Chapter 37 Meeting the Families

Chapter 37 Meeting the Families
Amelia Noah POV

The private conference room in Andreas's office feels too small for this much grief. Eight families. Eight murdered women. One survivor who doesn't know why she was chosen to live instead of die.
Andreas stands at the door like a sentinel. "They've all requested to meet you individually. You don't have to do this. You can say no."
"I need to do this." My voice is steadier than I feel. Kate sits beside me, silent support. "They deserve to meet me. To know I'm real. That someone survived him."
"Ten minutes each family. If it's too much, signal me and I'll end it." Andreas's face is professional compassion—he's done this before, mediated between survivors and victims' families, navigated the complicated terrain of shared trauma. "Ready?"
I'm not. But I nod anyway.
Sophie Laurent's mother enters first. She's elderly, French, dressed in black like she's attending a funeral that never ends. Her eyes find mine and fill with tears immediately.
"Mademoiselle Noah." She crosses the room, takes my hands in hers. Her grip is strong despite her age. "Thank you. Thank you for living. Thank you for fighting. Thank you for making them believe my Sophie was murdered."
Her English is broken but her meaning is crystal clear. "The police—they said accident. Said she drank too much, fell, hit her head. They didn't believe me when I said someone killed her. But you—you proved it. You gave my daughter justice."
My throat closes. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
"Don't be sorry. Be alive. Keep being alive. That's what she would want." Sophie's mother squeezes my hands once more, then releases them. As she leaves, she whispers: "You have her courage. I see it."
I'm still processing that when Carmen Rodriguez's sister enters. She's younger than me—maybe twenty-eight, beautiful, radiating barely controlled fury. She doesn't sit. Just stands across the table, arms crossed, eyes burning.
"Why you?" Her voice is sharp. "Why did you get to survive when my sister didn't? What makes you special?"
The question I've asked myself every night since June. "I don't know."
"That's not good enough." Carmen's sister—I don't even know her name—leans forward. "My sister was smarter than you. Stronger. She spoke four languages. She ran marathons. She had her whole life planned out. And she's dead. You're alive. Why?"
Kate starts to intervene but I stop her. This woman deserves her anger.
"You're right," I say quietly. "Carmen was probably smarter, stronger, better than me in every way. I survived because of luck and paranoia and because I had people I called when things felt wrong. Not because I deserved it more. Just because."
"Just because." She laughs bitterly. "My sister is dead 'just because.' And you get to write a book. Get to be famous. Get to profit from her murder."
"I'm donating fifty percent of proceeds to victim advocacy—"
"I don't want your money." But her voice cracks. The fury breaks into grief. "I want my sister back. I want to call her and tell her about my day. I want her to meet my daughter who was born three months after she died. I want—"
She sobs. Andreas moves to comfort her but she waves him off, straightens, wipes her eyes with angry efficiency.
"Make them understand," she says to me. "In that courtroom. Make them understand she was a person. Not a victim. Not a statistic. Carmen. Her name was Carmen and she was loved."
"I will," I promise. "I swear I will."
After she leaves, I'm shaking. Kate hands me water. I drink, try to compose myself. There are six more families to go.
Isabella Chen's parents enter together, moving in perfect synchronization that speaks of decades of marriage. They're formal, composed, carrying a small velvet box.
"Miss Noah." Isabella's father speaks in careful English. "Our daughter mentioned jade bracelet in her last email. Said it brought her luck. We want you to have it. Wear it when you testify. So Isabella is there too."
He opens the box. The bracelet is delicate, pale green, clearly expensive. Clearly loved.
"I can't—this is too precious—"
"You honor our daughter by wearing it." Isabella's mother's voice is firm. "She would want it on wrist of woman who survived. Who fights for justice. Please."
I let them fasten it around my wrist. The jade is cool against my skin. I think about Isabella—thirty-one years old, financial analyst, daughter who emailed her parents about lucky bracelets. Dead in a Rome hotel room.
"Thank you," I whisper. "I'll wear it. I promise."
They bow slightly and leave. The bracelet feels like a responsibility. A weight. A promise I have to keep.
Ana Kowalski's husband is next. He's Polish, maybe forty, eyes hollow like he hasn't slept since December 2023. He carries a photo album.
"This is wedding," he says in heavily accented English. "Prague, 2021. We married two years before she—before he—" He can't finish. Just opens the album, shows me photos of Ana in white dress, laughing, dancing, kissing this man who loved her.
"She text me night she died. Said she met photographer. Said he was teaching her about light and shadow. I said 'be careful.' She said 'don't worry, he's professional.'" His voice breaks. "Last thing I said to her was 'I love you.' Last thing she said was 'I know.'"
I look at the photos—Ana alive, vibrant, loved. "She was beautiful."
"She was everything." He closes the album. "You make them see that. Not just body. Not just victim. Ana. Person. Wife. She was mine."
After he leaves, I can barely breathe. Kate's hand finds mine. "You can stop. You don't have to meet them all—"
"Yes, I do."
Grace Murphy's brother is former prosecutor, mid-forties, sharp suit, the kind of man who understands courtrooms as battlefields. He sits across from me with professional assessment.
"Miss Noah. I've reviewed your deposition. Your testimony will be solid—you're well-prepared, credible, compelling." His voice is clinical. "But Pemberton is excellent at creating doubt. He'll attack your timeline, your recording, your motivations. Don't let him bait you into emotional responses. Stay factual."
"Andreas has been coaching me—"
"Good. Andreas is one of the best. But I want you to understand something." He leans forward. "My sister called me the night before she died. Said a man at her hotel was 'intense but interesting.' I told her to trust her instincts. She said her instincts told her he was harmless. I should have insisted she leave. I should have—" He stops, composes himself. "I'm a prosecutor. I know how predators work. And I missed it. Because she sounded happy. So you testify for both of us—for Grace, and for me who failed to protect her."
"You didn't fail—"
"I did. And now I live with that. But you can give her justice. Don't fail her. Please."
He leaves before I can respond. The weight keeps accumulating. Every family adds another layer.
Lucia Moretti's daughter enters—sixteen years old, dark hair, the kind of beautiful that promises heartbreak. She's trying to be brave but her hands shake.
"I'm Giuliana," she says softly. "Lucia's daughter. I was fourteen when... when it happened."
"I'm so sorry—"
"Everyone's sorry. Sorry doesn't bring her back." But there's no anger in her voice. Just exhaustion. "I need to know something. Did he—did she suffer? When he killed her. Did it hurt?"
The question every family probably wants to ask but most don't. I think about the medical examiner's reports Andreas shared. Strangulation. Not instantaneous but relatively fast. Thirty seconds to unconsciousness. Two minutes to death.
I lie. Kindly.
"I don't think so. I think it was fast. I don't think she suffered long."
Giuliana's eyes close. Relief. "Thank you. I needed to hear that."
"Your mother loved you very much. That's in every victim impact statement. Every email her friends shared. You were her whole world."
"And he took her from me. I had to learn about periods from school nurse. I went to junior prom without her. Every milestone is a reminder she's not there." Giuliana straightens. "But I'm here. In that courtroom. Every day. I want him to see me. I want him to know I'm Lucia's daughter and I haven't forgotten."
After she leaves, I have to take a break. Escape to the bathroom, splash water on my face, stare at myself in the mirror. The jade bracelet glints at my wrist. Eight families. Eight loves destroyed.
Kate finds me. "One more, then you're done. Can you do one more?"
"Yes."
Mei Zhang's father enters last. He's elderly, Chinese, speaks no English. Andreas translates as he speaks in Mandarin—quiet, dignified, grieving in a language I can't understand but feel in my bones.
Andreas translates: "He says thank you for testifying even though his daughter's verdict was not guilty. He says everyone knows the truth. He says he respects your courage."
Mei's father approaches me. Bows deeply—a formal gesture of profound respect. I don't know the etiquette, so I bow back clumsily. He says something else in Mandarin.
Andreas translates: "He says Mei would have liked you. That you have the same fire. He gives you his blessing."
Then he's gone, leaving silence and the weight of eight families' grief pressed into my chest.
Nina Petrov's best friend is the last to enter—she's not family, but Andreas allowed it because Nina's parents couldn't travel from Russia. She's late twenties, blonde, carrying her phone like evidence.
"I'm Katerina. Nina's roommate in Amsterdam." Her accent is thick. "I need to show you something."
She pulls up text messages. The last conversation she had with Nina, June 2020:
Nina: Met someone amazing today. British photographer. So charming.
Katerina: Careful. You always fall too fast.
Nina: This is different. He SEES me. Really sees me.
Katerina: Where are you meeting him?
Nina: His hotel. He's showing me his portfolio.
Katerina: Nina, that's not safe—
Nina: Stop worrying. I think I'm falling in love.
That was the last message. Six hours later, Nina was dead.
"She texted 'I think I'm falling in love,'" Katerina whispers. "Those were her last words to me. And I didn't save her. I told her to be careful but I didn't—I should have—"
"You couldn't have known—"
"But she told me. She told me she was going to his hotel. I should have called police. Should have gone there myself. Should have—" Katerina's sobbing now. "She thought she was falling in love and he was planning her murder."
I take her hands. We cry together—two women connected by David's violence, by Nina's death, by the impossible burden of survival and witness.
"I'll tell them," I promise. "I'll tell the jury that she trusted him. That she thought it was love. That she had a friend who cared about her and last words that were hopeful. I'll make them see Nina as a person who deserved to fall in love safely."
Katerina hugs me fiercely. "Thank you. Thank you for surviving. For fighting. For speaking for all of them."
After they're all gone, I sit in the empty conference room with Kate and Andreas. The jade bracelet weights my wrist. The responsibility weighs my chest.
"That was brutal," Andreas says quietly. "Are you okay?"
"No. But I understand now." I look at him. "This isn't about me. It was never about me. It's about Sophie and Nina and Mei and Grace and Lucia and Ana and Carmen and Isabella. It's about families who loved them. It's about Giuliana growing up without her mother and Katerina living with last text messages and all of them needing someone to stand up and say: these women mattered."
"Yes," Andreas says simply. "That's exactly what it is."
As we're leaving, Carmen's sister appears in the hallway. She's composed now, the fury transformed into determination.
"Miss Noah. Wait."
I stop. She approaches, lowering her voice.
"He's been sending me letters. From prison. Love letters, like we're dating. Telling me he understands my pain, that he grieves Carmen too, that we're connected by loss." Her face is disgusted. "He's still playing games. Still trying to manipulate. Still hunting."
My blood chills. "Did you report them?"
"Every single one. But they keep coming. New handwriting each time—he's having other prisoners write them for him. Different return addresses. He's persistent." She grips my arm. "Don't let him play games with you in that courtroom. He'll try. He'll look at you and smile and try to make you remember the version of him you fell for. Don't let him."
"I won't."
"Promise me. Because if you break on that stand, eight women died for nothing. And I can't—we can't—" Her voice cracks. "Please don't break."
"I promise. I won't break."
She nods once. Releases my arm. Walks away with the dignity of someone carrying unbearable grief.
Kate and I leave through the back entrance. The drive back to the hotel is silent. What is there to say? How do you process that much love, that much loss, that much responsibility?
Back in our suite, I stand on the balcony wearing Isabella's jade bracelet, thinking about Nina's last text message: I think I'm falling in love.
Tomorrow is jury selection. In three days, I testify.
I carry eight women with me now. Eight loves destroyed. Eight families depending on my testimony.
The weight should crush me.
Instead, it makes me stronger.
Because I'm not just speaking for myself anymore.
I'm speaking for all of them.
And I will not fail.