VII

            Kennedy took a deep breath. Today was the day. Everything was about to change.

            She looked at herself in the mirror, feeling like she was looking at a version of herself she had never truly been able to recognize. The version that was terrified, remorseful, and itching to get out of the pantsuit her mother had shipped to her. At least she had been supportive in that regard.

            Kennedy's hair was pinned back with a clip in the same shade of gray as her pantsuit. Her shoes were borrowed from Lyla, a pair of modest black heels with a pointed toe, from when Lyla had almost managed to keep that job as a lawyer's intern. Before the lawyer realized that she was only hoping for the job so she could hit on the cute receptionist guy who ran the firm's front desk. She was promptly fired.

            Her makeup was subdued, almost unnoticeable. She had spent hours reading about the best way to impress a jury at first glance. The majority of the sites had the same answer: don't look too feminine but look feminine enough. Looking too feminine would cause the jury to see her as airy and ditzy, while not looking feminine enough would most likely cause the jury to see her as unapproachable and bitchy. So, her makeup consisted of a lightweight BB cream and slight contour, with nude eyeshadow and mascara that emphasized her lashes without weighing them down. Nothing graced her lips but chapstick.

            She remembered asking Hotchky if they would want her to look ditzy and airy. Perhaps they would think that a ditzy person wouldn't have the stomach to kill someone and cover it up. But Hotchky had said that there was a more likely chance the jury would be turned off to her rather than think she wouldn't be able to kill someone.

            Kennedy checked her watch and took a slow, deep breath. 10:21 AM. Thirty-nine minutes until the trial began.

            She allowed herself one moment of self-reflection and forced a whole lifetime's worth of regret into that moment. She wished her parents hadn't gotten that divorce. She wished she had chosen to go to school closer to home, further away from Florida. She wished she had never gone to that bar after Hank's speech at Clemson. She wished she hadn't thought nothing bad would come of sleeping with a married man. She wished she had told her friends about it, so they could have maybe talked some sense into her. She wished she hadn't felt so helpless as the relationship went on. She wished she had been more firm with the police about granting her a restraining order. She wished she hadn't felt like killing Hank Wilcox was the only way for her to get any semblance of her life back.

            And then the moment passed, and Kennedy shook her head to clear out all of the regret. She had made her choices. Now she was dealing with the consequences.

She took one last look at herself in the mirror before turning and walking out of her room and down the stairs, her eyes focused on the ground beneath her. She didn't want to trip and fall right before she was set to be in front of God knew how many people.

            "Hey, Ken." Lyla and Rian were waiting at the foot of the stairs, both of them dressed in button-down shirts and black slacks, "Are you ready?"

            Kennedy shook her head slowly, silently, in response to Rian's question. She wasn't ready. But she knew she was supposed to be.

            She was silent on the ride to the courthouse, her eyes staring straight ahead at the back of Rian's head as she drove. Lyla controlled the music from the passenger's side, choosing cheery songs that made Kennedy want to barf. She didn't want to be cheered up, although she knew her friends meant well. She wanted to wallow in the fact that she was about to be in front of a room of people, half of which were hellbent on getting her thrown in jail.

            Girls Just Wanna Have Fun came on just as they pulled up to the Oconee County Courthouse.

            Rian dropped Lyla and Kennedy off at the front of the courthouse, where a wave of cameras and press were awaiting her arrival. Kennedy watched Rian drive off to find a parking spot as Lyla took her arm, gently prodding her through the crowd of reporters, all of them shouting at once.

            "Kennedy!"

            "Miss Abrams!"

            "Are you nervous about your trial?"

            "Why did you kill Hank Wilcox?"

            "Where is Rebecca Eaves?"

            "Is Miss Eaves coming to the trial?"

            Kennedy ignored them all and continued walking up the front steps of the courthouse, all of her sanity resting on Lyla's hand holding her steady. She walked up to the front doors and stood there for a moment, taking it all in.

            "Ken?"

            Kennedy looked over at Lyla and nodded once.

            "Alright. I'm ready."

            And they walked inside.

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            "What do you mean you're not going inside?"

            Rebecca rolled her eyes and continued walking around the side of the Oconee County Courthouse, her heels digging into the grass and almost causing her to fall flat on her face.

            "I mean, I'm not going inside. Not yet."

            Celeste rolled her eyes as she followed Rebecca, her flat shoes giving her no problems. Spencer was close on her heels, one eye glued to his phone as he tracked the media updates that were flooding in.

            "Why not? You have to be in there, in case they call you to—"

            "They're not gonna call me today," Rebecca shook her head, "They're not gonna call me today, I was already told that. And if they do, they'll have to come find me, and that won't look good for the state."

            "You don't want the state to look good?" Celeste asked, and Rebecca reminded herself of why she had decided against telling Celeste and Spencer about her working with Kennedy again, "If the state doesn't look good, then Kennedy looks good."

            "I'm fully aware of that," Rebecca replied as they reached the front of the courthouse, where reporters milled around waiting for the next important person to arrive. Rebecca ducked around them, out of their view, and headed towards her parked car. "I just...I don't know how I feel about everything just yet."

            "Then why did I put on a skirt?" Celeste asked, stopping Rebecca's hand on her car door, "Spencer and I are here to support you, Bec. I don't want you to get in trouble for not being there—"

            "I won't." Rebecca replied, her voice coming out in a forced gentle tone, "I promise."

            "Let's just go keep track of things for her," Spencer suggested to his girlfriend, taking her hand off of Rebecca's car door, "We'll text you if something happens," he told Rebecca as Celeste nodded slowly.

            "Thanks, guys. I just...I have to do something."

            Rebecca got in her car and headed back to her empty apartment, getting out her laptop before she could ask herself why she was doing anything for the girl on trial.

            Kristopher Abrams, she typed into her private search bar. She wasn't sure if putting her browser on a private session actually protected her searches, but it didn't hurt to try.

            A long list of results came up, beginning with links to and reviews of his plastic surgery practice in Virginia. Then came the news articles about his wedding to Lydia Farrow, all asking why she decided to marry the old dude when she could have easily bagged any celebrity she wanted.

            Rebecca scrolled through three pages of results before deciding to try again.

            Kristopher Abrams Hank Wilcox, she tried, pressing 'enter' and crossing her fingers that something useful came up.

            The first result was an excerpt from one of Hank's speeches, talking about Abrams and his practice, and his friendship to the late philanthropist. The second was a thank-you message on Kristopher Abrams' website to his practice's many donors, Hank's name at the very top.

            Rebecca scrolled through three pages of results again, feeling utterly useless. She didn't know how to go about finding information on either of these men. They were both rich beyond their wildest dreams and would surely know how to keep their secrets buried deep.

            She was about to exit out of the browser and think of some other method when her eye caught on the very last search result on the third page. A news article dated February 30th, 2015.

            Odd, since February had never, to Rebecca's recollection, has thirty days.

            The article was titled, A Light in the Uncertainty: How Jaxon Karl Turned a Penny into a Million.

            Co-authored by Kristopher Abrams and Hank Wilcox.

            Rebecca clicked on the article and it brought up an empty screen. Completely white, with nothing on it but the website's address in the search bar: https://www.karlfarrowwilcox.net/pennyintoamillion

            Karl. Farrow. Wilcox.

            Jaxon Karl. Lydia Farrow. Hank Wilcox.

            Rebecca got rid of the /pennyintoamillion in the search bar and went to the website's homepage. It was riddled with typos and atrocious grammar, but the message was quite clear.

            Karl Farrow Wilcox LLC.

            Attorneys at Law.

            Rebecca sat back in her seat and stared at the computer screen, her mind going in a thousand different directions. It made no sense. Hank Wilcox wasn't a lawyer. Lydia Farrow certainly wasn't a lawyer. And she recognized the name Jaxson Karl, but she couldn't quite remember where from. It was as if she had seen it in passing before, never in a concrete way.

            She opened up a new virtual notebook and wrote the names down, including the website's address and the phone number listed on the site. She then let her curiosity get the best of her and looked up the news site that was giving live updates on Kennedy's trial. The logical part of her knew she wasn't going to be called as a witness that day, but the anxious part of her wanted to be absolutely sure of that.

            The newscaster was standing outside on the steps of the courthouse, speaking loudly into a microphone that seemed far too large for someone of her small size.

            "Opening statements began moments ago in what is sure to become the trial of the year. Assistant District Attorney Jaxson Karl is currently giving the opening statement on behalf of District Attorney Gregory Hartlen, who fell ill unexpectedly last night."

            Rebecca exited out of that window and pulled her private browser back up, searching Jaxson Karl with a pit settling in the base of her stomach.

            The first search result read: ADA Jaxson Karl, currently serving under DA, or Circuit Solicitor, Gregory Hartlen, for the 10th Circuit of South Carolina. ADA Karl has tried over two hundred criminal cases on behalf of the state, and has won over one hundred and fifty of those cases...

            Rebecca sat in silence, staring at the screen in front of her. Her eyes stopped registering what was even on the computer. All she could think of was that somehow, Jaxson Karl was connected to Hank Wilcox. And Jaxson Karl was the attorney trying to get Kennedy thrown in jail.