PART 3 The courthouse smelled like wet coats, old paper, and coffee that had been burned for too many hours.

expected. Wooden benches. A high ceiling. A judge with silver glasses and a patient face. No dramatic music. No thunder. Just a place where people brought the worst parts of their lives and hoped someone could sort truth from theater.

Judge Eleanor Pike looked over the file before her.

“Mrs. Calloway, I understand you were discharged from the hospital continue reading …