I sat on the hard wooden bench, clutching my purse to my chest.

Inside my bag was a copy of the new forensic audit report.

Sarah walked up to me, carrying a thick leather briefcase and a cup of black coffee.

“Daniel’s deposition is solid,” she said, sitting down beside me. “And the bank receipt matches the shell company.”

“Is Grant here?” I asked, looking around the crowded hallway.

“He’s inside with Carroway,” Sarah said. “They look worried.”

We walked through the heavy double doors into Judge Harlan’s courtroom.

The room smelled of old paper, damp coats, and floor wax.

Grant was already seated at his table, looking immaculate in a dark charcoal suit.

His hair was perfectly combed, but I noticed the way his fingers tapped against the mahogany desk.

Preston Carroway was leaning over him, speaking in a low, furious whisper.

I took my seat at the opposite table, trying to keep my breathing steady.

Renee Whitaker sat in the row behind us, her notebook open on her lap.

“All rise,” the bailiff called out.