Page 90 of Because I Killed Him
At least, we pretend to be.
Two weeks later, on a chilly Sunday morning, a package arrives at my suite. I’m stretched out on a window seat in my salon, watching the news on my Bond, when my Pinkie enters and sets the box on the cushion beside me.
“Miss Waldsten, you have a delivery.”
“Please leave it here,” I murmur, still focused on my Bond, where the first high-citizen trial is streaming live.
The screen is split. On one side, it shows courtroom footage of the two Blues charged with capital treason for attempting to assassinate President Reeve. On the other side, Benjamin Bogart’s hands dance gracefully as he reports the latest updates from the steps of the Hourglass Courthouse in Charleston City.
There’s a noticeable dip in his energy today. The usual sparkle in his handsome violet eyes is dulled, and his posture droops, as if he spent the whole night knocking back whiskey. It makes me wonder whether the tabloid rumors that Scarlet Du Pont dumped him are true.
Still, Bogart maintains his composure as he explains that the trial is in the evidentiary phase. He focuses primarily on the defense, describing in painstaking detail how they’re countering the prosecution’s case with “utmost tact and class.”
“The surveillance footage places two assailants at the scene,” Bogart says. “However, only one assailant is clearly identifiable. Without a definitive identification of the second suspect, the evidence falls short of the burden of proof for a conclusive ruling. For now, the court considers it circumstantial.”
I grumble and press a pillow from the window seat behind my head. I thought this case would be cut-and-dry, but over the past few days it’s been deflating like a balloon left in the sun. A key witness, initially confident in her testimony, has now changed her story, probably because a Blue cornered her in a dark alley, shoved a gun to her head, and handed her a new script. There are also allegations that the video has been tampered with. “Deepfake manipulation,” the defense is calling it. They’re also claiming the charges are political, accusing Reeve of targeting high-citizens who’ve criticized his administration. If the two accused Blues were picked as scapegoats, this would be the clearest example yet of the law being twisted for political gain.
“Under the law,” Bogart continues, “no capital sentence may proceed without incontrovertible evidence. And we must not forget… this is not a trial of Heretics or low-citizens. Both of the accused arehigh, and that distinction carries immense weight.”
“Oh, fuck off,” I mutter, swiping out of the livestream.
Heat rushes to my face as I sit up on the window seat. There’s an anxious knot in my stomach that’s tightened with each day spent waiting for the verdict. But as strung out as I am, I know it’s worse for Dad. For low-citizen politicians like him, this trial is a reckoning. A test to see whether justice truly means what it’s supposed to or whether it bows to blue blood.
If the prosecution prevails, the victory will signal a real change. But if the defense prevails and these two Blues walk free because of a legal loophole, it’ll confirm what we already know.
The law serves the lawmakers. Everyone else just survives it.
As I stand from the window seat, my eyes fall on the package still lying on the cushions. Why is it unmarked? I pick it up, amused by the old-fashioned clasp, which looks like it was made to outlast fire. Carefully, I unlatch the clasp, and something metallic glimmers beneath the wrapping.My shield.
I tear through the rest of the padding, fingers flying until they brush the edge of a note. It’s from Sergeant Croft, and his handwriting is stiff and angular, as if he wrestled each word onto the page.
Miss Waldsten,
Apologies for holding onto your shield so long. I’ll admit I thought about keeping it—even selling it once or twice—but in the end, that old Copper oath to serve and protect won out. If you ever need help, I’ve included my Bond number. It’s my personal line, so if I don’t answer right away, I’m likely on duty or chasing someone who should know better. Thank you again for what you did in the Speakeasy. Lucky you’re so strong. And lucky I’ve been hitting the gym.
Stay virtuous,
Sgt. A. Croft
I place the note back in the box, warmth rising beneath my shock. I hadn’t expected this. Then again, I hadn’t expected Sergeant Croft to keep the shield for so long. I used to think I was good at reading people, but I’m starting to realize how flawed my first impressions can be. With Croft, I’m glad I got it wrong.
“Miss Waldsten,” my Pinkie calls from the doorway of my salon. “Mr. Prew has arrived to collect you.”
I turn to the window and glance out. On the street below, Edmund leansagainst his parked hovercar, one wingtip shoe planted on the curb. Dickie and Jack flank him, their shoulders angled inward, the three of them huddled in conversation. Two low-citizens spot the boys from half a block away and veer sharply, cutting across traffic, as if proximity to Edmund alone could tank their civil credits. From the opposite direction, a group of high-citizens rounds the corner mid-laugh, then falls silent when they see Edmund. They exchange uncertain glances until Edmund catches sight of them, lifts a hand in greeting, and waves the high-citizens over. The hesitation dissolves as Edmund smiles, shakes their hands, and folds them into the conversation.
My fingers linger on the energy shield for a moment. Then I put it back in the box, close the lid, and walk out without it.
As a sensible man, I know that the only place for a just man in an unjust world is the guillotine.
—DICKIE LANGELY
CHAPTER 20
Autumn passes in a riot of color. The trees burst into shades of red, orange, and gold, as if the campus itself were burning. Days grow colder and shorter, with evenings casting long shadows and drowsy light. Leaves swirl along the sidewalks like confetti from a forgotten party. The Pinkies vacuum them up each morning, erasing every trace of the wild that dares to disturb our order.
But as the autumn rains arrive and the chill deepens, the cold seeps past fingers and coats, creeping into people’s hearts, too. It leaves them hungry in a way food can’t fill.
And that’s when students start approaching me.
