𝗙𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗲

11 - Sweet Wine, Bitter Memories.

Sawyer blocked the exit with a look of concern. "Where are you off to at this hour?" he questioned.

"I need some alone time, Sawyer," I replied.

He insisted on joining me but I declined, assuring him I needed this. Understanding finally dawned in his eyes as he let me go.

Settling in my car, I set off, heading aimlessly into the vast unknown of deserted streets, guided by nothing but my erratic heartbeat and mind brimming with memories I had spent years trying to suppress.

Images of my past came to the surface. Younger versions of Noah and I fleeing the orphanage. The feel of his hand, gripped tightly in mine as we raced away from that dreadful place. I remember his tears streaming down his face, him vowing never to return to that awful place that was our home. Left alone on the cold and ruthless streets, we lived, desperately longing for the return of our older brother, Jay.

Jay had left the orphanage upon turning eighteen, fueled by dreams of finding a job and securing a future for the three of us. Meanwhile, the scars of our traumatic past and mistreatment in the orphanage made returning an impossible thought, further complicating Jay's search of us.

I had been on the road for hours, the toll of the restless night weighed heavily upon me. My eyelids were threatening to close, while the exhaustion worked to tighten its grip. But I fought the weariness off, driving deeper into the unfamiliar roads, guided by the scarce streetlights, which echoed my own loneliness.

As daylight seeped through, an illuminating wave replaced the hours spent in the numbing dark. With my eyes closed, I allowed myself to savour the first morning light and inhale deeply the scent of dawn.

Pulling my weariness around me like a comforting cloak, I pressed on towards my morning meeting with McQueen, a looming deadline to start a fresh day.

Once I reached the prosecutor's office, Monica, his secretary, escorted me to his private chamber. I could see from his expression that he was not pleased to be disturbed, but he still managed to put on a friendly face.

"Frank, good morning," he greeted. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Much appreciated, Stephen," I responded politely.

Even with twenty plus years and hundreds of trials under his belt, McQueen never treated me with any form of indifference or disrespect.

"I take it you're here concerning Daniel Pierce?" he asked, clapping his hands together.

"What else would I be here for?" I replied, maintaining my courteous tone. "I want to make sure we play fair, so I'd like to bring you up to speed with the latest developments. I have new evidence."

McQueen looked up at me with interest but also skepticism since it seemed like every defense attorney always thought they had found "new" evidence when really nothing was ever substantial enough to change the course of a case.

Reaching into my briefcase that was resting on the table, I withdrew a folder and passed it on to him.

"This file contains the real murderer's written confession detailing their guilt, a murder weapon which matched forensics reports exactly, and finally eyewitness testimony that places him at the scene of the crime, all signed under oath," I declared, confident about the outcome.

He listened quietly, his facial expression shifting from skepticism to utter shock.

"Hang on. No murder weapon was found at the crime scene. Where did you get this?" he questioned, his expression betraying his irritation.

"It's my job to dig deeper than the police and provide the best assistance to my client, do I need to remind you of that?" I retorted, irked. "Stephen, this file blows this whole case out of the water!"