Chapter 293
Aria’s POV
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Then I straightened my shoulders, smoothed down my charcoal gray suit, and walked into the courtroom to face the man who'd murdered my mother.
The courtroom was packed. Every seat filled, standing room only at the back, the air thick with anticipation and the rustle of expensive clothing. I kept my eyes forward as I walked down the center aisle, refusing to look at the faces tracking my progress.
But I couldn't avoid seeing them forever.
My father sat at the defense table on the left, flanked by two lawyers who probably cost more per hour than most people made in a month. He'd lost weight since his arrest, his expensive suit hanging slightly loose on his frame. His hair, once distinguished silver, seemed grayer now, thinner. He looked... diminished. Human in a way he'd never allowed himself to appear when he'd ruled over Harper Group like a feudal lord over his fiefdom.
Victoria sat at the second defense table, her lawyers arranging documents with the kind of busy efficiency that probably meant they didn't have much of a defense. She'd maintained her appearance better—hair perfectly coiffed, makeup expertly applied, a demure navy dress that screamed innocent victim of circumstance.
But her eyes, when they met mine, were hard as flint. And in them, I saw no remorse. Only fury at being caught.
I took the witness stand, raised my right hand, swore to tell the truth. The prosecutor—a sharp-eyed woman named Katherine Reeves who specialized in high-profile cases—approached with a tablet and a smile meant to put me at ease.
It didn't work. But I appreciated the effort.
"Miss Harper," she began. "Can you state your relationship to Elizabeth Harper for the record?"
"She was my mother." My voice sounded stronger than I felt. Good.
"And can you tell the court about your mother's health in the months leading up to her death?"
I took a breath, forcing myself to remember. To be clinical. To treat my mother's suffering like evidence rather than the worst period of my life.
"She started getting sick about four months before she died," I said. "At first, it was just occasional nausea. She thought it was stress from work. But it got progressively worse—vomiting, severe abdominal pain, fatigue, hair loss. Her doctor diagnosed it as acute gastritis, possibly brought on by stress."
"Did her symptoms follow any particular pattern?"
I nodded. "They got worse after meals at home. She'd be fine when we ate out, or at my apartment. But whenever she ate something prepared at the family house..." I swallowed hard. "She'd be sick for hours afterward."
"Did she ever express suspicions about the cause of her illness?"
I pulled out my mother's journal—admitted as evidence weeks ago, but still difficult to hold. "She kept a diary in her final months. May I read from it?"
At the judge's nod, I opened to the page I'd bookmarked with trembling fingers.
"September 10th, 2021," I read aloud. "The nausea is unbearable again. I can't keep anything down. William brought me soup this morning—Victoria made it, he said, a special recipe to help settle my stomach. But an hour after eating it, I was violently ill. I'm starting to feel paranoid, but... why do I only get sick after eating food from her? Why does William insist I eat it when I'm clearly reacting badly? Unless...'" I paused, the next words sticking in my throat. "'Unless the illness isn't accidental. Unless someone wants me too weak to question what's happening to my company, my family, my life. But that's crazy. Isn't it?"
The courtroom was utterly silent.
"September 28th," I continued, flipping ahead. "'I don't think I'm crazy anymore. I think I'm being poisoned. I think—'" My voice broke. I couldn't read the next part. Couldn't say out loud what my mother had written in increasingly shaky handwriting about her suspicions, her fear, her desperate attempts to document what was happening to her in case she didn't survive.
Ms. Reeves took the journal gently from my hands. "Thank you, Miss Harper. That's enough."
She turned to address the jury, holding up the journal. "The defense will no doubt claim this was the paranoid delusion of a sick woman. But the medical examiner's report, conducted by independent pathologists at Miss Harper's request, tells a different story."
She pulled up a slide on the screen behind her. Medical terminology I barely understood, but the conclusion was clear enough: Chronic arsenic poisoning. Consistent with regular ingestion of small doses over approximately three to four months. Caused multi-organ failure culminating in cardiac arrest.
"The poison was administered slowly," Ms. Reeves continued. "Small enough doses that it mimicked natural illness. Subtle enough that the attending physicians at the time missed it. But the evidence is in Elizabeth Harper's tissues, her hair, her fingernails—everywhere that arsenic leaves its signature. She was murdered. And the question before this court is: who administered the poison?"
She turned back to me. "Miss Harper, did you recover any evidence pointing to the source of the arsenic?"
I nodded, pulling out my phone. "I found emails between Victoria Harper and Eugene Foster—the man she was having an affair with during my mother's illness. Mr. Foster worked for an agricultural chemical company. He had access to arsenic-based compounds."
The emails appeared on the screen. Cryptic messages about "handling the problem" and "the old way of dealing with competition." References to "packages" being delivered. And damning bank records showing Victoria had paid Eugene Foster nearly $200,000 in the year of my mother's death.
"Thank you, Miss Harper." Ms. Reeves returned to her seat, and I braced myself for the cross-examination.
But I never expected what happened next.
My father's lawyer stood, smoothing his tie with the kind of calculated precision that probably took years to perfect. "Your Honor, before we proceed with cross-examination, my client would like to make a statement."
The judge frowned. "This is highly irregular, Mr. Morrison."
"Nevertheless, Your Honor, my client insists."
A beat of tense silence. Then: "Very well. But keep it brief."
My father stood slowly, his chains—a requirement for murder defendants, even those out on bail—clinking softly. He turned not to the judge or jury, but to Victoria.
"This is your fault," he said flatly.
Victoria's head snapped up. "William—"
"You convinced me!" His voice rose, cracking with barely controlled fury. "You said Elizabeth would never let us be together. That she'd destroy me in the divorce, take Aria away, ruin everything I'd built. You said it was the only way!"
"I never—" Victoria stood, her face pale with shock. "Your Honor, this is a blatant attempt to—"
"You brought me the poison!" My father was shouting now, years of careful control shattering like glass. "You said it was untraceable, that no one would ever know! You put it in her food every single day, and you told me I was protecting our family!"
The courtroom erupted. Victoria's lawyer was on his feet, objecting strenuously. The judge hammered his gavel, demanding order. And in the middle of it all, Victoria and my father began screaming at each other, all pretense of dignity abandoned.
"You're the one who wanted her dead!" Victoria shrieked. "You're the one who said your life would be so much better without her! I was just—"
"—the one who put poison in her tea!" my father roared back. "The one who smiled at her funeral while knowing you'd killed her! The one who married me six months later like you'd been waiting for it!"
"I did it for you! For us! For Scarlett! So we could finally be a real family!"
"A family?! You're a murderer! A cold-blooded—"
The gavel came down with a force that shook the courtroom. "ENOUGH!"
The judge's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "Mr. Harper, Mrs. Harper, you will compose yourselves immediately or I will have you both removed and proceed in absentia. Do I make myself clear?"
They subsided, both breathing hard, glaring at each other with open hatred. Whatever alliance had once existed between them—whatever twisted love or mutual benefit—had just immolated itself in front of three dozen witnesses and a courtroom full of cameras.
I sat in the witness box, watching the implosion with a strange detachment. This was what I'd wanted, wasn't it? To destroy them. To make them pay for what they'd done to my mother, to me, to any chance at a normal life.
So why did I just feel... empty?