The courtroom smells like old paper, government coffee, and the faint metallic tang of winter air that keeps sneaking in every time the back doors open.
Weeks have melted since the motel room and the ringing phone that pulled us into this next phase, but my body still carries the adrenaline in pockets. My knee bounces against the wooden bench until Riley presses her hand over it, grounding me with a small squeeze. The varnished wood bites into the backs of my thighs, familiar and unforgiving, like every polished surface in Harbor Glen that taught me who owns comfort.
“Stop before they cite you for contempt of furniture,” she whispers.
I huff out a breath that might pass for a laugh.
In front of us, lawyers fan out at their respective tables, piles of binders and tablets and manila folders with colored tabs marching along the edges. The Mercer crest—those stylized overlapping waves—peeks from stickers on several of the defense binders, as if even their discovery packets need branding. On the other side, the state’s team keeps their files unadorned, cheap plastic tabs instead of engraved leather.
“All right, counsel,” Judge Martínez says from the bench, voice smooth but edged. “We’re here today on preliminary motions and discovery issues. I’m aware there’s more heat on this case than our usual docket, but this is still a courtroom, not a cable panel.”
A low ripple of laughter hums through the gallery, nervous and brief.
The assistant attorney general, Kwan, rises first. She’s compact, hair pulled into a severe bun, glasses catching the fluorescent light. She steps to the lectern with a yellow pad and a thin stack of exhibits, no theatrics.
“Your Honor, the state moves to admit Exhibits A through H for purposes of this hearing,” she says. “These include the trust document labeled ‘Mercer Family Trust II – Second Daughter Beneficiary,’ partial adoption files recovered from Harbor Glen Memorial’s archives, and server logs from the Mercer Foundation indicating remote deletions in the days leading up to the gala.”
Behind the defense table, Evelyn’s attorney stands so quickly his chair bumps the table. Alder—gray hair, expensive suit, tie the color of the harbor on a clear day. His cufflinks catch the light where his hands grip the lectern.
“We object to nearly all of that, Your Honor,” he says. “The so-called ‘viral article’ and its underlying documents are fruit of an illicit search. Stolen records. Additionally, the adoption files implicate patient privacy and are protected under state and federal law. Any reference to them here is not only prejudicial but potentially criminal.”
My skin prickles.
Riley leans closer and murmurs, “I’d pay cash money to see him pretend to care about privacy back when they sealed those files.”
I press my lips together, eyes fixed on the judge.
Kwan doesn’t flinch.
“Respectfully, that misstates the record,” she says. “The state did not direct or participate in the initial leak of documents. Once those documents were in the public domain, victims and former staff came forward. We subpoenaed originals from the hospital and foundation servers. The logs are from their own backup systems. If there was criminality involved in destroying records, that’s an issue for a later phase, not a reason to keep the court blind now.”
Alder lifts his chin.
“The danger of trial by headline—”
“This is not trial,” the judge cuts in. “This is a preliminary hearing. I’m reviewing whether there is sufficient basis to move forward and what scope discovery should take. I will not litigate the entire case today.”
He looks to Kwan.
“As to the trust?”
She slides a single-page exhibit from her stack and holds it up.
“The trust document was produced by the Mercer family’s own estate counsel in response to subpoena from our office,” she says. “We’re not relying on media copies. It is facially relevant to the allegations of undisclosed financial arrangements benefiting a ‘second daughter’ and tied to non-disclosure provisions regarding adoption records. We’re asking to question Mrs. Mercer about it under oath today.”
Evelyn sits at the defense table, spine perfectly straight, hands folded on the polished surface. Even from here I can see the slight shine at her temples where makeup meets hairline, the only visible concession to nerves. The same hands that wrote donation checks and shook gala donors’ fingers rest now on a dark leather folio, knuckles relaxed.
Alder steps back to the lectern.
“Your Honor, the trust is part of private family estate planning,” he says. “Introducing it at this stage risks tainting any potential jury pool with the insinuation of some secret child or illicit adoption, when in fact the document pertains to charitable support for a young person who is not, and has never claimed to be, a member of the Mercer family.”
My chest tightens at the neatness of the lie.
Riley’s nails dig into my knee.
“Charitable support,” she mutters under her breath. “Sure. Like a tip left on a life you stole.”
Judge Martínez taps his pen once.
“The line between charity and control is part of what’s at issue here, counsel,” he says. “The trust goes to notice and pattern. I’m going to allow questioning on its existence and basic terms for purposes of this hearing. Specific beneficiary identity can be addressed with protective measures later.”
Alder’s jaw flexes, the motion pulsing in his cheek.
“And the adoption files?” he pushes.
The judge sighs.
“This is a mess,” he says, not unkindly. “There are adoptees and families whose privacy I am obligated to protect, and there are also serious allegations that records were manipulated in ways that harmed those very people. I’m not going to pretend those files don’t exist. Exhibits related to sealed adoptions will be reviewed in camera. Counsel for both sides will meet with my clerk to work out redactions and pseudonyms. They are admissible for my purposes today under those conditions.”
A murmur runs through the gallery benches; a bailiff’s glare cuts it off.
My heart thuds, loud in my ears. The judge’s words aren’t victory, but they’re not the quiet dismissal I spent nights dreading either. The system that always folded around the Mercer name just told them no—softly, but out loud.
“Objections noted for the record,” the judge finishes. “We’ll proceed.”
He turns his gaze toward the defense table.
“Mrs. Mercer, please take the stand.”
The sound in the room shifts: papers rustle, feet scuff, a cough echoes from the back row. Evelyn rises with the same elegance she used walking onto gala stages and hospital ribbon-cuttings. Her skirt doesn’t crease, her blouse doesn’t wrinkle. She moves in practiced lines, a woman who has made a career of crossing thresholds and turning them into her stage.
The bailiff stands by the witness box, hand raised.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” he asks.
Evelyn lifts her right hand, palm bare of jewelry for once.
“I do,” she says.
I hear the words and can’t stop my mind from replaying every story she’s ever told—the boating accident, the memorial tree, the way she said “welcome to the family” like both blessing and threat. Truth has always been something she curated, not confessed.
She settles into the chair, smoothing her skirt once. The microphone in front of her picks up the faint rustle of fabric.
Kwan approaches the lectern again.
“Mrs. Mercer,” she begins, “you are currently the chair of the Mercer Foundation, correct?”
“I am,” Evelyn replies. Her voice carries cleanly through the speakers, calm, almost bored.
“And you have held that position for…”
“Twenty-two years,” she says. “Since shortly after my daughter Lydia’s death.”
There’s the first stone tossed into the room. Lydia’s name lands like a dropped glass no one is allowed to acknowledge, shards quietly rearranged into a more tasteful shape.
“As chair,” Kwan continues, “were you involved in discussions regarding the hospital’s adoption practices and long-term support for children under its care?”
“I was briefed, yes,” Evelyn says. “Our mission has always been to support vulnerable families. Many of our programs relate to neonatal care, maternal health, and post-adoption services.”
Love and harm, hand in hand. The words sound noble. I know the files behind them carry infants re-labeled, mothers erased, teenagers like Riley aged out into nothing.
“Directing your attention to what has been marked for identification as Exhibit A,” Kwan says, “do you recognize this document?”
A screen on the side wall lights up for the court’s reference. I catch the title even from here: MERCER FAMILY TRUST II – SECOND DAUGHTER BENEFICIARY. The font is crisp, the legal language dense and familiar. I remember standing in Evelyn’s home office, fingers trembling over the same heading.
Evelyn glances at the screen, then down to the paper the clerk has handed her.
“I recognize the document,” she says.
“What is it?” Kwan asks.
“A charitable trust,” Evelyn replies. “Established some years ago to provide educational support and opportunities to a young woman who had faced hardship.”
“And the title refers to a ‘Second Daughter Beneficiary,’” Kwan says. “Whose daughter is meant by that phrase?”
Alder is on his feet before the question finishes.
“Objection, Your Honor,” he says. “We’ve already explained. The phrasing is symbolic, not literal. Answering that opens the door to identifying a non-party on the record.”
Judge Martínez considers for a moment.
“I’ll sustain as to identity,” he says. “Rephrase, Ms. Kwan.”
Kwan nods.
“Mrs. Mercer, is the beneficiary of this trust biologically related to either you or your husband?” she asks.
Evelyn’s fingers tighten on the paper. For a heartbeat, the muscles in her throat move, betraying the act of swallowing.
“No,” she says. “She is not related to us.”
Riley’s breath hitches beside me. I hear it because I’m tuned to every shift in her, because we’ve spent so long in the quiet spaces between what’s acknowledged and what’s denied.
Kwan doesn’t argue the point; she circles it.
“So the use of ‘Second Daughter’ in the title is…what, in your view?” she asks.
“A metaphor,” Evelyn says smoothly. “A way of expressing that we felt a special responsibility toward a child who had suffered. It was charity for an unrelated child.”
The word charity scrapes under my skin. I see Riley’s wall of “paper orphans,” strings converging on the hospital. I hear my mother’s voice admitting she signed adoption papers under pressure on that same hill, then tore them up. How many of us got slotted into metaphors we never consented to?
“This trust includes provisions requiring the beneficiary to maintain distance from the Mercer name and to refrain from making public claims about her history,” Kwan says. “Is that correct?”
Alder objects again, but the judge overrules.
“She may answer,” he says.
Evelyn’s jaw tenses.
“There are confidentiality clauses,” she concedes. “Standard protections in many philanthropic arrangements.”
A soft sound escapes Riley—part scoff, part choked laugh.
“Standard my ass,” she whispers.
I squeeze her hand this time.
Kwan moves to the next exhibit.
“Mrs. Mercer, were you aware that certain adoption files at Harbor Glen Memorial were sealed or removed from general access during your tenure as foundation chair?” she asks.
“Sensitive cases are handled with extra care,” Evelyn replies. “Sealed records can protect children from stigma, particularly in small communities where everyone knows which yacht you grew up on and who your parents are.”
The courtroom chuckles politely at the yacht line. Harbor Glen’s hierarchy distilled in an easy joke. Don’t look too long at the kids who never made it onto any boat at all.
“You did know about sealed files,” Kwan presses.
Evelyn exhales through her nose.
“I was informed of categories,” she says. “Special cases. I trusted that the hospital’s legal and medical teams were following the law. My role was philanthropic, not operational.”
“And yet you signed off on foundation grants tied specifically to post-adoption ‘discretion services,’” Kwan says, flipping to another tabbed page. “Euphemism aside, those grants funded the very sealing processes under scrutiny. That’s not operational?”
Alder objects on argumentative grounds. The judge asks Kwan to rephrase. The dance continues, structured and exhausting, each answer pried out in increments rather than the blunt confession my body longs for.
Vindication arrives in crumbs: a “yes” here, a “correct” there, a “I was aware” that slides into the record despite her efforts to keep everything on a higher, more abstract moral plane. With each one, I feel a small internal ledger ticking upward. The same system that once scrubbed words from police reports is now writing hers down verbatim.
After nearly an hour, the judge raises a hand.
“We’re not trying the whole case today,” he repeats. “I have enough on this point.”
He turns to Alder.
“Counsel, do you wish to be heard on your motion to dismiss?” he asks.
Alder rises, smoothing his tie, and walks to the lectern with the easy confidence of a man who has talked judges out of trouble for wealthy clients his entire career.
“Your Honor, what you’ve heard this morning is a story,” he begins. “Tragic in parts, compelling in others, but still a story woven by disgruntled individuals and amplified by opportunistic media. At its core, the Mercer Foundation has poured millions into this community—funding NICU expansions, charity care, scholarships. The fact that one trust document uses unfortunate wording does not justify a fishing expedition through decades of sensitive medical records.”
He spreads his hands.
“If the state wants to address adoption law more broadly, they can lobby the legislature. Using this family as a wedge in the court of public opinion, then asking this court to rubber-stamp that crusade, is inappropriate. We renew our motion to dismiss.”
Kwan returns to the lectern without theatrics.
“No one disputes the hospital saved lives,” she says. “The question is whether, in the same halls, other lives were quietly rewritten without consent. Good deeds do not immunize bad acts. The Mercer name is on every donor wall from the NICU to the foundation lobby. It is also on a trust that paid for silence from a ‘second daughter’ tied to sealed adoption files the hospital cannot fully account for. That is more than an unfortunate wording choice. The state is not asking for a fishing expedition; we’re asking to follow a trail their own records have already started.”
The judge leans back, fingers steepled.
The silence stretches, filled with the rustling ghosts of paper, the faint hiss of the HVAC, the knowledge that whatever he says next will decide whether this becomes a footnote or a reckoning.
“This case raises serious questions,” he says at last. “Not only about individual actions, but about systemic practices at an institution entrusted with the most vulnerable moments of people’s lives.”
My shoulders sag an inch. Riley’s hand tightens in mine until our knuckles brush.
“The Mercer Foundation’s contributions to Harbor Glen are noted,” he continues. “So are the allegations that those same structures facilitated harm. Philanthropy is not a free pass. The motion to dismiss is denied.”
A sharp, involuntary breath escapes me. Someone behind us whispers, “Wow,” before the bailiff shoots another warning look.
“Furthermore,” the judge adds, “I am ordering an independent review of hospital and foundation records related to adoptions, neonatal deaths, and associated trusts for the past twenty-five years. Counsel will confer with my chambers regarding a special master to oversee that process. Production deadlines will be strict. Destroying or altering documents from this point forward will carry severe sanctions.”
On the stand, Evelyn’s fingers curl against the edge of the witness box. For the first time today, I see a crack: the slight blanching of her lips, the narrow flare of her nostrils. A woman who has spent decades bending institutions now hears one push back.
“We’ll set a status conference in six weeks,” Judge Martínez says. “Until then, this matter remains very much open.”
He raps his gavel once.
The noise in the room swells immediately—voices low but urgent, feet scraping, folders snapping shut. The bailiffs start shepherding people toward the aisles. Evelyn steps down from the stand, Alder leaning in to murmur something in her ear. Her face resets into its familiar marble, but the knowledge of what she just admitted is written into the transcript now, not just my memory.
Riley and I stand together.
“We’re really doing this,” she says, voice rough. “No easy out. No quiet settlement and a nice NDA bow.”
“We probably just made every partner at your old firm salivate,” I answer. “Twenty-five years of records? They’ll need a small army of associates to drown us in paper.”
A crooked grin tugs at her mouth.
“Let them drown us in proof,” she says. “Better than drowning in rumors.”
We shuffle toward the doors with the rest of the crowd. Through the high windows, I catch a glimpse of the town outside: the hill leading up toward Harbor Glen Memorial, the faint outline of the foundation wing’s glass, and, beyond that, a sliver of the harbor itself. Boats bob there, empty now that Light the Harbor is months behind us, their strings of lights long since packed away. The peninsula looks smaller from here, less like an untouchable kingdom and more like a place with roads in and out.
As we reach the hallway, our attorney falls into step beside us, phone already buzzing with messages.
“This was good,” she says. “Messy, but good. They can’t bury this quickly now.”
I nod, but my stomach knots.
“Good and long,” I say. “He just ordered them to open up an entire generation of records. That’s years.”
“You wanted systemic change,” Riley says quietly. “Systems move slow.”
The hallway smells faintly of copier toner and a trace of disinfectant from the restroom down the corridor—a diluted echo of the hospital’s stronger scent. The same tang that floated up from the hill outside the Mercer estate now meets me here, in a building where the rules don’t automatically tilt toward their crest.
“There’s something else,” our attorney adds. “With the independent review in motion, investigators will want to document any remaining physical records at the estate too—the home office, personal safes. They’ll need you to arrange access for them. And to collect what’s yours before things get sealed.”
The words land with a different kind of weight.
I picture the cliffside mansion: donor plaques, the locked cabinets in the office, Lydia’s memorial tree shivering in the winter wind. I left in a rush before; this time, I’ll be walking in not as their grateful daughter-in-law, but as a witness.
“So I have to go back,” I say.
Riley’s hand finds mine again.
“We’ll figure it out,” she says. “Maybe I go with you. Maybe Daniel. Maybe both.”
I nod, but my gaze drifts back toward the courtroom doors, where Evelyn stands for a moment in the doorway, surrounded by lawyers and staff, her silhouette framed by the seal of the state instead of the Mercer crest for once.
For twenty-two years, she curated which stories survived and which slipped off the edge of the cliff. Today, she swore hers under oath, and a judge ordered strangers to start turning over the rocks she buried.
The thought should feel like enough.
It doesn’t.
As we step out into the cold air, the wind carries a familiar mix of salt and woodsmoke from the harbor and a faint, sterile whiff from the hospital on the hill, twining together in my lungs. I have no idea what they’ll find in those boxes and servers, or what will be missing by the time we reach the estate—only that the next answers I need are waiting in a house that never wanted truth to walk back through its doors.