Lily.
The name he used when we were children.
The name he used when he wanted me soft.
I stopped.
The courtroom staff looked up.
Grant’s attorney grabbed his sleeve.
“Don’t,” Renner hissed.
Grant ignored him.
“Lily, please.”
For one second, the courtroom disappeared.
I saw him at twelve, fixing the chain on my bike after he had broken it.
I saw him at seventeen, telling a boy at school to leave me alone.
I saw him at twenty-four, standing beside me at our grandfather’s funeral, whispering, “We’re all that’s left of the sane people.”
Then I saw him at thirty-six, forging my name.
Using my service.
Taking my inheritance.
Turning my parents into witnesses for his lie.
I looked down at him.
“My name is Commander Moore.”
Then I walked back to the government table.
My parents did not speak to me that day.
Not after my testimony.
Not during recess.
Not as I passed within three feet of them in the courthouse hallway.
My mother reached toward me once.
Almost.
Then pulled her hand back when my father touched her arm.
That hurt more than I wanted it to.
Even then.
Even after all of it.
Some childish part of me still wanted them to stand up and say, We were wrong.
Not privately.
Not softly.
In front of everyone.
The way they had doubted me.
But they sat in silence.
Still protecting Grant.
Or maybe protecting the version of themselves that had not failed me.
I went to the witness room afterward and closed the door.
Rachel Voss followed five minutes later.
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