The courthouse interior was cold marble and polished brass.

Our footsteps echoed on the stone floor.

We entered the courtroom and took our seats in the second row of the gallery.

The room was already packed.

Reporters whispered to each other, their notebooks open.

At the defense table, three sets of lawyers were arranging files.

Then, the side door opened.

The marshals escorted the defendants into the room.

Margaret Prescott came first.

She wore a plain gray prison jumpsuit.

Her silver hair was unstyled, hanging loose around her face.

Her hands were shackled at her waist, the metal chain clinking with every step.

The cold, arrogant look she had worn in the hospital was gone.

She looked small.

She looked like an old woman who had finally run out of options.

Brandon Prescott followed her.

He kept his head down, refusing to look at the gallery.

His expensive suit was gone, replaced by the same orange jumpsuit his mother wore.

Then came Ethan.

He looked pale and thin.

His eyes darted around the room until they landed on Emily.

He stopped for a second, his mouth opening slightly.