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Two weeks later, she found herself sitting across from him again, but this time, the tension had shifted. It wasn't just her staring down the devil in disguise. It was something else—an unspoken agreement forming between them, a game neither of them wanted to play but had no choice in.
She'd spent hours poring over the case files, examining every angle. No doubt about it: he was guilty. There was no defense that could change the facts. But that didn't matter anymore. The goal wasn't to prove his innocence—it was to protect the integrity of the legal system, to ensure that even the devil got their day in court.
She sat down, pulling out her legal pad and a pen, her demeanor cool and composed. "We need a strategy."
He leaned forward, his cuffs on his feet rattling again as his gaze locked onto hers. "I was starting to wonder if you were going to give up before we even got started. You said one week and that was two," he spoke a bit irritated.
"Don't flatter yourself," she shot back. "I've been busy trying to figure out how to keep your head on your body. And let me tell you, it's not easy when you've got a track record like yours."
He chuckled, the sound low and almost amused. "I never asked you to save me."
"Good, because I'm not here to save you," she said flatly. "I'm here to make sure you get a fair trial, whether you deserve it or not."
He raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "And what's your plan? Gonna spin some sob story? Blame my childhood? Claim I'm insane?"
She crossed her arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. "The insanity plea won't work. You're too calculated, too methodical. You knew exactly what you were doing every step of the way."
He grinned. "Glad you noticed."
"Like Kayla Richards," She started flipping through the case files until she landed on it. "You met her in Ohio at a diner,"
"Yeah...she had on a Bengals jacket so I was immediately drawn to her liking football. Walked up to her and started speaking. She was a nice girl to be honest,"
Her pen froze on the page, but she didn't look up. His casual tone sent a chill down her spine, the way he spoke of his victim as if recounting an ordinary conversation.
"A nice girl?" she repeated, her voice measured, keeping her reaction tightly controlled.
"Yeah," he said, leaning back in his chair, his eyes distant as if he was recalling a fond memory. "We had a few drinks, talked about the game. She was sweet, full of life. Told me she was about to move to New York for a fresh start. She had big dreams."
The way he spoke made her skin crawl, but she forced herself to remain professional. She'd heard worse stories in her line of work, but somehow, coming from him, it felt more sinister.
