Caroline.
For a split second it wasn’t Sylva at all.
It was Charleston.
Lights too bright. Microphones too close.
Strangers saying her name like they already knew who she was. Like they’d tried her, judged her, and decided the verdict before she ever opened her mouth.
Reid moved instantly.
His body stepped between Eleanor and the lights.
Calm. Controlled. Protective.
“Interview’s over,” he said evenly.
A woman leaned around him with a microphone.
“Mr. Calloway, as district attorney do you think it’s appropriate for a defense attorney involved in a missing woman case to be?—”
Reid looked at her.
She stopped mid-sentence.
“You’re trespassing,” he said. “Back up. Now.”
Another reporter pushed forward.
“Do you believe Mercer is a suspect?”
Reid didn’t raise his voice.
But there was steel in it.
“The Jackson County Sheriff’s Office conducts investigations.”
A beat.
“Not crowd-sourced guessing games.”
A third voice shouted.
“Ms. Harper, is it true you specialize in defending men accused of harming women?”
That one landed harder.
The question hit like Charleston all over again. Headlines. Comment sections. Men on television saying her name like they knew her. She felt something inside her crack—not because it was true, but because she knew how fast people could decide it was true—and never question it again.
Reid shifted slightly, shielding her from the lights.
“You’re done.”
Two words.
The tone carried the quiet authority of someone used to controlling a courtroom.
The reporters hesitated.
