Page 144 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

“Good afternoon, everyone,” the judge says as he seats himself at the head of the conference table. “I take it from the several new faces here today that this is the infamous Keith Prentiss.”

“Yes, sir.”

The judge tilts his head and looks right at me. “And you might be?”

I swallow down the nerves and open my mouth. “I’m Dusty Connors.”

“And your purpose in being here today?”

The lawyer on my right clears his throat and leans forward. “Will be introduced in due course.”

The judge furrows his grey brows and opens his file. “I see that we’ve left things a little last-minute. You had fourteen days to provide contradicting evidence for your case and this is the final day. I assume then that either you have nothing, or you have something quite significant.”

At this, I feel eyes on me and look across the table to where Logan sits. He is glaring at me. If looks could kill, I’d be dead a hundred times over, but the throbbing pulse in his neck tells me he’s also nervous. Good.

“We must apologize,” Key says. “One of our bandmates was very gravely injured in a car accident a week ago and it has been a very difficult time.”

The judge’s eyes widen. “I’m very sorry to hear that and I hope he is doing better. You could have requested an extension.”

“Unnecessary.” Key smiles. “He’s coming home from the hospital tomorrow.”

“Very well.” He turns to Logan. “Mr. Samuels, you have already presented your evidence for the songs in question, do you have any further evidence to provide this court?”

Logan chews his lip, then turns to his lawyer who shakes his head. “No, we don’t.”

“I see. And, Mr. Prentiss, is there new evidence you wish to submit on your behalf?”

Key turns and looks directly at Logan, a smirk pulling at his cheeks. “Yes. There is.”

The lawyer leans across the table and passes down a folder I know all too well. The judge grabs it and flips it open. His brows grow tighter the more he reads.

“What is this?” he asks.

“Those are the only original copies of the songs in question. Written before Mr. Prentiss and Mr. Samuels met at military school.”

The judge flips through more of the papers. “But half of this is nonsense. It’s barely legible. How does this prove anything?”

“Because I have dyslexia, sir.”

I blink and look at Key with confusion.

The judge’s eyes open wider. “Dyslexia?”

“Yes, sir, it’s a neurodevelopmental condition that?—”

He raises his hand. “Yes, I know what dyslexia is. My grandson was just diagnosed with it.” Something skips in my heart—a connection. “Please, continue.”

Key clears his throat. “When I was a kid, no one could figure out why I couldn’t read or write. I said all the right words and understood when things were read aloud but the moment I had to read something off paper or write an answer down, it just got all jumbled. My teachers thought I was just stupid, so did my parents, but then I met Dusty. She told me that no one who composed songs the way I did could be stupid. It’s very possible that is the day I fell in love with her.”

My chest tightens. He’s never told me that before.

“I had gotten in the habit of anticipating answers or memorizing things to avoid reading and writing at all costs. And not just school—even when it came to writing songs. However, I always wanted to share my songs with one particular person.”

His hand squeezes mine and I smile.

“As you can see, they weren’t the most legible, and some of the letters are jumbled, but Dusty was always able to read them and miraculously, kept them after all these years.”

The judge looks again at the yellowed paper.

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