The grand jury testimony happened on a Tuesday morning in early November. Sophia sat in the safe house living room, staring at her laptop screen while Agent Chen adjusted the camera angle for the third time.
"You need to be centered in the frame," Chen explained, though Sophia could barely focus on her lips. Her hands were shaking. In two minutes, she'd be looking at a screen full of strangers the grand jury and describing the worst night of her life. "There will be an ASL interpreter in the room with the jury. Everything you sign will be translated in real-time. The DA will ask you questions. Just answer honestly and clearly."
Sophia nodded. Honest and clear. She could do that.
The video call connected. Suddenly, Sophia was staring at a room full of faces twenty-three people, the grand jury, all looking back at her through their own screens. An interpreter sat at the front, hands ready. The Assistant District Attorney, a woman named Rebecca Torres no relation to the victim, thankfully appeared in a separate window.
"Miss Reid," Torres began, speaking slowly and clearly while the interpreter signed. "Thank you for your testimony today. I know this is difficult. Can you state your full name for the record?"
"Sophia Marie Reid." Sophia signed, her hands steadier now that the moment had arrived. The interpreter voiced it aloud.
"And Miss Reid, you are deaf, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"And you communicate primarily through American Sign Language and lip-reading?"
"Yes."
Torres walked her through the basics first where she lived, what she did for a living, why she was awake and looking out her window at nearly midnight on October 8th. Sophia answered each question, feeling the jury's eyes on her, judging, assessing, wondering if a deaf woman could really be trusted to know what she saw.
Then Torres got to the heart of it.
"Miss Reid, can you describe what you witnessed that night?"
Sophia took a breath and began. She described the two men, their argument, the way she'd read their lips. The shorter man pleading. The taller man pulling a gun. Three shots. The body falling.
"And you're certain about what you lip-read?" Torres asked. "You're certain the victim, Michael Torres, was pleading for his life?"
"Yes. He said 'please, family, daughter.' He was begging."
"And the shooter can you describe him?"
Sophia described Damien Cross in detail. The sharp features, the cold eyes, the calculated precision of his movements. Professional. Practiced. A man who'd killed before.
"And Miss Reid, after the shooting, what did the shooter do?"
"He looked directly at me. At my window. And he smiled. Then he waved."
A murmur went through the jury. Sophia could see their reactions shock, disbelief, horror. Good. They should be horrified.
"Did you feel threatened by this gesture?"
"Yes. He was letting me know he'd seen me. That he knew I was a witness."
Torres pulled up photos on the screen crime scene evidence. The apartment where Torres died. Blood spatter patterns. Bullet trajectories. All of it matched Sophia's testimony.
"Miss Reid, I'm going to show you a photograph. Can you identify this person?"
The screen filled with a professional photo of Damien Cross. The same face Sophia saw in her nightmares.
"That's him. That's the man who killed Michael Torres."
"Let the record show the witness has identified Damien Cross as the shooter. Thank you, Miss Reid. The grand jury may now have questions."
For the next hour, Sophia fielded questions from the jury. Some were skeptical how could she be sure about lip-reading? Could she have misinterpreted? What if the victim had actually threatened Cross first? Others were sympathetic did she feel safe? Was she receiving protection? Had Cross tried to contact her?
Sophia answered everything truthfully. Yes, lip-reading could be imperfect, but she was certain about what she'd seen. No, she didn't misinterpret Torres was pleading, not threatening. Yes, Cross had contacted her moved in next door, sent her text messages, found her despite witness protection. And no, she didn't feel safe. She wouldn't feel safe until Cross was behind bars.
When it ended, Torres thanked her and the screen went dark. Agent Chen immediately closed the laptop, like shutting out the memory.
"You did great," Chen said. "Really great. The jury seemed convinced."
"Will they indict?"
"I think so. But that's just the beginning. The trial is where it gets hard."
Sophia knew. The trial would mean facing Cross in person, enduring cross-examination from his lawyers, having her credibility shredded in front of a courtroom. But it would also mean finally confronting him, looking him in the eye while she destroyed his carefully constructed lies.
She was almost looking forward to it.
That night, alone in the safe house, Sophia returned to her secret laptop. The grand jury testimony had been necessary, but it wasn't enough. Even if they indicted Cross, even if the trial happened, convicting him would be difficult. His lawyers were too good. His connections too deep.
She needed insurance. Leverage. Something that would guarantee Cross couldn't walk away.
Sophia pulled up her files on Elena Volkov and the network surrounding Cross. She'd been watching Volkov's gallery social media, tracking the art openings and events. There was a show scheduled for Friday night"Emerging Voices: New Perspectives in Contemporary Art." Translation: another money laundering operation disguised as culture.
An idea formed, dangerous and reckless and exactly the kind of thing Agent Chen would forbid.
Sophia opened a new browser window, navigated to the gallery's website, and clicked "Contact Us."
Dear Ms. Volkov,
My name is Sophia Reid. I'm a portrait artist currently seeking representation. I've admired your gallery's commitment to emerging artists and wondered if you might be interested in reviewing my portfolio. I specialize in contemporary portraiture with a focus on capturing hidden truths.
I've attached several samples of my work. I hope they speak to your aesthetic.
Best regards,
Sophia Reid
She attached five images her best work, pieces that showcased her technical skill and artistic vision. Real art. No deception there. She wanted Volkov to see what she could do.
Then she added a sixth image. A portrait she'd painted from memory over the past three weeks. Damien Cross's face, rendered in brutal honesty. Not the charming professional from his Instagram. The killer she'd watched murder Michael Torres. Cold eyes. Cruel mouth. Blood on his hands, painted in deep crimson at the bottom of the canvas.
The attached file was named simply: Truth.jpg
Sophia hit send before she could second-guess herself.
It was a declaration of war. Volkov would show Cross of course she would. And Cross would know that Sophia wasn't hiding anymore. That she was coming for him, for his network, for everything he'd built on violence and intimidation.
Let him come. She was ready.
The response came faster than expected. The next morning, Sophia woke to find an email from Elena Volkov in her inbox:
Miss Reid,
Your work is extraordinary. Particularly the final piece such raw emotional honesty. I'd very much like to meet with you to discuss representation. Are you available for coffee this week? I'm in Manhattan most afternoons.
I'm especially curious about your inspiration for 'Truth.' There's a story there, I think.
Warmly,
Elena Volkov