Page 173 of Maksym

My hand tightened once around my pen. Only once.

By the time Loralee Lynch took the stand, the chamber had begun to understand what was happening.

Not all at once. Powerful rooms rarely surrendered their first preferred narrative easily. But the clean story Ironwood had offered had started to fray. Voluntary arrival had become luring. Social warmth had become isolation. Festival dress had become staging. Witnesses meant to establish Maddie’s consent had instead established her repeated fidelity to a bond she had every human excuse to resent and every sacred reason to honor.

Loralee sat last.

She was beautiful in a soft, expensive way, blonde hair pinned back with strands fallen loose around her face. Her makeup had been done carefully once. Tears had ruined that discipline. Mascara smudged beneath both eyes. Her lipstick had worn away at the center, as if she had bitten her mouth during prior testimony until the color surrendered.

Her hands trembled in her lap. Not performatively. I had seen enough fake grief to know its rhythm. Loralee’s grief had no rhythm.

On direct, the prosecution had softened his voice.

He asked about Sage.

Loralee’s face crumpled before she forced it smooth. She said Sage had been visionary. Protective. Committed to wolf tradition. She said he had built Ironwood from nothing into a place wolves could be proud of. She said Maddie had been welcomed because Sage respected strong bloodlines and admired Iron Valor’s power.

She believed it. That was the worst part.

Not every witness who helped evil understood the composition from inside. Some only swept the halls and admired the marble.

The prosecution asked whether Maddie seemed fond of Sage.

Loralee said she had seen them speaking together. Riding together. She said Maddie listened when Sage spoke about pack identity. She said Maddie did not run from him.

All true, perhaps. All incomplete.

When my turn came, I stood slowly.

I did not want to cross-examine Loralee Lynch.

Want was irrelevant.

I approached the lectern and looked at her for a moment before speaking.

“Loralee,” I said, because she had been named for the record and because grief sometimes needed the dignity of being addressed directly. “You cared for Sage Lynch.”

Her lips parted. “Yes.”

“You believed in him.”

“Yes.”

“You trusted him.”

Her hands shook harder. “Yes.”

I nodded once.

Then I began.

“You spoke with Madelyn Baucaum several times during her stay.”

“Yes.”

“You asked about her brother, Bronc Baucaum.”

“Yes.”