Not physically—though the air-conditioning was aggressive—but emotionally. The building felt like truth had soaked into the walls over decades: truths people didn’t want to admit, truths that ruined reputations, truths that saved people who were finally believed.
Victoria arrived on the first day of trial wearing a conservative navy suit and pearls, hair pulled back in a tidy style that screamed respectable. The ankle monitor was hidden beneath her pant leg, but you could see the slight stiffness in her walk.
She looked like she was playing a role.
The grieving wife.
The unfairly accused philanthropist.
She smiled at the cameras outside as if she’d been wronged, eyes glistening on cue.
I didn’t speak to her. I didn’t look at her longer than necessary.
I’d learned, long ago, that attention is fuel for people like Victoria. Even hatred gives them a spotlight.
Inside, the courtroom filled with quiet murmurs. News outlets had picked up the story after the gala. Charleston couldn’t resist a scandal that involved old names and charity money.