Brandon's POV
My mother sat at the defense table, her shoulders slumped beneath the ill-fitting navy button-down. She looked smaller than she ever had in her life. The immaculate, terrifying matriarch who had ruled the Ross household with an iron velvet glove had been reduced to a fragile shadow, staring blankly at the polished mahogany grain of the table in front of her.
To my left, Seth hadn't moved a muscle. His hands were still jammed deep into his coat pockets, his profile carved out of cold, unyielding stone. He didn't look at her. He hadn't looked at her since she stepped down from the witness box. Every breath he took was short, shallow, and lethal.
Judge Harrison cleared his throat, the dry rasp echoing off the high-ceilinged plaster walls. He adjusted his half-moon spectacles, his granite face utterly unreadable as he glanced down at the court clerk.
