I looked down at the man I had spent six years supporting, believing in, defending to my own family — the man who had let his mother strike me an hour ago, who had tried to bury a dead child under my daughter’s name — and I searched myself for something, some old loyalty, some pity, some grief for what we had been.

I found nothing.

Nothing but a clean, cold, bottomless disgust.

“Keep your money, Luke,” I said.

And I stepped past him, over his outstretched hand, as the officers lifted him back to his feet.

“You’re going to need every penny of it,” I said, without looking back, “for your defense team.”