Derek’s composure cracked.
He turned toward the camera—toward Kiara—and his eyes hardened.
Lauren saw it.
So did Kiara.
But this time, there was glass and distance and law between them.
That night, Kiara did not sleep.
Freedom, she was learning, was not quiet. It was loud. It left space where noise used to be. It removed routine terror and replaced it with uncertainty.
Lauren found her sitting upright at two in the morning, staring out the window.
“Pain?” Lauren asked softly.
Kiara shook her head.
“I keep expecting him to walk in,” she admitted.
Lauren pulled a chair close.
“He won’t.”
“I know. But my body doesn’t.”
Lauren understood that. Trauma lived in muscle memory.
“You planted flowers once,” Lauren said suddenly, recalling something Kiara had mentioned in fragments during interviews.
Kiara’s lips twitched faintly. “He ripped them out. Said dirt tracked inside.”
“What kind were they?”
“Marigolds.”
Lauren smiled. “Hard to kill.”
Kiara looked at her then.
“I don’t feel hard to kill.”
“You survived two years of documenting a man who thought he owned you,” Lauren replied. “You’re harder than you think.”
Over the next weeks, the case grew.
Forensic analysts authenticated the flash drive files. Dates aligned with medical visits. Audio matched Derek’s voice pattern. Neighbors came forward quietly, recalling shouting, crashes, once a scream abruptly silenced.
One neighbor, an elderly woman named Mrs. Patterson, told detectives she had called the police once—but when officers arrived, Derek answered the door smiling, Kiara silent behind him.
“She looked at me like she was apologizing,” Mrs. Patterson said.
Apologizing.
As if enduring violence were an inconvenience to others.
Ridley filed motions attempting to suppress portions of the recordings, arguing privacy violations.
The judge denied them.
The evidence stood.
Still, Derek never requested a plea deal.
He wanted trial.
Of course he did.
