The deposition room was smaller than I expected. Gray walls. Long table. Water pitcher sweating condensation onto the wood surface. Azalea sat across from me with her attorney—a thin man in an expensive suit who kept checking his watch.
She wore pale pink. Soft fabric that draped just so. Her hair fell in careful waves around her face. She'd done her makeup to look like she wasn't wearing any. The performance was flawless.
Gracelyn sat beside me with three folders stacked in front of her. She opened the first one without looking at it. "Ms. Rivera, I'd like to review some financial documents with you."
Azalea's attorney leaned forward. "My client has already provided—"
"I'm aware." Gracelyn slid a bank statement across the table. "This is a wire transfer from the Scott family joint account. Seventeen thousand dollars. Dated March 15th. Can you confirm you received these funds?"
Azalea glanced at the paper. "I don't remember specific—"
"Yes or no, Ms. Rivera."
A pause. "Yes."
Gracelyn pulled out another document. Then another. Each one a transfer. Each one dated. Each one requiring confirmation. Azalea's voice grew quieter with each answer. Her attorney stopped objecting after the fifth document.
Then Gracelyn opened the second folder.
"This is a receipt from Dr. Chen's cosmetic surgery practice." She placed it in front of Azalea. "Dated March 18th. Three days after the transfer we just discussed. The procedure listed is a rhinoplasty. Total cost: sixteen thousand eight hundred dollars. Paid in full from the same joint account."
Azalea stared at the receipt. Her fingers curled against the table edge.
"Ms. Rivera, can you confirm this is your signature at the bottom?"
Silence.
"Ms. Rivera?"
"Yes." Barely audible.
Gracelyn pulled out another receipt. "This one is dated June 2nd. Breast augmentation. Fourteen thousand dollars." Another receipt. "September 10th. Facial fillers. Three thousand." Another. "November 20th. Laser treatments. Two thousand."
She spread them across the table like cards. A full hand. "All paid from the Scott marital account. All within the three-year period during which Mrs. Scott was undergoing fertility treatments that cost the family over sixty thousand dollars in medical expenses."
Azalea's attorney cleared his throat. "These transactions were—"
"I'm not asking you." Gracelyn's eyes stayed on Azalea. "Ms. Rivera, I'd like to direct your attention to the first receipt. The rhinoplasty. March 18th. Can you tell me what happened three days before that date?"
Azalea's face went pale. "I don't—"
"March 15th, Ms. Rivera. The day Leila Scott suffered a miscarriage after falling down a staircase in the Scott family home. You were present. Do you remember now?"
The room went very quiet.
Azalea looked across the table. Not at me. At Philip.
He sat three chairs down with Marcus Chen beside him. His face was perfectly neutral. He was looking at the wall behind Azalea's head. Not at her eyes. Not at her silent plea for—what? Confirmation? Support? A signal that they were still aligned?
Nothing.
Azalea's gaze held on him for five full seconds. I watched her expression shift. Confusion to understanding to something colder.
She turned back to Gracelyn. "I'd like to consult with my attorney."
"Of course." Gracelyn gathered the receipts and returned them to the folder. "We'll take a fifteen-minute break."
---
I stood in the hallway outside while they conferred. Through the door, I could hear muffled voices. Azalea's rising. Her attorney's trying to calm.
Gracelyn checked her phone. Smiled slightly. "She's scared."
"Good," I said.
"Philip's attorney approached me this morning. Off the record." She looked up. "They want to deal."
I ran my thumb along my wrist. "What kind of deal?"
"Philip testifies against her. Full disclosure on the staircase incident. In exchange, the DA considers reducing his sentence."
I stared at her. "He'd throw her under the bus."
"He'd throw anyone under the bus." Gracelyn slipped her phone back into her pocket. "The question is whether you want to accept."
I thought about Azalea's face when Philip wouldn't look at her. The moment she understood.
"Let him testify," I said. "I want it on record. In open court. In his own voice. I want her sitting there when he says it."
Gracelyn's smile widened. "I was hoping you'd say that."
---
Two days later, Gracelyn deposed Mrs. Scott.
She arrived in a navy suit and pearls. Sat with her spine straight and her hands folded. Looked at Gracelyn like she was interviewing a servant.
"Mrs. Scott, when did you first learn about your son's relationship with Ms. Rivera?"
"I'm not sure I recall the exact—"
"Approximately."
Mrs. Scott's mouth tightened. "Perhaps two years ago."
Gracelyn made a note. "And when did you learn Ms. Rivera was pregnant with your son's child?"
"Last spring."
"Can you be more specific?"
"April. Early April."
Gracelyn pulled out a document. "This is a text message from your phone to Philip Scott. Dated March 20th. It reads: 'Congratulations on the baby. Let me know what you need.' March 20th, Mrs. Scott. Not April."
Mrs. Scott's face didn't change. "I may have misremembered."
"You also stated in your earlier testimony that you learned about Leila's first miscarriage the day it happened. March 15th, three years ago."
"That's correct."
"But Philip testified last week that he didn't tell you about the miscarriage until a month later. April 12th. Which is it?"
Silence.
"Mrs. Scott?"
"I—I may have confused the dates."
Gracelyn leaned forward slightly. "Or Philip lied about when he told you. Which would mean he knew about the circumstances of that miscarriage—including Ms. Rivera's presence—much earlier than he claimed."
Mrs. Scott's hands tightened in her lap. "I don't appreciate your tone."
"I don't appreciate perjury." Gracelyn closed her folder. "We're done here."
---
That night, I sat in my studio and looked at the wall where I'd pinned the trial timeline. Every deposition. Every document. Every crack in their story.
My phone buzzed. Gracelyn.
*Chen called. Philip will testify. Full statement. He's going to bury her to save himself.*
I stared at the message.
Then I typed back: *Good.*
I set the phone down and looked out the window. Brooklyn glowed in the dark. Somewhere across the river, Philip was making the calculation. Azalea was realizing what it meant.
And I was here. Still standing. Still building.
I picked up my pencil and went back to sketching.
