Saturday, 10:47 PM
Channel 11 News Chicago was frozen on the living room television screen. The image was split into three panels: on the left, a photo of Liam Stone teaching a community art class, helping a child weld, his smile gentle; in the center, the fifteen-year-old wanted poster of Lucas Green, eyes brooding; on the right, a livestream screenshot of Harrison Walker being led away by the FBI at the charity gala.
The headline crawled across the bottom: "Community Hero or Cold-Blooded Killer? Millionaire Foundation Chairman Exposes Shocking Conspiracy."
"They used the word 'exposes,'" Sophia stood behind the sofa, her fingers digging into the upholstery. "As if Walker is some conscience-stricken confessor, not the architect of a fifteen-year conspiracy."
Liam sat on the carpet, sorting Emma's LEGO bricks. His movements were slow, each piece lifted with a half-second pause, as if relearning the physics of a simple task.
"Grammatically correct," he said. "Walker did confess."
"But the context is wrong!" Sophia turned off the TV. "They placed your photo next to a wanted poster. Even if the article says you're a victim, the visual already implies guilt. Do you know viewership studies show 70% of people only watch the images and don't read the text?"
Liam handed a blue block to Emma. The six-year-old didn't take it. She sat hugging her knees by the fireplace, staring at the dark screen.
"Emma?" Sophia knelt. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"
"Mrs. Martha wouldn't let me in today," Emma's voice was small. "She said her daughter has exams, no disturbances. But Lily was watching from the window. She was laughing."
Sophia closed her eyes. Liam's brain began analyzing: Mrs. Martha, 63, widowed, daughter Lily, 25, community college accounting student. For the past three years, Emma went to her house after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays until her parents finished work. Mrs. Martha charged fifteen dollars an hour.
Data point: Yesterday afternoon, Mrs. Martha called to offer the week free, "to thank Liam for his community contributions." Today: contact refused.
Variable change: media coverage.
Logical conclusion: social ostracism beginning.
"We can find new after-school care," Liam said.
"It's not about the care," Sophia pulled Emma close. "It's about her learning… how the world treats people who are 'different.'"
The doorbell rang.
Not a reporter—a Chicago PD patrol car was stationed outside, arranged by Mark. Not a neighbor—curtains twitched all down the street, but no one would visit at this hour.
Liam went to the window, lifted a slat of the blinds. Two people stood at the door: a middle-aged man in an inexpensive suit, a younger woman with recording equipment. Chicago Tribune press passes hung around their necks, but it wasn't Olivia Chase.
"The Tribune sent others," he said.
Sophia grabbed her jacket. "I'll handle it."
"Wait." Liam stopped her. "This time, I will."
11:03 PM
When the door opened, the older reporter took half a step back. Liam noted the detail—a fear response. They were afraid of him, or of who they imagined him to be.
"Mr. Stone, I'm Bob Miller, this is my colleague Jenny." The man raised his credentials. "We'd like to offer you a chance to respond. Olivia Chase's in-depth piece publishes tomorrow. We want a balanced perspective."
"Balanced perspective on what?" Liam's voice was steady as lab equipment.
Jenny pressed record. "Ms. Chase's article suggests you might… enjoy this game of dual identities. That the real victims are those you deceived, including your family."
The air seemed to drop two degrees.
Liam's brain analyzed the statement: the attack angle shifted from "is he a killer?" to "is he a deceiver?" Smarter, harder to refute. Because the emotional disorder was fact, the concealed past was fact, so "deception" was technically accurate.
"My wife knows everything about me," he said.
"Does she?" Bob stepped forward. "Does she know you kept the name Lucas Green? That you have passports under three identities? That in your studio basement—"
"Enough." Sophia appeared in the doorway, her badge catching the porch light. "You're now harassing a crime-related person's family. Under Illinois Criminal Code 720, Section 12, I can detain you for twenty-four hours for questioning. Want to test that?"
The reporters exchanged looks. Jenny stopped the recorder, but her phone camera light remained on—she was secretly filming.
Liam saw it. He calculated the angle, light, pixel resolution. Then he did something simple: stepped forward, blocking the camera's view of Sophia while fully exposing his own face to the lens.
"Get a clear shot," he said. "Because tomorrow you'll need to delete this footage and issue a written apology to my wife. Otherwise, my attorney will file civil suits for privacy violation and unlawful recording, damages no less than half a million. Need I remind you how much the Tribune has paid out in similar suits the past three years?"
Jenny's hand trembled. The phone screen went dark.
Bob tried to recover. "We're just trying to present the truth—"
"The truth is," Liam cut him off, "Harrison Walker confessed to murdering Professor Richard Green and framing me. The truth is, I have evidence placing me two thousand miles away. The truth is, your editor received formal correspondence from the FBI yesterday confirming I am a wrongful conviction victim. Yet you're here. Why? Because Olivia Chase wrote a compelling story?"
The reporters fell silent. In the distance, patrol car lights cast red and blue shadows on the street.
"Leave," Sophia said. "Next time, bring a subpoena."
After the door closed, she leaned against it, her shoulders finally slumping.
"Did you see?" she whispered. "That young reporter's expression… she truly believes you're a monster."
"Fear spreads more easily than facts," Liam walked toward the kitchen. "Tea? Chamomile, helps with sleep."
"Liam." Sophia caught his arm. "What are you feeling right now? Your real feelings, not an answer from your notes."
He stopped. The question was difficult because "feelings" needed to be felt, not analyzed. But he tried.
"I'm thinking…" he said slowly, "…if fifteen years ago, during my first interrogation, someone had defended me like this… maybe everything would be different."
Sophia's tears fell. No sound, just silent tracks.
Liam reached to wipe them away. His fingers registered the liquid's temperature, viscosity, surface tension. But he also sensed something else—an impulse to lessen her pain. Not a note entry, an instinct.
"We'll win this," he said. "Not because I'm innocent—though I am. But because you're my defense, and you're Chicago's best detective."
Emma peeked from the living room. "Dad, I can't find my dinosaur book."
"Which one?"
"The one about why dinosaurs died out," Emma said. "You said sometimes a whole species disappears, not because they did anything wrong, just… the world changed."
Liam and Sophia exchanged a glance. A child's metaphor, brutally accurate.
"The world is changing," Liam walked to his daughter, "but Dad won't disappear. I promise."
Sunday, 1:23 AM
Sophia's phone vibrated an hour after she'd fallen asleep. Mark Rosen.
"Sorry for the hour," his voice was hoarse. "Walker recanted."
Sophia sat up, switching on the bedside lamp. Liam awoke instantly—his sleep was light, like a wild animal's.
"Recanted? He confessed on live stream!"
"Claims it was a performance piece, forced by his son," Mark sighed. "Now he says he pretended to confess to protect Daniel. His lawyers are holding a press conference tomorrow. Say they have 'new evidence' placing Lucas Green in Boston at the time."
Liam took the phone, putting it on speaker. "What evidence?"
"Don't know. But Walker's legal team is Kingsley-Waters, the most expensive criminal defense firm in the country. They won't come empty-handed."
Sophia rubbed her temples. "The DNA evidence? The third person's DNA in the lab?"
"Walker says it belonged to a lab assistant who died three years ago." Mark paused. "Worse… Olivia Chase visited the prison this afternoon. Two-hour private meeting with Walker. She has a book launch tomorrow."
"A book? Already?"
"Says she's been investigating this case secretly for three years," Mark's voice held suppressed anger. "Title: The Perfect Monster: The Making of a Killer Who Couldn't Cry. Leaked chapter summaries… she portrays Liam as a sociopathic genius using his emotional disorder as perfect cover."
Liam got out of bed, walked to the window. The street was empty, but distant headlights moved slowly—media surveillance vans.
"Mark," he said, "I need you to check someone for me."
"Who?"
"Professor Richard Green's lab assistant. All related records."
"Already did," Mark said. "Assistant was Michael Chen, died 2019, pancreatic cancer. But… his sister is still alive, lives in San Francisco. She contacted the FBI yesterday, said her brother left an envelope marked 'Open only if I die unexpectedly.' She never opened it, until seeing the news."
Liam's fingers tapped lightly on the window glass—an unconscious gesture when thinking, twice per second.
"What's in it?"
"Don't know. She insists on a female agent to retrieve it, doesn't trust local police." Mark said. "Sophia, I want you to go. You're the only person in this case she might trust."
"Me?" Sophia frowned. "I'm Liam's wife. She should trust me least."
"Exactly," Mark said. "If you go, it proves the FBI isn't hiding anything. And… Liam needs you out of Chicago for a few days."
"Why?"
"Because tomorrow will be bad," Mark's voice was grave. "Olivia's book launch, Walker's press conference, and… I got word some Walker Foundation beneficiaries are moving. They don't want the full protector list exposed."
Sophia looked at Liam. In the moonlight, his profile was like a sculpture, expressionless, but his eyes moved rapidly—calculating risks.
"You go to San Francisco," Liam said. "I'll handle things here."
"No. You need a lawyer, you need—"
"I have a lawyer. You connected me with Ms. Jenkins, remember? Meeting tomorrow at nine." Liam turned. "And Emma needs protection. If those 'beneficiaries' want to pressure me, my daughter is the easiest target."
Sophia's heart skipped. She hadn't considered that layer.
"I'll arrange protection," Mark said. "FBI has witness protection resources. Emma can be placed in a safe house temporarily."
"No," Liam and Sophia said simultaneously.
They looked at each other. Sophia continued, "She can't go to a strange place alone. She'd be terrified."
"Then together," Liam said. "Sophia, take Emma to San Francisco. Officially a family trip; actually you retrieve the evidence. I'll stay, deal with media and legal proceedings."
The plan was nearly perfect—except for one flaw.
"If you stay alone," Sophia said softly, "they'll tear you apart."
Liam walked to the bed, took her hand. His hand was steady, dry, warm.
"Fifteen years ago, when I faced this alone, I ran," he said. "This time I won't. Because this time I'm not alone—I have you, even if you're not in this room."
Sophia's tears welled again. This time Liam didn't wipe them; he just watched, like a scientist observing a rare phenomenon.
"Are tears always from sadness?" he asked.
"No," Sophia choked out a laugh. "From… pride. My husband finally learned to say romantic things, even such clumsy ones."