Chapter One
The Arrest
Rain slicked the pavement, washing the blood from Amara Cole's hands before the officers even arrived. The body was still warm when she'd stumbled backward, slipping in a puddle of scarlet that had no right being there. Her aunt's eyes stared blankly at the ceiling—cold, lifeless, and still holding that sharp gleam of power, even in death.
By the time the sirens pierced the silence, Amara was already on her knees, whispering her aunt's name like a prayer that came too late.
"Hands where I can see them!"
She lifted trembling fingers, stained with the remnants of a life she hadn't taken. She couldn't speak—not at first. The words caught in her throat like glass. All she could do was shake her head as two officers approached, guns drawn, eyes wary.
"There's been a murder," she finally managed, her voice cracking. "But it wasn't me. I—I just found her like this."
The look they exchanged was unreadable, practiced.
"Miss Cole," one of them said, pulling her to her feet, "you're under arrest for the murder of Councilwoman Monica West."
Her aunt's name hit her like a slap. Monica West—iconic, feared, adored by the public. And now dead. And she, the quiet niece with no political ties and too much history with the wrong people, was the only one in the room.
They didn't ask questions. They didn't want answers. All they saw was motive and opportunity.
As the cuffs clicked into place, Amara realized something bone-deep and terrifying: the world wouldn't care about the truth. Not when a body was still warm, and the only suspect was the girl nobody ever paid attention to—until now.
The police car was cold. Not just from the storm clinging to her skin, but from the silence that settled in the space like smoke. Amara pressed her forehead against the glass, watching the city blur past, the same city her aunt once ruled from behind microphones and bulletproof windows.
Her mind spun with fragments—her aunt's voice earlier that evening, clipped and cold.
"You always were a liability, Amara. Be careful who you speak to."
Then the crash. The scream. The blood.
And now this.
At the station, they moved her like a shadow—fingerprints, mugshots, questions asked but not really meant to be answered.
"How long were you at the scene before calling?"
"Why were you there after hours?"
"Where were you earlier in the day?"
She answered as best she could, voice hoarse, hands shaking. But it didn't matter. No one was listening—not really. Every eye in the room saw what they wanted to see: a girl who had everything to gain from her aunt's death and nothing to lose.
They put her in holding. Four gray walls, one narrow bench, and the heavy weight of silence.
She stared at the floor until her vision blurred, trying to keep her breathing steady. The smell of bleach and damp concrete filled her nose. Somewhere down the hall, someone was yelling. Somewhere else, someone was crying.
Then footsteps. Sharp, purposeful.
A voice followed—firm, smooth, low.
"I'm here to see Amara Cole. I'm her attorney."
Her head snapped up.
She didn't have an attorney. She couldn't afford one.
The officer outside the cell unlocked the door, stepping aside as the man walked in. He was tall, dressed in a charcoal-gray suit soaked from the rain, a leather folder under one arm. His dark eyes scanned her face quickly, like he was checking for damage.
"Miss Cole," he said, extending a hand. "I'm Elias Grant. I run Grant & Wells Legal Aid. You're not alone anymore."
She stared at him, too stunned to speak. No one had said that to her in a long, long time.
Elias Grant had seen his share of late-night arrests. He'd built his career—and his firm—on walking into holding cells when everyone else turned their backs. But this case was different. High-profile. Political. Dangerous.
And she looked nothing like a killer.
He watched Amara Cole from across the table. Her eyes were bloodshot but sharp. Not the hollow kind of sharp you get from guilt—more like someone bracing for a blow that never stopped coming.
"Your aunt was Councilwoman Monica West?" he asked, opening the folder in front of him.
Amara nodded once.
"That makes this messy," Elias said. He didn't sugarcoat things. "You're already on the news."
Her jaw tightened. "Figures."
"You're the only person they found at the scene. No sign of forced entry. No witnesses. But I've read the preliminary report—they found no murder weapon. That gives us a sliver of daylight."
She didn't look hopeful. Just tired.
"I didn't kill her," she said, quieter this time. "I wouldn't."
"I believe you."
That made her look up. Really look at him. He could see the hesitation in her eyes—how many times had she been burned by people who claimed to care?
"Why are you here?" she asked. "You don't even know me."
Elias leaned back slightly, lacing his fingers together.
"Because the system isn't built to protect people like you. And because someone's going to try and turn you into a scapegoat to protect something... or someone bigger."
He didn't say it, but he was already thinking it: powerful family, public image, high-stakes legacy. The councilwoman had enemies. And Elias knew from experience—when people like Monica West died, the cleanup was never clean.
Amara's walls didn't drop, but something in her posture shifted—like maybe, just maybe, she was willing to give him a chance.
"I'm going to get you out of here," he said, already scribbling notes. "But I need you to trust me. Tell me everything. Especially the parts you think don't matter."
She hesitated. Then nodded.