The courtroom was small, paneled in dark oak that smelled of old wax and wet winter coats.

I sat on the hard wooden bench in the second row.

Owen and Lily sat quietly between Ryker and me, their small boots dangling inches above the floor.

Owen clutched his gray teddy bear, his knuckles white.

Across the aisle sat Marissa Vale.

She wore a tailored cream wool coat and dark sunglasses, which she only removed when the bailiff instructed her to do so.

She did not look at the children once.

Her attorney, a sharp-faced man named Richard Vance, was busy sorting through a stack of legal folders.

Hannah Brooks sat at the table to our left, next to Aunt Clara.

Clara looked exhausted, her eyes red-rimmed and her hands trembling, but she held her head high.

Judge Eleanor Thomas entered the room, her black robes rustling in the quiet space.

We all stood, the wooden legs of the chairs scraping against the linoleum floor.

“Please be seated,” Judge Thomas said, her voice dry and precise.

She adjusted her reading glasses and looked down at the documents on her desk.