Stacks of files covered the long oak dining table, the only source of light being the lamp angled toward the center, casting long shadows over crime scene photos, blood-smeared reports, and a worn hospital document bearing Maria-Isabel's name.
Rafael leaned over the table, sleeves rolled up, cigarette between his fingers—unlit, but twitching like he wanted to light it every second.
Ethan stood across from him, a hand braced against the edge of the table, eyes scanning Maria's initial arrest report for the third time.
"Her story is solid," Rafael said finally, breaking the silence. "It's messy, painful—but it's real."
Ethan didn't look up. "It's also emotional. Which means the prosecution's going to rip it apart."
"Not if we get ahead of them."
