Helen’s voice softened. “Then you already know the most important thing,” she said. “Don’t argue with her. Document her. Let her talk. Let her hang herself with her own words.”
When I hung up, I sat on my porch and stared at the ocean until the sun dipped low and turned the water copper.
I thought about my mother—about the way she’d loved quietly and steadily. About how she would’ve hated spectacle, but she would’ve hated injustice more.
On June 14th, Victoria would walk into a ballroom expecting applause.
She didn’t know she was walking into a courtroom dressed as a party.
And I would be waiting for her in the light.
Part 5
The Belmont Charleston Place Hotel glittered like it always did—crystal chandeliers, polished marble floors, the kind of elegance that made people stand a little straighter just to fit into it.
The Lowcountry Bar Association gala was an annual performance of influence. Judges, attorneys, donors, and their spouses moved through the ballroom like they were born in formalwear. The air smelled like perfume and expensive wine. Conversations were soft, but every word carried weight.
Victoria loved nights like this.