Queen Manor – Later That Night
The rain slicked down the windows like it was trying to scrub the city clean. It beat against the glass with relentless, rhythmic fury, drowning the manor in its hiss. Inside, shadows crawled across the darkened lounge, the only light coming from the TV—its cold blue glow flickering over Oliver Queen's unmoving face.
He sat on the edge of the leather couch like he didn't quite belong in his own home, one hand resting on the armrest, the other curled loosely around a tumbler of untouched scotch. The compound bow leaned silently against the side of the couch—closer than comfort, heavier than guilt.
His eyes were on the screen. But his mind?
Still down in the Foundry.
Still hearing Diggle's voice in the back of his skull like a ghost that wouldn't stop knocking.
Then stop killing people.
Oliver closed his eyes for a beat. It hadn't been a scream. It hadn't needed to be. The words landed like a punch he didn't dodge. Couldn't.
Then stop killing people.
The sentence had more weight than the weapon beside him.
The news anchor's voice sliced through the room.
"—with no new evidence presented, Peter Declan's final appeal has been denied. He remains on death row, set to be executed in ten days for the murder of his wife, Camille Declan, a former employee of Brodeur Chemical."
Oliver's eyes opened. Flat. Cold. Focused.
"Prosecutors had pointed to an argument the couple had the day before her death, and a kitchen knife bearing Declan's fingerprints. A tragic case, but seemingly an open and shut one."
The screen shifted to Declan's prison intake photo—sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, skin pulled tight over bone. A man who looked like he'd already died once, and was just waiting for someone to finish the paperwork.
Oliver stared at the screen. His voice came low, a whisper to no one.
"Camille Declan…"
The words tasted familiar. Wrong.
Brodeur Chemical.
And just like that, his body moved. Smooth. Precise. Like the mission had already started.
He rose from the couch in one practiced motion and crossed the room to the fireplace. His fingers pressed into a specific knot on the bookshelf. There was a click, the soft scrape of mechanics, and a panel slid open.
Behind it sat the ledger.
The List.
He pulled it free, leather worn by time and use. His thumb traced down the names until it landed where instinct had already guided him.
Brodeur. Jason Brodeur.
The name glared up at him like it had been waiting. Like it knew.
Oliver didn't blink.
Jason Brodeur—CEO of Brodeur Chemical. Known for waste violations, shady lobbying, and "settlements" that never made the news.
He tapped the name once. Just once. Like it sealed something inside him.
From the TV, the anchor's voice continued:
"Camille Declan was reportedly fired shortly before her death after whistleblowing on the company's disposal practices..."
Oliver's jaw tightened. His voice, barely more than breath.
"Of course she was."
He moved back to the desk, flipping open his laptop. The screen lit up instantly, and his fingers flew over the keyboard. Archived articles. Legal documents. Environmental reports. Internal memos. Scraps the internet tried to bury. Oliver knew where to look.
One name kept surfacing.
Camille Declan.
A report she filed—shredded.
Allegations of toxic dumping near low-income neighborhoods—dismissed.
A quiet settlement. Then silence.
Until she wasn't silent anymore.
Until she wound up dead. And the system, ever eager to tie a bow on things, had looped a rope around her husband's neck to keep everything nice and clean.
Oliver stared at the screen, breathing hard through his nose. His knuckles were white against the laptop's edge.
Peter Declan wasn't a murderer.
He was collateral damage.
Another casualty in a city where truth bled out in alleyways and justice came in body bags.
He stood slowly. Turned toward the window. The storm outside roared on, merciless, uncaring.
"The city failed them both," he said quietly.
And then, with that stillness that always came just before the storm inside him broke—
"But I won't."
—
Laurel's Apartment – 1:03 AM
The window creaked open with a groan that didn't belong in the middle of the night.
Laurel spun around, instinct kicking in before logic. The stack of case files she'd been holding slipped from her arms, pages fluttering across the hardwood like startled birds.
He was already inside.
Standing still in the soft amber wash of the city lights filtering through the open window, the hood casting his face in shadow, leather armor wet from the rain. Silent. Watchful. Coiled like a storm.
Laurel exhaled, part exasperation, part reflex. "Are you seriously breaking into my apartment?"
The Arrow didn't move.
"You locked the door," he said.
Her brow arched. "Yes, most people do that. To keep out people who aren't invited."
"You also left your window latch undone."
"Because I didn't expect an urban vigilante to drop in through the fire escape like it's casual."
She crossed her arms, all fire and fatigue, her tank top clinging to her from the heat of too much caffeine and not enough rest. Her voice was steel, but her eyes flicked once—just once—to the scar peeking above his collarbone.
"What do you want?"
He stepped further into the room, closing the window behind him with a quiet click. The Arrow didn't waste time.
"Peter Declan."
Laurel blinked, thrown for a moment. "The guy on death row? His last appeal was denied—"
"I know," he cut in. "He's scheduled to die in nine days. For a murder he didn't commit."
Laurel's lips parted, then pressed into a line. "There was a full investigation. Forensics, witness statements, motive. His wife was stabbed in their apartment. No signs of forced entry. No one else was seen coming or going."
"Exactly," the Arrow said. "It was neat. Too neat."
Laurel turned away, stalking to her desk. "Look, you breaking into my place with another conspiracy theory doesn't change the fact that Declan had means, motive, and opportunity. That usually gets you a conviction."
"Unless someone else made sure all of those things looked true."
She hesitated at that.
"I'm listening," she said finally. "Barely. Start talking."
He pulled a folded document from the inside of his jacket and handed it to her without a word. Laurel took it, unfolded the pages, and scanned the contents.
Her eyebrows pulled together.
"A whistleblower report?" she murmured, eyes moving fast. "Camille Declan filed this with the Department of Environmental Protection… against her employer, Brodeur Chemical?"
"She accused them of dumping toxic waste into low-income neighborhoods," he said. "She was fired three days later. She was dead a week after that."
"And this never made it into the trial?" Laurel asked, voice sharp now. "This wasn't in the prosecution's timeline."
"Because Brodeur buried it. The file disappeared. She disappeared. Declan was convicted on circumstantial evidence and a kitchen knife with prints that didn't mean anything."
Laurel tossed the file onto her desk with a thud. "Jesus."
"No. Brodeur," the Arrow said. "Camille got too close to something that could cost him everything. He made her vanish. And the system needed a scapegoat. Declan was easy."
Laurel leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. "So what—you're planning to string Brodeur up by his neck until he confesses? That your strategy now?"
His jaw twitched under the shadow of the hood. "Only if he resists."
"God, you're so dramatic," she muttered.
"You think I'm wrong?"
She didn't answer right away. Her hand hovered over her phone, indecisive. "Even if this is legit, I can't just waltz into the courthouse and demand they reopen the case. Declan's already lost his appeals."
"You're not just anyone," he said. "You're Laurel Lance. You know how the system works. And you know how to bend it when it doesn't."
She met his gaze, expression hard. "Why come to me?"
A pause. Not long, but longer than he liked. The hood seemed heavier now. The mask of the Arrow slipping just enough to let something more vulnerable breathe underneath.
"Because you still believe in the law," he said, quieter now. "And I need someone who still believes it can do the right thing."
Laurel's throat bobbed as she swallowed. "You're really not gonna make this easy, are you?"
"It's not supposed to be."
Another beat passed between them. Lightning flashed outside the window, bathing the apartment in stark white for a split second. Laurel sighed, snatched her phone from the desk, and started dialing.
"I'll see if I can get eyes on any sealed settlements between Brodeur Chemical and the Declans. If there's anything in the system, I'll find it."
"I'll handle Brodeur."
As he turned toward the window, her voice cut after him like a wire snapping.
"Arrow."
He stopped, silhouetted in the windowframe.
"I believe Peter Declan is innocent. But I'm not going to cover for you if you start breaking skulls. If this gets messy—"
"It won't," he said flatly.
Laurel rolled her eyes. "It always gets messy with you."
She didn't say don't go. Didn't say be careful.
But she watched him vanish into the night anyway.
And her fingers lingered a second too long on the page where Camille Declan's signature bled blue ink onto paper no one had ever read.
—
Queen Mansion – The Next Morning
8:12 AM – The Dining Room
The dining room looked like a photograph from a billionaire's estate auction—pristine, overlit, and emotionally sterile. Everything was perfectly arranged: imported porcelain, fresh-cut orchids, artisan marmalade in a little crystal dish that had never been touched by mortal hands.
Oliver Queen sat at the far end of the ten-foot table like a man occupying someone else's life. His jaw was tense, his tie crooked, and his shirt collar unbuttoned like the war had already begun. The newspaper in front of him bore a full-color photo of Jason Brodeur shaking hands with the mayor, both smiling like corruption was an Olympic sport. The quote beneath read: "Responsible leadership for a cleaner Starling."
He'd smudged the ink with his thumb.
Across the room, the soft click of heels announced Moira Queen.
"Good morning, Oliver," she said, gliding in with a smile so curated it could've been a sculpture.
Oliver didn't look up. "Is it?"
She poured herself a cup of tea from the silver pot like she was handling nitroglycerin. "You're up early."
He shrugged one shoulder. "Didn't sleep."
"Nightmares again?" she asked, slicing into a papaya with surgical indifference.
"Something like that," he muttered.
Moira's eyes lifted. "You know, there are excellent therapists who specialize in post-traumatic stress. You could talk to someone."
Oliver finally looked up at her, blue eyes rimmed with exhaustion and distrust. "I'll get right on that. Right after I finish knitting and take up interpretive dance."
Moira arched a single, perfectly manicured brow. "I'd pay money to see that."
Oliver's lips twitched. Just barely. Then faded. He leaned back, arms crossed.
Silence settled for a moment. The only sound was the gentle clink of Moira's spoon stirring her tea—precise, deliberate, like a countdown.
"I heard from security this morning," she said, tone casual but laced with subtext. "Mr. Diggle tendered his resignation."
Oliver froze. It was subtle, but Moira noticed—the slight flinch in the corners of his eyes.
"He what?" Oliver asked.
"He said he wouldn't be returning," she replied. "No details. No accusations. Just… gone."
Oliver looked down at the table. "He didn't say anything to you?"
"He said everything with his silence, darling." Moira sipped her tea. "Which makes me wonder what you said to him."
Oliver exhaled through his nose. "We had a disagreement."
"Ah. A disagreement." Moira's voice went cool. "You mean the kind of disagreement where you ruin one of the only stable adult relationship in your life?"
"He knew the risks. He knew how I was," Oliver said, tone tight.
"I think that was the problem," she said. "He knew. And he stayed. And now he's gone."
Oliver stood abruptly, chair scraping across the polished floor. "I don't need a lecture."
"Oh, please," Moira said, setting down her teacup with a soft clink. "If I wanted to lecture you, I'd hire a choir and rent a stadium."
Oliver shot her a look. "I've got things to do."
"I'm sure you do," she replied calmly. "Who needs breakfast when there is guilt and isolation to marinate in?"
He paused at the threshold, back rigid.
"You keep pushing people away, Oliver," Moira said, voice softer now. "You do it when you're afraid. When someone sees too much."
"I'm not afraid," he said quietly.
"You're terrified," she countered, rising from her seat. "Of being known. Of being forgiven. Of letting someone see the man who returned from that island."
Oliver turned to face her, and for a moment, the mask cracked—just a flicker of the boy who disappeared with the Gambit and came back broken and rebuilt.
"I don't get to be forgiven," he said.
Moira took a step toward him. "Says who?"
Oliver didn't answer. Just held her gaze a moment longer, then nodded once and walked out.
She stood there, alone with the still-warm tea and a mother's thousand unspoken regrets.
—
The Foundry – 9:31 AM
The bowstring hummed in his hands. The tension was familiar. Soothing. A song with only one note: war.
The foundry was dark and echoing, lit only by the glow of monitors and the occasional spark of sharpening steel. The chair by the comms was empty. Diggle's coffee mug still sat on the table, half full, the steam long gone.
Oliver tightened the strap on his quiver. Checked the flight of each arrow. Opened the file on Brodeur's penthouse for the sixth time.
It didn't matter.
The silence was the loudest thing in the room.
He glanced toward the med table. The dressing he'd changed after his last run was still there, stark white against brushed metal. Neat. Precise. Like Diggle had left it as a reminder.
"Then stop killing people."
The words echoed louder than any explosion.
Oliver squeezed his eyes shut. Just for a second.
Then he opened them. Reached for the bow. And slung it over his shoulder with practiced grace.
Whatever guilt was chewing at him could wait.
The city couldn't.
—
Iron Heights Prison – Visitation Room
The Next Day – 11:46 AM
The air smelled like bleach and bad decisions. The hum of fluorescent lighting overhead gave everything a sickly pallor, and the security camera in the corner blinked like it was tired of watching people fall apart.
Laurel Lance crossed the room like she owned the floor tiles, a leather folder tucked under one arm, her heels clicking out a tempo of thinly-veiled irritation. She was in full no-nonsense mode: black blazer, pinned-back hair, zero tolerance for excuses. Her expression said I have a law degree and zero patience for BS. But her eyes—sharpened by coffee and conscience—gave away the undercurrent: I want the truth.
Peter Declan was already seated. Slouched slightly, hands folded in front of him. His jumpsuit was clean but faded, just like him. His posture said he'd long since learned how to shrink into corners, but his eyes still held the faint echo of a man who used to stand tall.
Laurel sat down across from him without a word, dropped the folder on the table, and picked up the phone. She didn't bother hiding the fact that she was already halfway annoyed.
Peter picked up the other end, slower, like he was expecting her to hang up before he could even say hello.
He squinted at her. "Laurel Lance. Well, well."
She gave him a flat look. "Peter Declan. Still orange."
He huffed out something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. "You were just a clerk when we met. Coffee-fetcher. Big eyes, bigger idealism."
"And you were less… inmate-y."
He chuckled, just barely. "I'd say it's good to see you again, but under the circumstances..."
"Let's not pretend we're friends catching up over brunch."
"Right. Brunch doesn't usually involve reinforced glass and shackles."
Laurel opened the folder with a flick. "I've read your case. Several times."
Peter raised his brows. "Then you know I'm the world's worst husband. Loud fights, sharp words, the works."
"And a kitchen knife with your fingerprints," she said, voice like a scalpel. "Covered in your wife's blood. Found in the trunk of your car."
He nodded slowly, like he'd heard the line rehearsed too many times.
"I know how bad it looks," he said.
Laurel leaned back slightly in her chair. "Peter, a jury didn't just think you killed Camille. They were certain. Your neighbors heard shouting. No signs of forced entry. No other suspects. Hell, you even took your daughter and ran."
"I didn't run," Peter said firmly. "I panicked. There's a difference."
She raised a brow. "Is there?"
"I found her in the morning," he said quietly. "Dead. On the floor. I ran outside with Izzy and called 911 from the curb. I didn't hide. I didn't clean up. I didn't even think. I just… froze. And when the cops showed up, they had me on the ground in thirty seconds flat."
"You fought with Camille," Laurel said. "The night before she died."
He swallowed. "Yeah. Badly."
She stayed silent, letting him fill the space.
"She told me she'd blown the whistle on Brodeur Chemical. Her employer," he said. "She'd seen proof they were dumping waste into the Glades. Low-income areas. Schools. Playgrounds."
Laurel's jaw tightened.
"She took photos. Filed a complaint. Said she couldn't stay quiet. Said someone had to do the right thing."
"And you didn't agree?"
"I wanted to. God, I wanted to." He closed his eyes. "But we had Izzy. She was four. Camille didn't understand—we weren't just going up against some HR rep. This was Brodeur. A monster with lawyers and lobbyists and a bottomless bank account."
"And you yelled."
"I begged her to let it go." His hands curled into fists on the table. "She refused. Said she'd rather die than raise a daughter in a world where everyone looks the other way."
Laurel's voice was gentler now. "And the next morning?"
He opened his eyes. They were red-rimmed. Tired.
"She was in Izzy's room. Blood everywhere. Sheets soaked. I thought it was a nightmare."
"You didn't try to defend yourself during the trial?"
"I did. But the report she filed? Gone. Her laptop? Wiped. My defense attorney barely tried. Said the knife was enough to sink me and told me to take a deal."
"But you didn't."
"I couldn't lie. Not about that. Not to Izzy. Even if it meant spending the rest of my life in here, or… dying."
Laurel studied him for a long moment. Her fingers drummed once against the folder.
"You still have a daughter," she said. "She's with Camille's sister now. She thinks her dad killed her mom."
Peter looked away, the weight of those words more than even Iron Heights could hold.
"I know," he whispered. "I know."
Laurel looked down at the file, then back at him.
"I'm reopening this," she said. "Quietly. I can't promise anything, but… if there's something there, I'll find it."
Peter blinked, stunned. "Why? After all this time?"
A voice came through the loudspeaker: "Ms. Lance, your time is up."
Laurel didn't stand. Not yet. She held his gaze with the intensity of someone who's walked into too many gray areas and finally found a line worth standing on.
"Because someone's been working very hard to bury this," she said. "And I don't like people who bury the truth."
She closed the folder, finally standing.
Peter's voice stopped her. "Ms. Lance."
She turned, one brow raised.
"If this thing blows up in your face… if they come after you—"
"They already did," she said. "They just don't know I'm coming back."
A hint of the old Peter flared behind his tired eyes. "Camille would've liked you."
Laurel offered the faintest smile.
"She'll get justice," she said. "One way or another."
She walked out without looking back.
Peter sat frozen behind the glass, the phone still pressed to his ear long after the click on the other end.
And for the first time in nine years, he let himself believe—just a little—that the truth might still have a chance to breathe.
—
The Emerald Terrace – Private Garden Room
12:04 PM – Same Day
The garden smelled faintly of lemon verbena and calculated power. Private dining at The Emerald Terrace wasn't about food—it was about optics. And the optics right now were impeccable: Moira Queen in cream silk and pearl studs, crossing her legs with a quiet whisper of fabric; Walter Steele across from her in charcoal wool and cufflinks that probably had their own vault.
A breeze stirred the lace-trimmed umbrella above them, but the tension at the table didn't move an inch.
"You've barely touched your salad," Moira said, cool and conversational as she dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin. "Is it the anchovies? Or are you just pretending you eat during tense meetings?"
Walter smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who's known you since Robert's 'rebrand the company or die trying' phase." She lifted her wineglass. "Which means about… sixteen years of watching you fake interest in greens."
Walter stirred his iced tea with two fingers, swirling the lemon slice like it might tell him the future. "I'm sorry. I'm distracted."
Moira leaned in just slightly. Just enough to make it intimate. "I noticed. The phone under the table? Very discreet. Except you locked it four times in ten minutes. That's either a compliance crisis or a very patient mistress."
That earned a quiet chuckle from him. Deep. Warm. Tired. "No mistress. Not unless you count my inbox. Which, tragically, I think I do."
She arched a brow. "Must be serious, then."
"It's… annoying," he said, with the same tone one might use to describe a power outage or a leaky faucet. "Compliance flagged a withdrawal. Vancouver subsidiary. Two-point-six million."
Moira blinked, just once, and very slowly. "Withdrawn. Not transferred?"
"Correct." Walter picked up his glass but didn't drink. "Straight out. No approval. No invoice. Just… gone."
She set her fork down like she was disarming a weapon. "Are you telling me someone embezzled from Queen Consolidated?"
"I'm telling you," he said, his voice like velvet wrapped around something heavy, "that it's probably a clerical error. Sloppy coding. An overzealous accountant and a decimal point's worth of career suicide."
"And Compliance?" she asked.
"Concerned," he admitted. "They flagged it for internal review, which is the corporate equivalent of raising an eyebrow and calling your lawyer."
Moira crossed her arms gently, her expression tightening by degrees. "Walter… two-point-six million doesn't vanish by accident. That's not a misplaced stapler or an overbilled hotel stay. That's someone's retirement plan."
Walter gave her a long, measured look. "I know. I've already got Accounting pulling the chain. Backups, old access logs, expense memos. If it's clean, I'll clean it up. If it's not—"
"—then we're looking at criminal activity inside one of our own branches." She exhaled slowly. "Wonderful."
"I'm not sounding the alarms yet," he said, holding her gaze. "But I didn't want you blindsided. You're still on the board. If this spirals—"
"Walter," she interrupted softly. "I've lived through six hostile takeovers, a fake pregnancy scandal, and the city trying to rename Queen Consolidated after a public transit screw-up. Trust me. I've been through spirals."
His lips twitched. "And you landed every one of them in heels."
"Stilettos," she corrected. "And I never spill."
A beat passed. Then another.
Walter studied her. "You're quiet."
"I'm thinking," Moira said slowly. "About how many men I've heard say 'it's probably nothing' right before we needed five lawyers and a fire extinguisher."
"It's probably nothing," he repeated, drier this time. "Just a few misaligned numbers in a minor office. Happens more than you think."
She gave him a long, unreadable smile. "Walter… I think you forget who you're talking to."
"I don't," he said quietly.
That silenced her for a moment.
Then she leaned forward, lacing her fingers on the table between them. Her voice was velvet and arsenic. "If this is not a bookkeeping error… if this touches the board, the shareholders, or my son—"
"—then I'll handle it," Walter said firmly. "Before it ever gets to you."
Her expression softened. Barely. "You always were too noble for this business."
"And you always knew when to pretend you weren't."
Their eyes locked across the table. A thousand things in the silence: respect, affection, suspicion. Regret.
Walter finally looked away, chuckling under his breath. "Paranoia looks good on you."
"It's not paranoia," Moira said smoothly, reaching for her wine. "It's muscle memory."
She raised her glass, tapped it gently against his.
"To accountants with secrets."
Walter clinked his glass against hers.
"To finding out who the hell they're working for."
And somewhere, back in Queen Consolidated's servers, a file tagged "OFF-BOOKS PAYROLL – LEVEL 7" pinged awake for the first time in two years.
—
SCPD – Homicide Division
The Next Day – 1:07 PM
The precinct hadn't changed. Same stained linoleum. Same hum of overworked radiators. Same stench of burnt coffee and unspoken trauma. Laurel Lance walked in like a high-heeled bullet — fast, focused, and not interested in pleasantries. A few heads turned. A few didn't dare.
She ignored them all and kept moving.
Detective Quentin Lance's office sat like a bunker in the chaos, its blinds drawn halfway shut like it was too tired to pretend it wanted sunlight. She knocked once — sharp — and pushed the door open before he could answer.
"Morning," she said, voice clipped, already halfway to the chair across from his desk.
Quentin looked up from a stack of paperwork that had been threatening to topple for a week. His tie was crooked, his eyes bloodshot, and he held a coffee cup like it was the only thing keeping him vertical.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," he muttered. "You lose a bet or just come to remind me I'm old?"
"I need to talk about Peter Declan."
He exhaled hard through his nose. "Knew it. Knew you didn't show up here just to admire the view. You're reopening that mess?"
"I'm reviewing the case," Laurel said, crossing her legs. "Quietly. Off the books."
He narrowed his eyes. "You got a funny definition of quiet, kid. Word's already flying faster than the vending machine coffee machine spits sludge."
"Good to know the department's grapevine's still faster than forensics," she said.
"Don't dodge. What's this really about? You think Declan's innocent?"
"I think he might've been framed."
"Framed?" Quentin repeated, eyebrows shooting up. "Laurel, they found the murder weapon in the trunk of his car. His prints. Her blood. Motive clear as day. The guy's not some tragic anti-hero — he's a walking cautionary tale."
"And his wife was about to blow the whistle on Brodeur Chemical," Laurel shot back. "Illegal toxic dumping. Schools. Parks. Low-income neighborhoods. Places with kids. Camille Declan had documentation — photos, reports, evidence."
"Yeah? And where is it?"
"Gone," she admitted. "Laptop wiped. Report never filed."
"So your big ace in the hole is a whistle that never blew?"
"My ace is a corrupt corporation with more skeletons than your filing cabinets, and a motive big enough to fill a landfill — which, funny enough, they probably already did."
Quentin leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face like he wanted to wipe away the last decade. "You really think Brodeur killed Camille and pinned it on her husband? That they snuck into her house, stabbed her in her daughter's room, and just happened to leave Peter's fingerprints on the knife for fun?"
"I think Brodeur had the means, the motive, and the muscle," Laurel said. "I think Camille went to her supervisor, Matt Istook, and that's when the clock started ticking."
"Except Istook said she never came to him," he replied. "Didn't see her. Didn't hear from her. According to him, she might as well have been a ghost that day."
"And you believe that?" Laurel asked, voice tight.
"I believe I've been lied to by better people," Quentin muttered. "And more convincingly."
She leaned forward. "Dad, Peter Declan is days away from lethal injection. If there's even a chance he didn't do it—"
"Then why didn't he say any of this during his trial?" Quentin snapped, voice rising. "Why wait until the eleventh hour to start painting himself as a martyr?"
"Because he had a public defender who bailed after the opening statement. Because no one cared about one more guy from the Glades who couldn't afford to defend himself. Because the prosecution buried Camille's whistleblowing under marital drama and called it a day."
Quentin slammed his cup down hard enough to slosh coffee onto his desk.
"I wasn't the lead on that case, Laurel. But I read it. I remember it. They had everything they needed. Blood. Prints. Screaming neighbors. No signs of forced entry. And he took the kid and ran."
"He panicked."
"Sure. And maybe I'm Santa Claus."
"You're not even the fun kind," she shot back, deadpan.
He couldn't help it. His mouth twitched. "Still got that smart mouth, huh?"
"Wonder where I got it from."
"You didn't get it from your mother, that's for sure," he muttered, looking away.
They let the silence breathe for a moment. Then Laurel spoke again, softer this time.
"If you thought for one second the cops had the wrong guy… would you still be behind this desk, filing budget reports?"
Quentin's jaw worked. He looked at her like she'd sucker-punched him with the truth.
"No," he said finally. "I'd be tearing the damn walls down."
"Then help me."
He shook his head slowly. "You always had your mother's moral compass. Pointed north. Even when you were heading straight off a cliff."
"I'm not jumping blind, Dad. I've got instincts."
"You had instincts when you thought Queen was cheating on you too."
She scowled. "Wow. Thanks for that trip down guilt-lane."
"I'm just saying—instincts aren't facts. You want to chase this ghost, fine. But don't expect me to follow you into a burning building unless you've got proof there's someone still alive inside."
"I'll get it."
"Good. Because right now, Declan's got what—six days left? Clock's ticking."
Laurel stood. "Then I better move fast."
Quentin watched her walk to the door. His voice followed her.
"I thought it'd be a cold day in hell before you started defending criminals."
She turned, hand on the handle. Her expression unreadable.
"I'm not so sure he is one."
"And if you're wrong?"
"Then I'll own it," she said. "But if I'm right—then someone buried the truth. And I won't let that stand."
She opened the door and stepped out.
Quentin stared after her, shaking his head like he wasn't sure if he was proud, scared, or just old.
"Damn apple didn't fall far at all," he muttered, grabbing a napkin to wipe up his spilled coffee. "Not even a little."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!