Brynn stood in Lena Hart’s apartment, the cold light of the laptop casting sharp shadows across the forensic accountant’s face.

The federal courtroom was packed to capacity. Flashbulbs flickered outside as high-profile reporters covered the final chapter of the Sutherland collapse. The once-untouchable family name had become a cautionary tale taught in business schools across the state.

Brynn sat in the front row of the gallery, wearing a sharp, tailored navy pantsuit. Beside her sat Lena, offering a reassuring squeeze of her hand.

When the judge entered, the courtroom fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.

The trial had been swift. The evidence compiled by Brynn and Lena was so airtight, so mathematically and legally flawless, that the defense had been forced to enter a plea of no contest on all counts of fraud, embezzlement, and forgery.

“On the counts of corporate fraud, tax evasion, and grand larceny against the state and private entities,” Judge Harris announced, his voice echoing off the mahogany walls, “this court sentences Weston Sutherland to twelve years in a federal penitentiary with no eligibility for parole for the first eight years.”

Weston, sitting at the defense table with his head bowed low in his hands, let out a ragged, muffled gasp.

“And for co-conspiracy, embezzlement of charitable trusts, and obstruction of justice,” Judge Harris continued, turning his gaze toward the defense table where Marguerite sat slumped in a wheelchair due to a sudden stress-induced medical flare-up, “Marguerite Sutherland is sentenced to eight years in federal custody.”

The gavel slammed down with a sharp, echoing crack.

Clack.