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It was Monday.

The sun came up like it didn't know today was different. Like it didn't care that something huge was about to happen.

During the weekend, everything had felt... weirdly normal. We packed a little. Sam tried to shove all his stuff into one box and called it "efficient." Lily cried because she couldn't fit her stuffed unicorns into the same bin without squishing their faces.

But late S afternoon, Mom checked the mail.

And that's when everything changed again.

The trial.

Trevor's trial.

It was today.

Just like that, our plans to go see the real house—our new house—got pushed to the side.

"We'll go tomorrow," Mom had said, her voice steady but her hands gripping the paper just a little too tight. "Today, we focus on this."

So now here we were—Monday morning, sitting at the kitchen table. The sunlight felt too bright. The toast on my plate tasted like paper. I wasn't even sure what I was wearing. It didn't matter.

All I could think about was him.

Trevor.

In a courtroom.

Facing everything he did.

Facing me.

The house felt like it was moving in slow motion.

Mom was dressed in her usual court clothes—nice blouse, flats, the soft beige cardigan she always wore to official things. She packed snacks for Lily and Sam, even though we all knew no one would want to eat them.

Dad was already in the car, looking over directions again even though he didn't need to. That's how he handled nerves—logistics.

Sam stood near the shoe rack, tying and untying his sneakers over and over.

"I hate this," he muttered.

"Yeah," I said. "Me too."

Lily had her unicorn backpack, stuffed with crayons and her "quiet books"—what she called the ones without sound effects.

"I don't want to go," she whispered to Mom. "It's boring."

Mom knelt beside her. "I know, baby. But we just have to show up, be together, and support Emily. Then we'll go home. Okay?"

Lily nodded, but her grip on Mom's hand stayed tight.

I slipped into my hoodie and tied my hair back. Nothing fancy. Just something that made me feel like myself.

Mom looked at me as I grabbed my water bottle.

"You ready?"

No.

But I nodded anyway. "Yeah."

She opened the door, and we stepped outside.

"All rise."

The bailiff's voice rang out, sharp and firm, cutting through the courtroom like a warning.

Everyone stood—well, most people. I got to my feet slowly, knees stiff. Sam stood next to me, quiet for once. Mom gently tugged Lily up by the hand. Even she seemed to understand this wasn't a time for whining.

The doors opened, and the judge entered.

But all my attention was locked on Trevor.

He was already at the defense table, hands cuffed, wearing a wrinkled button-up shirt like someone had forced it on him ten minutes ago. His hair was a mess. His posture was worse. And when the judge walked in, he didn't even stand all the way up—just kind of half-rose and then slumped back into his seat like it was all beneath him.

"Stand up properly, Mr. Matthews," the bailiff warned.

Trevor rolled his eyes.

I saw the ankle chains when he shifted in his chair. He was shackled, like a prisoner in a movie. Like someone dangerous.

Because he was.

The judge sat. "You may be seated."

Everyone obeyed.

Except Trevor. He sat back like he owned the place, smirking at the courtroom like we were all wasting his time.

I gripped the edge of the bench, trying not to throw up.

Mom placed her hand gently over mine, giving it the softest squeeze.

It helped. A little.

But watching him sit there—like nothing mattered, like this was all a joke—made my stomach twist into knots.

He didn't even look sorry.

Not even close.

"Court is now in session," the judge said, "for thematter of the State versus Trevor Matthews."

I looked over at the jury that had been assigned to his trial.

They were older than Trevor—probably all in their twenties. Some looked barely out of college. One woman had a little notepad and kept tapping her pen against it like she was trying not to cry. A guy in the back row kept glancing at Trevor like he couldn't believe he was chained up like that.

They didn't know him.

Not like I did.

The judge glanced at the paperwork, then looked toward the prosecution table.

"You may call your first witness."

The prosecutor—a woman with sharp eyes and a calm, steady voice—stood.

"The state calls Emily Blake to the stand."

My heart dropped straight into my stomach.

Mom gave my hand one last squeeze. Dad nodded at me from the bench. Sam was frozen, staring straight ahead like even he forgot how to blink.

I stood up on legs that felt like they didn't belong to me.

The room was too quiet as I walked to the front. I could feel every pair of eyes in the room—on my back, on my shoulders, like weight. Like pressure.

Trevor leaned back in his seat and smirked.

I didn't look at him.

I didn't need to.

The bailiff led me to the stand, and I climbed the steps slowly. I sat in the chair, and my fingers instantly gripped the edges.

"Please raise your right hand," the bailiff said. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

I nodded, voice tight. "I do."

And just like that, I was officially a witness.

Even though I was the one who had lived it.

The prosecutor stepped forward, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor. She gave me a small nod—just enough to feel like reassurance, not pressure.

"Emily," she began, voice steady, "can you please state your full name for the record?"

"Emily Blake," I said, my voice just barely holding steady.

"And how do you know the defendant, Trevor Matthews?"

I hesitated. My eyes didn't drift toward him—I didn't want to give him that power. So I looked at the prosecutor instead.

"We went to the same school. Southview Middle."

"Was he in any of your classes?"

I nodded. "A few. But he didn't wait until class to start messing with me."

"Can you describe what you mean by 'messing with you'?"

I swallowed hard. "He... said things. In the hallway. In class. About me. About who I am."

"Do you mean about your identity?"

I nodded again. "I'm gender fluid. And he made sure everyone knew that he had a problem with it. He wouldn't stop."

I could feel the weight in my chest growing tighter with every word, but I kept going.

"He harassed me all year. He said I was confused. That I was disgusting. He called me slurs in front of people. And when no one was looking..."

I had to stop.

Breathe.

The prosecutor waited. Gave me the space.

"When no one was looking," I finally said, "he got worse."

That's when Trevor slammed his hand on the table.

"You're such a liar!"

The courtroom gasped. Lily whimpered from somewhere behind me. Sam shouted, "Hey!"

The bailiff was on him immediately, grabbing his shoulder.

"Mr. Matthews, sit down!" the judge barked.

"I didn't do anything to her!" Trevor yelled, twisting in his seat, wrists rattling in the cuffs. "She's just trying to ruin my life!"

"You're doing a pretty good job of that yourself," the judge snapped.

"Mr. Matthews, if you cannot control yourself, you will be removed from this courtroom. Do you understand me?"

Trevor scowled but dropped back into his seat. He muttered something under his breath that the microphones didn't pick up—but I didn't need to hear it.

I already knew exactly what kind of person he was.

The judge looked at me. "Miss Blake, I'm sorry for that interruption. Please continue when you're ready."

I took a shaky breath.

Then I nodded.

"I'm okay."

The prosecutor gave me another moment. I could feel the jury watching me differently now—not with pity, but with something closer to understanding. Maybe even belief.

The outburst had worked against Trevor.

I wasn't afraid of him in that moment.

Not anymore.

"Emily," the prosecutor said gently, "you mentioned that things got worse when no one was around. Can you tell the court what happened?"

I nodded slowly. "It started with him cornering me in the hallway. When teachers weren't there. He'd say things under his breath—really gross things. He'd call me names. Ask if I was going to pick a side, or if I was just confused and fake."

A few of the jurors shifted in their seats.

"He bumped into me in the halls on purpose. Followed me sometimes. One time, I caught him waiting outside the bathroom like he was... just waiting for me."

My hands gripped the edges of the witness stand.

"And then—he texted me. From a number I didn't recognize. At first it was just more of the same. Harassment. But then..."

I paused.

Mom's hand was over her mouth. Dad was sitting up straight, frozen. I couldn't see Sam or Lily, but I could feel them behind me.

I swallowed. "He said things that scared me. About what he'd do if I didn't stop 'pretending.' He said he'd make me prove I was a girl."

There was silence.

And then—a gasp from someone behind the defense table. Probably a court clerk.

Trevor shifted in his seat again, jaw tight, face red.

The prosecutor spoke softly. "Emily... did there come a time when Trevor Matthews physically assaulted you?"

I nodded, a lump in my throat. "Yes."

"Can you describe what happened?"

My eyes burned. But I didn't look at anyone except the woman standing in front of me.

"It was after school. I was in the park at night, trying to catch my breath from a stressful situation, when he came out of nowhere."

The courtroom was so quiet, I could hear the clock ticking.

"He grabbed my arm. He said I was a girl and I can't decide who I am. He said that maybe he can help me figure it out."

My voice cracked.

"I told him to stop. I tried to leave. He pushed me down, pulled my clothes off and —" I stopped, breath catching. "— he raped me." I started crying.

The prosecutor gave me a moment, nodding gently.

"Did you tell anyone?"

"Not at first," I whispered. "I was scared. And ashamed. And I didn't want anyone to look at me different."

I wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve.

"But eventually... I did. I told my mom."

"And that's when the investigation began?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Emily," the prosecutor said carefully, "do you see the person who raped you here in the courtroom today?"

I looked at Trevor.

He didn't smirk this time.

He didn't even look at me.

"Yes," I said. "He's right there."

The prosecutor turned to the judge. "No further questions at this time."

The judge nodded. "Thank you, Ms. Blake. You may step down."

I stood slowly, legs shaking, and walked back to my seat—back to my family.

Mom pulled me into a hug the second I sat down. Dad squeezed my hand. Sam gave me a quick thumbs-up behind Mom's back.

And Lily whispered, "You were really brave."

I didn't feel brave.

But I nodded anyway.

The prosecutor returned to her seat. The courtroom remained quiet, heavy with the weight of everything I'd just said.

Then Trevor's defense attorney stood.

"The defense calls Trevor Matthews to the stand."

I stiffened in my seat.

He stood slowly, the bailiff unlocking his cuffs but leaving the ankle chains on. He walked with a swagger that didn't match the situation, like he was trying to pretend he wasn't walking into a disaster of his own making.

"Please raise your right hand," the bailiff said. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

"Duh." he said and sat like he owned the room.

"Mr. Matthews," his attorney began, "can you tell us about your relationship with Emily Blake?"

Trevor scoffed softly, then shrugged. "We went to school together. That's about it."

"You didn't have any close interactions with her?"

He shook his head. "Not really. I mean, sure, we talked sometimes. But it wasn't like we were friends or anything."

"And the allegations she made—what do you say about them?"

"They're lies," Trevor said, loudly and clearly. "All of it."

I clenched my fists under the table.

"She's making this up," he continued, voice full of fake confidence. "I never touched her. Never threatened her. I mean, yeah, I joked around sometimes, but who doesn't? Kids talk shit. That's not a crime."

He looked toward the jury, like they were his friends at lunch and not the people deciding his future.

"I never raped her," he said. "Especially not at some park. I wasn't even there. I was home. I got messages from her that night—she was acting weird. Honestly, I think she had a crush on me or something."

I saw Mom's jaw tighten beside me.

"And when I didn't return the attention," Trevor went on, "she started making stuff up. It got out of hand. Now we're here."

Liar.

All of it—lies.

He was calm, too calm. Like he'd practiced this. Like every word had been rehearsed in front of a mirror.

"She's trying to ruin my life because I didn't play along with whatever identity thing she's going through. But I didn't do anything wrong. I'm the victim here."

A few jurors looked visibly uncomfortable. One crossed her arms. Another frowned.

Trevor leaned back in the witness chair like he'd just finished telling a bedtime story.

It was disgusting.

But the worst part?

He believed himself.

"Mr. Matthews," she said, "you stated under oath that you were not present at the park on the night of March 17th, correct?"

He nodded. "That's what I said."

The prosecutor glanced toward the back of the courtroom, then toward the television screen that had been sitting silently on a rolling cart since the trial began.

She turned to the judge. "Your Honor, with permission, the prosecution would like to present video evidence gathered from a neighbor's Ring security camera. It was collected the morning after the incident and verified by both the Edina Police Department and the FBI."

"Proceed," the judge said, leaning forward slightly.

The bailiff dimmed the courtroom lights. The monitor flickered on.

My stomach dropped.

The footage started. It was grainy, black and white, and time-stamped 10:37 PM. It showed a small portion of the park—just enough to catch a figure entering from the left side.

Me.

The camera was too far to pick up my face clearly, but the outline—my hoodie, my walk—it was me.

A moment later, another figure entered from the right.

Him.

Trevor.

The video was blurry, but you could see it. The way he cornered me near the edge of the frame. The way I tried to move and he blocked me. The way he reached for me and I pulled back, stumbling.

There was no sound.

But you didn't need it.

The jury leaned in. The prosecutor said nothing.

When it ended, the bailiff turned the lights back on.

Trevor shifted in the witness chair, squinting at the screen like he could deny what everyone just saw.

"That's not me," he said quickly. "You can't even tell who that is. It's too blurry."

The prosecutor raised her eyebrow. "You're saying that's not you in the video?"

"I wasn't there," he said again, louder now. "That could be anybody. She's making this all up. Everyone's just taking her word for it."

She walked slowly to the prosecution table, picked up a folder, and returned to the stand.

"Then perhaps you can explain this."

She held up a printed document.

"This is a court-ordered paternity test, conducted under supervision at a hospital. It confirms with 99.999% certainty that you are the biological father of the child currently carried by Miss Blake."

The color drained from his face.

"I—I—That's fake," he stammered. "She probably switched it or something."

The prosecutor's tone didn't change. "Are you accusing the hospital, the lab, and the court system of falsifying results?"

"I didn't do anything! She wanted it! She tricked me!" Trevor shouted, his voice cracking as he slammed his hand against the side of the witness box.

Gasps rippled through the courtroom.

"Enough." The judge's voice boomed like thunder. "Mr. Matthews, one more outburst and I will have you removed from the courtroom."

Trevor sat back, breathing hard, eyes wide, the room no longer his to control.

The prosecutor turned calmly to the judge. "No further questions, Your Honor."

And just like that, Trevor Matthews wasn't so smug anymore.

The judge took a moment after the outburst. The courtroom was tense—everyone watching Trevor as if he might explode again.

But he didn't.

He sat frozen, jaw tight, like a balloon someone had finally let the air out of.

The judge looked toward the prosecution. "You may call your next witness."

The prosecutor stood. "The state calls Mrs. Karen Thompson to the stand."

A woman in her early thirties stood from the gallery. She held her purse close to her chest, walking slowly to the front of the courtroom. Her face was drawn and serious, but there was strength in her steps.

After she was sworn in, the prosecutor approached the stand.

"Mrs. Thompson," she began, "can you tell us how you are connected to this case?"

Mrs. Thompson nodded. "My son, Jordan, is six years old. Earlier this summer break, I had to work an unexpected shift, and a neighbor—Trevor Matthews' aunt—offered to help by having Trevor babysit him for a few hours."

Her hands tightened on the edge of the witness box.

"I was told Maddie would be safe. That they'd stay at home, play games, maybe watch a movie."

She took a breath.

"But when I came to get him, he seemed... off. Quiet. Not like himself. Later that evening, he told me that Trevor blindfolded him and he made him touch his genitals."

The courtroom was silent.

"He told me after he left"

Mrs. Thompson's voice broke just slightly. "I called the police that night and filed a report. Jordan was so young, he had a hard time explaining it all clearly. Trevor denied everything. They told me there wasn't enough to move forward."

"Thank you," the prosecutor said gently. "No further questions."

Mrs. Thompson left the stand quietly, returning to her seat with her shoulders straighter than when she walked in.

Trevor didn't look up.

He didn't have to.

The damage was done.

The courtroom was dead silent.

Even Trevor didn't twitch.

The judge looked down at the defense table. "Does the defense wish to cross-examine the witness?"

Trevor's lawyer stood but gave a polite shake of her head. "No questions at this time, Your Honor."

Translation: There was no way to make that look better.

The judge adjusted his glasses and looked over at the jury.

"Members of the jury," he said, his tone now heavier, more formal. "You've heard testimony from the prosecution, the defense, and several witnesses over the course of this trial. You've been presented with physical evidence, including the video recording and medical records."

He paused, letting it sink in.

"You are now instructed to begin deliberation. You will consider all testimony and facts presented, weigh the credibility of the witnesses, and come to a unanimous verdict based on the evidence before you."

My heart thudded so loud I could barely hear him finish.

The judge continued, "Please proceed to the jury room. The court will be in recess while you deliberate. We will reconvene when you have reached a decision."

Then came those familiar words again.

"All rise."

We stood again—this time slower. The jury filed out quietly, one by one, heads down, each of them looking like they were walking through something heavier than the courtroom walls could hold.

The moment they disappeared through the door, the judge gave a nod and stepped out, followed by the bailiff.

The courtroom buzzed back to life softly—chairs creaked, lawyers whispered, someone coughed in the back row. But everything felt muted, like the storm had passed but no one dared move until they knew what was left standing.

I didn't even realize I was holding my breath.

Dad looked over at me. "You alright?"

I nodded slowly. "They're deciding now?"

Mom reached for my hand. "Yes. It's out of our hands now."

That thought... scared me.
But also? It felt like relief.

Trevor stood reluctantly, now back in full restraints—handcuffs and ankle chains, the whole set. His lawyer didn't even bother looking at him. She was too busy packing up her notes with tight, robotic movements.

As Trevor was led out of the courtroom, he glanced over his shoulder—maybe hoping to catch my eye.

But I didn't give him the satisfaction.

I didn't look at him.

The bailiff pushed the door open, and Trevor was taken down a side hallway, where he'd wait in a holding cell while the jury decided if he'd ever be free again.

The judge had already left. The benches emptied quickly. Some people filed out in silence, while others talked in hushed voices, like they didn't know if it was okay to speak loudly in a room that had just held so much.

Dad placed a hand gently on my shoulder. "Let's go get lunch."

"Yeah," I said, my voice smaller than I expected.

Mom took Lily's hand, and Sam trailed behind us, still holding his water bottle like it was some kind of emotional support.

We stepped out of the courtroom into the hallway, the heavy doors closing behind us with a final-sounding thud.

The air outside the courtroom felt lighter somehow.

Not better.

Just... easier to breathe.

"Sandwiches?" Dad offered, like it was the most normal suggestion in the world.

"I want fries," Lily said instantly.

"You always want fries," Sam muttered.

"I want a milkshake," I said, mostly to change the subject.

Mom smiled faintly. "Fries, milkshakes, and sandwiches. It's a deal."

We came back a little over an hour later.

The courthouse lobby looked the same, but everything felt different. Colder. Heavier. Like the walls knew what was coming.

A clerk met us at the security checkpoint and said, "The jury's back."

Just like that, my stomach flipped.

The courtroom had refilled quickly. Reporters weren't allowed inside, but I could feel the pressure—everyone sitting straighter, whispering less.

Trevor was already back, seated at the defense table.

Back in chains.

Still trying to look bored, but now his foot was tapping. His hands clenched and unclenched in his lap. That little piece of control he always wore like armor?

It was cracking.

We took our seats. I sat between Mom and Dad, both of them quiet. Sam was two rows behind with Lily, who was coloring in the corner of her notebook like this was just another waiting room.

Then the judge walked in.

"All rise."

We stood.

The jury filed in next, one by one. No one made eye contact. No one smiled.

My heart pounded.

Once everyone was seated again, the judge looked to the jury box.

"Has the jury reached a verdict?"

A middle-aged woman—the jury foreperson—stood. "Yes, Your Honor, we have."

"Please read the verdict."

She picked up a folded paper and cleared her throat.

"In the matter of the State versus Trevor Matthews..."
She glanced briefly at the paper, then back up.

"We, the jury, find the defendant... guilty."

A beat of silence followed.

Like the air had been punched out of the room.

Trevor didn't react. He just sat there, staring forward like he couldn't process what had just happened. His hands balled into fists, and his jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

For once.

The judge nodded solemnly, glanced down at the papers in front of him, and looked back up.

"Given the gravity of this case," he said, "and the age of the victim, the court will now move directly into sentencing."

That wasn't normal. But in cases like this—where the evidence was overwhelming, the testimony damning, and the defendant unrepentant—it happened.

Trevor's lawyer tried to stand, but the judge held up a hand.

"Mr. Matthews, you have been found guilty of criminal sexual conduct in the first degree and contributing to the harm of a minor. Due to the severity of these crimes, and the psychological impact on the victim, this court sentences you to thirty-five years in adult prison, with the possibility of parole after twenty years."

Gasps echoed across the courtroom.

Trevor finally reacted—jerking up from his seat, eyes wide.
"What?! That's not fair! This is all lies! She made it up! She—"

"Enough." The judge banged the gavel once, hard. "Bailiff—remove him from the courtroom."

The bailiff and another officer grabbed Trevor by the arms. He was shouting, flailing against the cuffs, but it didn't matter.

No one listened this time.

The courtroom didn't erupt. There was no applause. Just silence.

Heavy, full, final.

The gavel came down one last time.

"Court is adjourned."

I sat there for a second, staring at the floor, then the wall, then Mom's hand holding mine.

Thirty years.

He's gone.

Mom exhaled beside me. Dad rubbed a hand across his face. Sam whispered something to Lily, but I didn't hear what. It all sounded distant.

But deep in my chest, something cracked open.

Not pain.
Not fear.
Something else.

Relief.

The courtroom began to empty around us—shuffling feet, hushed whispers, chairs creaking as people filed out.

But I stayed in place.

Just for a second longer.

Because I needed to see it.

Two officers led Trevor down the aisle, his chains rattling faintly with every step. His head was down now, face pale and jaw clenched. The smugness was gone. The control. The power. All of it stripped away.

He didn't look at anyone.

Especially not me.

And I didn't say a word.

I just watched.

I watched Trevor walk away in shame for the last time.