Ashlyn's accusation hung in the heavy silence. You murderer.
Beatrice stood completely still. Her aged hands gripped her wooden cane so tightly that her knuckles turned pure white. The old woman slowly turned her head. She looked down at Carlos, who was still kneeling on the hard stones.
"Is this true?" Beatrice asked. Her voice was no longer loud, but it trembled with a dark, terrifying intensity. Her eyes, usually clouded with age, were now blazing with an absolute, furious anger. She stared at her grandson, demanding the truth.
Carlos felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead, mixing with the dirt and blood on his skin. He panicked. His mind raced to find another lie, another excuse to save his own skin. He opened his mouth. He was about to deny everything. He was about to say Ashlyn was insane, that she had hurt herself to frame him.
But before a single word could escape his lips, a deep, commanding voice stopped him cold.
