Lines of Defense

Ch. 2

AMELIA HART 

I sit beside Winter's hospital bed, watching her tiny frame rise and fall with every soft breath. She looks peaceful, but the bruises on her pale arms and the deeper, more damning ones between her thighs tell a different story. A girl of thirteen should never know this kind of pain. Never.

"Who are you?"

The voice, trembling and raw, pulls me from my thoughts. I turn, finding a woman standing in the doorway, her face a mirror of Winter's, only older—light brown hair, hazel eyes red from hours of tears. Her mother.

I rise, extending my hand. "Amelia Hart. I heard about your daughter's case, and I came here to offer my services. I'd like to represent her."

She shakes my hand weakly, her grip fading as she moves to the other side of the bed, gently stroking her daughter's bruised forehead. The exhaustion in her posture, the desperation in her eyes—it strikes deep.

"Can you win?" Her voice cracks like glass. "I need to see that bastard rot in jail. I need to know my baby girl is going to get justice."

"I'll do everything in my power to make sure Winter gets the justice she deserves," I assure her. "It won't erase the trauma, but it's a step toward healing, for both of you."

Tears spill freely from her eyes, her lips trembling as they form words broken by grief. "Only his death can console me." Her sobs grows quieter, fractured by the weight of it all. "He gave her AIDS."

I feel the air rush out of me, like I've been punched in the chest. "HIV?" I whisper, horrified.

Her gaze locks onto mine, eyes that have seen too much pain. "How is she supposed to live with that? To know that the world not only failed to protect her but cursed her? How does she grow up now, knowing the very people who are meant to protect us—men—betrayed her in the worst way possible?"

I can't find the right words. Nothing feels adequate in the face of such raw anguish. "I am so, so sorry, Mrs. Houston," I murmur, the words barely scraping the surface of her grief. "I promise you, I'll make sure he rots in jail for what he's done."

She chokes on another sob, clutching at the edge of the bed, her fingers white with tension. "How many years for murder, attorney?"

The question hits like ice water. "Excuse me?"

Her voice hardens, her desperation shifting to something darker. "How many years would I get for killing him? Because I can't let him live. Not after what he did to her."

"Mrs. Houston," I say carefully, meeting her eyes with as much calm as I can muster, "I understand your anger—your need for justice beyond the law. But Winter needs you. She needs her mother more than anything right now. Please... for her sake, reconsider."

Her sobs grow uncontrollable, and she crumples to her knees, wrapping herself around Winter's fragile form. "Get justice for her, please. I beg you," she cries.

I take a long, steadying breath, watching her crumble. "You have my word, Mrs. Houston," I say softly, with all the certainty I can offer. "He won't escape this."

____

The cold, sterile halls of the hospital cling to me like a second skin as I step outside, the fresh air doing little to shake off the despair I've carried with me. Winter's bruised body, her mother's tear-streaked pleas, and the horror of the reality I've uncovered press down on my chest. I slide into the driver's seat, staring blankly at the steering wheel for a long moment before turning the key. The engine hums to life, but my mind is elsewhere. Winter, barely thirteen, brutalized in a way no one should ever experience.