Page 7 of The Heir
"I don't know," Melody answers with wide eyes. "I don't know Barry Lennox. I don't know when he died."
A smile creeps across my face. Of course she doesn't know. She did meet me that day, but she doesn't knowthat. And it's a damn good thing she doesn't, as she definitely did not perjure herself just now. The DA chuckles and turns to the TV they've rolled in for the trial. The screen flips from gory crime-scene photos to the smiling face of a disgustingly familiar man.
"Barry Lennox. By all accounts, he was a family man. A businessman. He ran in similar circles to your husband—professionally speaking, of course. An aspiring real estate mogul, even! And, of course, we express our condolences to his wife and children. If you'll direct your attention to the screen here, we can see Barry's shallow grave in the Pine Barrens."
The screen flashes with images of the clearing. As the lawyer clicks through the photos, it almost seems like the world's worst flipbook. The police unearth Barry's corpse, picked clean by the worms and insects that feasted on him. They point out various rocks, footprints, and worst of all: strands of hair. Strands of blackish-brown curly hair. Hair that matches the beautiful tresses on my wife.
"Now, here, we can see these strands. They were carefully recovered and tested against Mrs. Lyons's DNA." The lawyer clicks their mouse one more time, showing a side-by-side comparison. "As we can all see, they are a perfect match. Now, if you were not Barry Lennox's murderer, why wouldyourhair be inhisgrave?"
My heart sinks. These motherfuckers. I swear to god I'll kill them all. They planted it. They planted her goddamn hair—that's why Ella had Melody locked up in that fucking cage for so long. She stole her blood, her hair, her very DNA to perfectly frame her.
Rafaella Angelo is going to die.
Roman accompanies me to court every single day. The new office manager, Celine, is taking care of everything—just like Roman said she would. I still haven't apologized to him for my outburst. I need to, but I just don't have the strength. My every waking moment is focused on Melody and the trial. The jury is deliberating today, just like they did yesterday and the day before. Every minute they spend in isolation, my nerves grow thinner and thinner.
He stands with me outside the courtroom, tapping away on his phone. I lean my head back against the marble walls and let out an exhausted breath. Sneakily peeking at his phone screen, I see Roman is texting with Helena. He's dutifully providing updates on Melody's trial and assuring Helena that all we need is for her to heal. Good.
"Mr. Lyons?" Vetter approaches with a sorrowful look. "Mr. Lyons, I'm sorry."
"What do you mean?" I grit out. "Sorry for what?"
He pats me on the shoulder with a pitying smile. "We'll get her out on appeal."
"What thefuckdo you mean by that?" My voice is rising—I'm almost yelling—but I don't care. "Appeal? What the fuck? She'sinnocent!"
"Of course she is, we all know that. But… the prosecution, Dante. They pulled out all the stops. It's not the '90s anymore. Everyone knows what DNA is. Everyone knows what itmeans. I just… wanted to prepare you before the jury returns."
No. God, no. They can't do this. They can't take my wife away. They can't put her in prison. I promised her I would protect her; I promised her she would be safe. All the same words I've chastised myself with for weeks rattle around in my brain. The walls are closing in on me, and I can't breathe.
"Sir?" Roman gently places a hand on my back. "Sir, are you alright?"
No. No, I'm not fucking alright. I won't be alright until my wife is back in my arms. I brought her into this mess, and I have to get her out.
"Let's get some coffee, sir. We'll leave immediately if the jury comes back." Roman guides me to the exit. I feel like a ghost as I follow along. I have no purpose. Ihave no drive, except for one thing. The one thing that I can't do. The one thing that I've tried my absolute hardest to do.
He orders for me—sixteen-ounce drip, no sugar, no cream—and ushers me into an available seat. A newspaper sits on the tabletop with Melody's face splashed across the front page. "ALLEGED MURDERER FACES SECOND WEEK OF TRIAL." I grab the page and crumple it up, throwing it into the nearest trash can. The trial has been soshort. It's like the prosecution wants to get it over and done with so they can throw her away.
At every turn, we're blocked by the judge. Vetter tried to argue for recusal, but it didn't work. I really thought we could get her off. Vetter assured me as such, with his haughty overconfidence.I've never lost a case,he said. But he's losingthiscase. The only fucking case that matters.
I gulp down the coffee and ignore the burn in my throat. If the jury declares her guilty, she'll be extradited to Illinois and stand trial for Charlie's murder.
"Oh my god," I whisper. "That's it. Illinois."
"What?" Roman leans in with a furrowed brow. "What do you mean?"
I shake my head and chug the rest of my coffee. "Not here. Let's get back to the courthouse."
Roman follows me to the busy sidewalk, still frowning. I shake my head and point to the nearby park. It's the middle of the day, and there are only a few people scattered around the benches. It's perfect. No one will be able to hear us. I scurry across the street and claim the bench furthest away from anyone already seated.
"Illinois," I whisper to Roman as he sits. "We'll break her out when they transfer her to Illinois."
His eyebrows shoot up, and he huffs out a laugh. "Amazing. I knew you were still there, sir. Yes, the fuck we will."
My mind races with possibilities. We could hijack the plane or kill the pilot and replace them with our own. We could storm the transport bus and kill everyone but her. We could do any number of things—but we'll need more information. I think it's time to call in The Paimon.
Roman's phone vibrates in his lap. "Oh, shit. The jury's back, sir. Let's go."
Without another word, we race across the city sidewalk, weaving through pedestrians. More than one person yells in our direction, but I could give a flying fuck. We reach the courthouse in the nick of time, bursting through the courtroom doors just as the judge orders everyone to sit.
