Chapter 321

Chapter 321 Discovery

Ella

The moonlight streamed into the living room, casting a dim glow over the scattered papers around me.

My floor had turned into a makeshift work desk, a testament to the unyielding hours I’d spent trying to

decipher every detail of the case. A nearly empty wine glass sat next to me, a small but rebellious act

of indulgence for the night. I had to arm myself mentally and emotionally to go toe-to-toe with Mr.

Westbrook tomorrow.

The sneering manner in which he’d dismissed me earlier had left a sting, a challenge I couldn’t ignore.

Proving Logan’s innocence was paramount, but so was showing Westbrook that I was a formidable

opponent.

With every document I pored over, my determination grew stronger. I wouldn’t let Westbrook’s

presumptions dictate the course of this case. I was a force to be reckoned with, and I intended to make

sure he knew it. As I reached for another sheet, the sudden buzz of my apartment’s intercom startled

me.

Groaning softly, I got up, the joints in my legs protesting after hours of sitting. Peering at the monitor,

Logan’s face greeted me. His eyes, even in the grainy display, conveyed a mixture of concern and

hesitation.

“Ella?” His voice crackled over the speaker. Sighing, I pressed the button. “It’s late, Logan. What are

you doing here?”

“Just…a little worried about you after earlier, that’s all,” he admitted, fidgeting with the collar of his

jacket.

I hesitated for a moment, then relented, buzzing him in. As the door clicked open, I returned to my floor,

settling back amidst the sea of papers.

Logan walked in, his eyes darting around the room, taking in the chaotic spread of legal documents.

“Working hard, I see.”

“It’s more about working smart,” I murmured, not lifting my eyes from a particularly perplexing affidavit.

“Just gearing up for tomorrow.”

Logan pulled up a barstool and perched himself on it, scrutinizing my every move. The weight of his

gaze was palpable, an almost tangible pressure. “Need a hand?”

I glanced up, offering him a wry smile. “I’ve got this, Logan. But, I guess a little company won’t hurt.

Since you’re here, and all.”

Nodding, he accepted the wine glass I offered him. We sat in silence, punctuated only by the

occasional rustle of paper and the muted clinks of our glasses. He watched, attentive and silent, as I

pieced together fragments of information.

Something had changed between us over the time we had spent working together. I hated to admit it,

but he almost was beginning to feel like… a friend. Or, at the very least, his presence didn’t make me

want to puke as much anymore.

After a moment, he spoke, his voice low and soft. “Can I say something?”

I shrugged. “Go on.”

Logan cleared his throat. “You look really pretty like this.”

I froze, my hand midway between a document and my wine glass. Raising an eyebrow, I shot him a

skeptical look. I was just wearing a ratty hoodie, some equally ratty shorts, and I had my hair up in a

sloppy bun atop my head. I hadn’t even showered yet since I got home from work.

“Like what?” I asked. “A sleep-deprived slob drowning in paperwork?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, studious. Focused. It’s…endearing. And, for the record, you look

pretty, not like a slob.”

I could feel the warmth flooding my cheeks, a deep crimson that no wine could induce. “You’re

delusional,” I mumbled, trying to focus on a document and failing spectacularly. “And you’re just trying

to butter me up.

Logan’s laughter was soft, echoing the gentleness in his eyes. “Perhaps. But I still stand by what I

said.”

Clearing my throat, I started gathering the scattered sheets, shoving them into a neat pile.. “I should

probably head to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

Logan nodded, placing his empty glass on the counter. “Thanks for letting me hang out for a bit. And

remember, I’m here to help, Ella.”

“I’ll remember,” I replied with a tired smile. “Just…don’t be late tomorrow.”

He winked, his silhouette fading into the night. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The courtroom seemed to blur for a moment, narrowing my focus to just Mr. Westbrook, the

insufferably condescending attorney opposite me.

Since we were neck-deep in the discovery phase, he was legally bound to provide any and all

information related to the case. And, perhaps for the first time, I was about to use his arrogance to our

advantage.

“Mr. Westbrook,” I began, narrowing my eyes and tilting my head just slightly, “Since we’re in the

discovery phase, I’d like to formally request all the crime scene photos and the entire collection of

evidence your side possesses.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the directness of my request. “Photos and

evidence? All of it?”

“Yes,” I replied, not breaking eye contact. “Every single bit.”

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.

“Very well. I’ll have them sent to you,” he said, pulling out his phone. He tapped away for a moment, his

lips pressing into a tight line. The soft ping of my phone moments later signaled the receipt of the

photos. “However, just to set the record straight,” he added, shooting me a smug look, “there was no

‘evidence’. Just blood. And a corpse. That’s it.”

I frowned, disbelief gnawing at me. “No evidence? That’s highly unusual, don’t you think? A crime

scene that bloody, and nothing was left behind?”

Westbrook’s smirk grew wider. “Perhaps the perpetrator was meticulous, Miss Morgan. Not all criminals

leave their tools behind. Just ask your client.”

Suppressing my instinctive snarky retort, I thanked him and began scrolling through the images.

Westbrook hmphed to himself and returned to his hushed conversation with his client across the room.

Each photo showcased a grim panorama of the crime scene: blood splatters, overturned furniture, and

at its center, the lifeless body of the victim. It was jarring, grotesque, and, as Westbrook had asserted,

seemingly devoid of any incriminating evidence. My heart raced as I swiped from one picture to the

next.

“There has to be something”, I urged myself. Ema growled softly in the back of my mind, her instincts

on high alert, sensing the significance of the moment.

And then it happened. In one of the photos, taken at an odd angle- probably a misfire of the camera or

an unintentional shot-I spotted something that caused my heart to skip a beat. Nestled between the

grooves of the wooden floor, almost merging with the shadows, lay a bullet casing.

I looked up at Logan, who sat across from me, his features taut with anticipation. I enlarged the photo,

zooming in on the casing, making sure I wasn’t just seeing things. It was real.

“Logan,” I whispered, showing him the image, “look.”

He squinted at my screen and then his eyes widened in realization. “That’s…a bullet casing.”

“Exactly. And given the angle of this picture, it’s no wonder they missed it. But it’s there.” The weight of

the discovery pressed on me. This tiny piece of metal could change everything.

“But how?” Logan mused, brows furrowed. “There was no physical evidence found on the scene.”

I nodded, my brain already working overtime. “Maybe there wasn’t. Either way, this is a lead.”

Logan’s face darkened. “Do you think they’re hiding evidence?” I paused for a moment, glancing over

at Westbrook and his client, who were still engrossed in their conversation. “We’re about to find out,” I

said.

“Mr. Westbrook,” I called out, my voice dripping with feigned innocence. Holding up my phone, showing

the casing, I asked, “Care to explain this oversight?”

His face momentarily betrayed his surprise. But he quickly regained his composure, a hint of

annoyance crossing his features. “Miss Morgan, we provided all the information that was deemed

relevant. Perhaps the crime scene investigators deemed it non-pertinent.”

His calmness was infuriating, but I held my ground. “Or perhaps they missed it altogether. Thank you

for these photos, Mr. Westbrook. They’ve been…enlightening.”

As he nodded curtly, I could see the tightness in his jaw, a clear indication that our discovery had rattled

him.

Ema’s voice was soft, a gentle purr in the back of my mind. “Good catch.”