Seven Yellow Folders Exposed What My Parents Had Done to Ethan
“Room three’s at the top of the stairs,” he said.
“They got started five minutes ago.”
I climbed the wide marble steps, my boots ringing on the stone.
The second-floor hallway was hushed, lined with dark oak doors and framed portraits of past county judges.
Outside Courtroom Three, a wooden bench sat empty beneath a bronze wall sconce.
Ethan’s navy blue leather journal weighed heavy in my cargo pocket, pressing against my leg.
I stopped in front of the heavy double oak doors of Courtroom Three and listened.
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