For the first time, Charlotte felt something new when she looked at him. Not fear. Not anger, but pure, cold hatred.
Ward leaned back, exhaling a satisfied breath. “But what do I know?” he mused. “I’m just an artist.”
Charlotte pushed away from the table abruptly, knocking the chair back as she stood.
Graham called out to her, “Charlotte?” He moved to follow her.
The door opened, their captain waiting outside. She refused to let her hands shake. She refused to let his words get inside her head. She refused to let him win.
But as they walked away, Gideon Ward’s final words followed them out the door: “They do, though.”
Charlotte turned back. “Who?” she demanded.
Ward only smiled. “You’ll see.”
Charlotte swallowed her breath, standing alone in the corridor. Ward figured out she was expecting—that was the risk he spoke about. But his final words chilled her to the core. There was something more.
Something was already in motion. And Gideon Ward was not the only one involved.
TWENTY-TWO WEEKS LATER
The courtroom was silent, thick with anticipation. The only sounds were the occasional creak of wooden benches and the hushed breaths of those waiting for the verdict.
It took four months before the case went to trial. Gideon’s legal team stalled as much as they could. By the time jury selection began, Charlotte’s pregnancy was unmistakable. She sat near the front, hands resting in her lap. Her baby pressed against her ribs, making it harder to sit still. She was thirty-four weeks along now, and there was no hiding it.
Graham sat beside her, his quiet strength holding her up. The trial had stretched on for months—eight weeks of grueling testimony, forensic analysis, and the haunting accounts of victims who could no longer speak for themselves.
She had refused to take leave. Even when her husband, Chuck, begged her to slow down. Even when her captain insisted. Even when he threatened to report her for overworking herself.
She and Graham had built this case. Charlotte wasn’t going to sit back while a man like Gideon Ward walked free.
The bailiff stepped forward. “All rise.”
The judge took his seat, face unreadable. The jury filed in, tense and solemn. No one looked at Ward. That was Charlotte’s first sign it was over.
The foreman unfolded the verdict form. “In the case of the State of South Dakota versus Dr. Gideon Ward, on the charge of aggravated home invasion, we find the defendant guilty.”
Charlotte let out a slow breath.
“On the charge of unlawful restraint: guilty.”
“On the charge of torture: guilty.”
“On the charge of felony stalking: guilty.”
“On the charge of first-degree attempted murder: guilty.”
A murmur rippled through the courtroom. Victims’ families clutched each other’s hands. A woman behind her let out a choked sob.
Charlotte exhaled, gripping the edge of the wooden bench. Graham placed a hand on her shoulder.
Gideon Ward sat perfectly still. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. He simply folded his hands in his lap, waiting.
The judge leaned forward. “Mr. Ward, you have been found guilty on all counts. Sentencing will commence immediately.”
Charlotte didn’t look at him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She looked at the victims’ families instead. This was for them.
The prosecution had been relentless in proving that Ward wasn’t just a man who invaded homes—he invaded minds. His methods weren’t about control or power. They were about the destruction of human will.
