Chapter 1: The Woman at the Door

It was 2015, and I was just steps from the warmth of my law office when a woman I’d never seen before blocked my path, eyes wild, insisting she knew something about my dead-end case.

She was shivering slightly, breath puffing in the cold Ohio air, as if she’d been standing there for hours. Her silhouette against the old brick archway made her look even more out of place beneath the wintry gray sky. I hesitated, debating whether to duck inside and let the receptionist handle her, but something about the mixture of resolve and uncertainty in her stance kept me rooted where I stood.

The evidence in that case was rock solid. The defendant had already been sentenced to death in the first trial—no appeal, and now it was at the death penalty review stage. The outcome was practically set in stone. Yet, right then, she appeared.

Even the heavy oak doors behind me seemed to echo with finality: the case was a done deal, or so I’d thought. Her sudden arrival felt like a ripple in a pond that had been perfectly still. I found myself holding my briefcase a little tighter, curiosity piqued despite myself.

"So, are you here as a witness or what?" I asked.

She said something I’ll never forget—

"No, I am evidence."

The words hit me harder than I expected. My pulse quickened, my lawyer’s instincts warring with a gut feeling that this was no ordinary interruption.

I blinked, surprised, unsure if I’d heard her right. It was such an odd way to put it, and I’d been in this business long enough to know when someone was trying to get under my skin.