"You're sentenced."
The gavel hit the bench like a door closing.
"Five years, with two years to serve before parole eligibility," the judge said. "Court finds the defendant guilty on all counts."
"Objection!" Garth's shout cut the air. His tie was crooked, his knuckles white on the edge of his briefcase.
"Overruled." The judge did not look at him.
Tomas Knudsen sat two rows back, hands folded, face a stone slab. He did not stand. He did not move.
"You have the right to appeal," the prosecutor said, smiling small. "Counsel will file notices."
"Do you have anything to say, Ms. Yi?" the judge asked.
I closed my mouth and let the taste of copper and dust fill my teeth.
"No," I said.
The courtroom laughed—gentle, patronizing. Claire Perrin's smile from the gallery was a knife. She waved like she was at a charity gala.
"Ms. Yi." The judge leaned forward. "Speak up."
I spat a line of blood onto the floor. Everyone saw it.
"Your Honor," I whispered, and my voice cut through the murmurs. "I plead guilty."
Silence slammed into me. Garth's hand clenched at the wrist of the bench.
"You plead—" the judge began.
"I plead guilty," I repeated, louder. "I take the sentence."
Tomas's head turned, slow and precise. His eyes found mine, measured me, counted me. No shock crossed his face. There was only the same cold calculation he'd worn all through my life.
"You don't have
