary pass.
Three months ago, Lauren had been the golden associate. She was on the partner track, the one everyone whispered about with envy. Then came the Sterling case. It was supposed to be a slam dunk: the son of a prominent senator had driven his Porsche through the front of a family-owned bakery while three times over the legal limit. The firm expected Lauren to bury the evidence, discredit the witnesses, and get the kid off with community service.
But she couldn't do it.
She had looked at the shop owners—an elderly couple whose livelihood had been reduced to rubble—and she had hesitated. She had let her conscience bleed into her cross-examination. She had lost the edge. And ultimately, she had lost the case.
The fallout had been catastrophic. The senator pulled his retainer. The firm lost millions. And Petra Steele, a woman whose face was as frozen by Botox as her heart was by nature, had made Lauren's life a living hell ever since.
"You are blacklisted, Lauren," Petra had said, her voice like grinding glass. "You are poison. Unless you bring me a win that makes the partners forget you have a morality complex, you can look for a job in retail. I hear the mall is hiring."
So, Lauren had taken the Knight case. She thought it would be another white-collar crime—embezzlement, insider trading, maybe tax evasion. Something boring. Something fixable.
She flipped the file open, her eyes scanning the summary she had ignored yesterday.
Defendant: Grey Knight.
Occupation: Venture Capitalist.
Charge: First Degree Murder.
Lauren stopped breathing. The air in the room seemed to vanish.
"Murder?" she whispered, the word tasting like ash.
She flipped the page, her hand trembling slightly. Victim: Elara Vance. Found strangled in the penthouse suite of the Obsidian Hotel.
"Oh, god," she groaned, letting her head fall back against the beige sofa cushions. "I'm not a criminal defense attorney. I fix contracts. I fix reputations. I don't do dead bodies."
The front door of the apartment burst open, shattering into the silence. Lauren jumped, nearly dropping the file as Josephine breezed into the room.
Josephine was a whirlwind of energy, dressed in her blue nurse scrubs, her dark skin glowing even under the harsh hallway light. She looked exhausted but beautiful, carrying the weight of single motherhood and a twelve-hour shift with effortless grace.
"Coffee," Josephine announced, tossing her keys into the bowl near the door. "I need coffee, I need a vacation, and I need my children to magically transport themselves to school. In that order." She stopped, looking down at Lauren sprawled on the couch. "Why do you look like you've seen a ghost? I thought you landed the big fish yesterday?"
"I did," Lauren said, her voice tight. "But the fish is a shark, Jo. It's a murder case."
Josephine froze halfway to the kitchen. She turned slowly, her eyes wide. "Excuse me?"
"Grey Knight. The venture capitalist guy? They think he strangled a woman in a hotel room."
"Grey Knight?" Josephine's jaw dropped. "The one who's on the cover of Forbes every other month? The one who looks like he was sculpted out of sin and expensive cologne?"
"That's the one."
"And you're defending him?"
"I have to," Lauren said, sitting up and closing the folder with a snap. "If I drop this, Petra will demote me to the basement. I'll be stapling papers for Steve Arrow until I die of paper cuts. I have to win this, Jo. My career is hanging by a thread."
Josephine sighed, walking over and leaning against the doorframe. "Lauren, honey, I love a good comeback story, but not if the lead character gets murdered by her client. Are you sure about this?"
"I don't have a choice. Besides," Lauren stood up, trying to summon a confidence she didn't feel. "Everyone deserves a defense, right? Innocent until proven guilty."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Josephine muttered. She turned toward the staircase that led to the bedrooms. "Beatrice! Let's go! You're going to miss the bus if you don't move your ass right now!"
A moment later, heavy, sullen footsteps thudded down the stairs. Beatrice appeared, looking every inch the rebellious teenager. At sixteen, she was a carbon copy of her mother but with a permanent scowl etched onto her face. Her curly dark hair was pulled into a messy bun, and she wore oversized headphones that were likely blasting something angry. Her eyes, a striking oceanic blue, were glued to her phone screen.
"Good morning, Bea," Lauren said, forcing a bright smile.
Beatrice didn't look up. She didn't even pause. She just kept typing on her phone, humming a non-committal noise that might have been a grunt.
"Beatrice," Josephine snapped, grabbing her purse. "Say good morning to Lauren. And take those things off your head when you're in the living room."
Beatrice slid the headphones down to her neck, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Morning, Lauren. Mom, chill. The bus doesn't even come for ten minutes."
"The bus isn't waiting for your attitude," Josephine shot back, stress lining her forehead. "And pull your skirt down. It's a school, not a nightclub."
"It's fashion, Mom. You wouldn't get it because you wear pajamas to work."
"Hey," Lauren's voice cut through the air, sharp and authoritative—the same voice she used in courtrooms to silence unruly witnesses.
Beatrice stopped, looking at Lauren in surprise.
Lauren softened her expression but kept her gaze firm. "Don't speak to your mother like that, Bea. She's working a double shift today just to make sure you have those headphones and that phone. Show some respect."
Beatrice blinked. The teenage defiance faltered for a second under Lauren's scrutiny. She looked from Lauren to her mother, then mumbled a quiet, "Sorry," and shuffled toward the door.
Josephine exhaled, shooting Lauren a grateful look. "Thank you. She listens to you. I think she thinks you're cool because you wear blazers and sue people."
"I'm terrifying," Lauren agreed with a dry smile, grabbing her car keys from the table. "Go. Save lives. I've got David."
Josephine paused at the door, her expression softening. "Don't forget about him, okay? He's been waiting by the door since six. He's excited you're taking him."
"I know. I've got him. I'll drop him off on my way to the… client."
Josephine stepped back and kissed Lauren's cheek. "Good luck. And please, if this Grey Knight guy starts acting weird—like, 'I keep human organs in jars' weird—just run. I don't care about your job. I care about you."
"I'll be fine," Lauren lied. "It's just a meeting."
"Love you!" Josephine called out, herding Beatrice out the door.
Lauren watched them go, the silence of the apartment rushing back in. She looked down at the file in her hand one last time, took a deep breath, and turned toward the guest room.
"David?" she called out softly. "Ready to roll, buddy?"
The traffic in Belmont City was a special circle of hell reserved for people who were already late.
Lauren slammed her hand onto the steering wheel, the horn blaring out a long, aggressive note that joined the symphony of frustration surrounding them.
"Move!" she shouted at the red sedan in front of her that hadn't moved an inch in five minutes. "The light is green! It's been green! It's going to turn red again, you absolute idiot!"
She gripped the wheel so hard her knuckles turned white. The clock on the dashboard mocked her. 8:15 AM. She was meeting Grey Knight at 9:00 AM.
"I hate this city," she ranted, throwing her head back against the headrest. "I hate this traffic. I hate politicians' sons who can't drive, I hate Petra Steele, and I hate that I have to go meet a murder suspect before I've had my second cup of coffee."
From the passenger seat, a pair of large, dark eyes watched her silently.
David, Josephine's eight-year-old son, sat clutching his backpack straps. He didn't say anything. He rarely said anything. He just watched Lauren with a curiosity that was both unnerving and adorable, his head tilted slightly to the side.
Lauren felt his gaze and the tension in her shoulders dropped a notch. She turned to him, the rage vanishing from her face, replaced by a soft, genuine smile.
"Sorry, bud," she said, her voice gentle. "Auntie Lauren is just… practicing her court voice. Pretty loud, right?"
David stared at her for a second longer, then a small, shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He nodded.
"Yeah. Loud."
"We're almost at school," she promised, easing the car forward as the traffic finally lurched into motion. "Have you got your lunch?"
He patted his backpack.
"Good man."
Lauren navigated the chaotic streets with the aggression of a cab driver and the precision of a surgeon. She dropped David at the curb of his elementary school, watching until he was safely through the gates and waving at a teacher.
Once he was gone, the smile dropped from her face like a mask.
She merged back into traffic, heading away from the city center and toward the hills. Towards the Estates.
Her phone buzzed in the cup holder. A notification from her calendar: Meeting with G. Knight - Residence.
It was highly irregular. Usually, the first client meeting happened in the sterile safety of the firm's glass-walled conference room. There were witnesses. There was security cameras. There was coffee that tasted like burnt rubber.
But when she had emailed Grey Knight's secretary yesterday to set up the appointment, the reply had been swift and non-negotiable.
Mr. Knight is unavailable during office hours. He requests your presence at his home tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM. It is his day off. Address attached.
Lauren had almost typed back a refusal. It was unsafe. It was unprofessional. A murder suspect wanting to meet alone in his house? It sounded like the start of a horror movie.
But then she remembered Petra's face. She remembered the empty space on her desk where the partner track plaque used to be. She remembered the stack of unpaid bills on her kitchen counter.
She couldn't decline. He was the client. He was the ticket back.
"Just a house," she muttered to herself as the city skyline faded in the rearview mirror, replaced by the manicured greenery of the wealthy suburbs of Mr Grey Knight's estate. "Just a rich guy in a big house. You've handled worse. You can handle Grey Knight."
She hoped she was right.