I got the lab results from Grace on Thursday night and, honestly, I almost laughed when I read them.
Gamma-hydroxybutyrate.
GHB.
Colorless. Nearly undetectable after a short window. Not part of standard toxicology screens unless you specifically look for it.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the report, a slow grin pulling at the corner of my mouth.
"Well, look at that," I muttered. "You might not be completely insane after all, Raymond."
If I could bring this into arraignment—if I could even hint at it on record—it changed things. It introduced doubt. It cracked the prosecution's clean little narrative. A man who was drugged doesn't act with intent. And without intent? Their case wasn't as pretty anymore.
By the time morning came, I was already dressed and out the door earlier than usual. I even stopped by a ridiculously overpriced chocolatier on the way, because apparently I was the kind of man who rewarded clients for lying to me with luxury sweets now. I also picked up a full suit for him.
I mean... three hundred and fifty thousand dollars buys a lot of patience.
The bank had already confirmed the deposit was in process. Seven to fourteen business days before it fully cleared. I could wait. I had survived worse things than delayed gratification, though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't already thinking about adding another vintage watch to my collection. Maybe a Patek this time. Something subtle. Expensive in a way that only other rich people notice.
By the time I walked into the courthouse, I was in a suspiciously good mood. Which, given the circumstances, probably meant something terrible was about to happen.
I checked in, got cleared, and was led to one of the private rooms where they brought in detainees before hearings. A guard escorted Raymond in a few minutes later, then left us alone without a word.
I looked him over once.
"Sixty dollars and eight cents, huh?" I said, holding up the bag casually.
He barely reacted. Just a brief glance at me before his attention shifted immediately to what I was carrying.
"That for me?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, tossing the bag onto the table. "That. And put this on."
I pulled out the suit and slid it across to him. He didn't thank me. He just grabbed the chocolate first, tore it open and started chewing while inspecting the suit.
I leaned back against the wall, crossed my arms, watching him like he was some kind of experiment that had gone slightly wrong.
"So," I said lightly, "turns out you're secretly related to Scrooge McDuck or something?"
He shot me a sharp look as he stood and started changing.
"Just do your job," he said flatly, adjusting the shirt before pulling on the trousers.
I exhaled slowly, pushing off the wall. "Oh, I am. In fact, I've been doing it pretty well."
That got a pause out of him.
"You were drugged," I added.
No reaction.
"GHB," I continued. "Explains the blackout. Explains why you don't remember anything. Explains a lot, actually."
He bit into the chocolate again.
Still nothing.
I frowned slightly. "You hear me, right? Someone put something in your system. That's not exactly a small detail."
Raymond adjusted the sleeves, rolling them once before glancing at himself like the mirror in his head mattered more than the words coming out of my mouth.
"Okay," he said.
I blinked.
"Okay?" I repeated. "That's it? That's your response?"
He shrugged lightly, still chewing. "What do you want me to say?"
I let out a short breath, half laugh, half disbelief. "I don't know. Maybe 'who did it?' Maybe 'how?' Maybe some mild concern that you were unconscious while laying next to a decapitated body?"
He finally looked at me properly then.
"I already told you," he said. "I don't remember."
"That's not the point," I snapped, a little sharper than I intended. "The point is someone did that to you. That gives us something. That gives us a direction."
He held my gaze for a second longer, then looked away, reaching for another piece of chocolate.
"Or," he said quietly, "it doesn't matter."
I stared at him.
"That's… not how this works," I said.
He shrugged again, slipping into the trousers like we were discussing a minor inconvenience instead of the thing that could keep him out of prison.
"Then make it work," he replied.
I let out a slow breath through my nose, shaking my head slightly.
Unbelievable.
Twenty minutes later, I stepped into the courtroom and took my seat beside Raymond. Evelyn was already there, standing at the prosecution table, flipping through her files with that calm, controlled focus I'd come to hate. A few seconds later, the doors opened again. Members of the public, a couple of reporters, and then the victim's family. Their faces were tight, eyes sharp, all of it directed at one person.
Raymond.
Meanwhile Cooper slipped in not long after, taking a seat behind the prosecution. He didn't look at me and I didn't look at him either. We both knew we would eventually.
Then the room shifted.
"All rise."
Everyone stood as Judge George Winchester entered, robes flowing, expression unreadable as ever. He took his seat, adjusted slightly, and gave a short nod.
"Be seated." George glanced down at the file in front of him. "State versus Raymond Gilmore."
Evelyn stepped forward without hesitation. "Ready for the People, Your Honor."
I didn't rush. Just stood when needed. "Defense is ready."
George nodded once. "Proceed."
Evelyn turned slightly, her voice clear and controlled, carrying just enough weight to reach every corner of the room.
"On the night of December thirty-first," she began, "the defendant, Raymond Gilmore, entered the residence of the victim, Elena Vance, located at West 94th Street."
"He was last seen exiting the apartment covered in blood, as confirmed by eyewitness testimony and surveillance footage."
I felt Raymond shift slightly beside me.
"Upon investigation, officers discovered the victim's body inside the apartment. The victim had been decapitated. Further forensic analysis confirmed signs of severe physical assault prior to death." Evelyn continued.
A murmur rippled faintly through the room before dying just as quickly but she didn't stop.
"The weapon believed to have been used—a serrated hunting blade—was later recovered from beneath the driver's seat of the defendant's vehicle. The blade tested positive for the victim's blood."
There it was.
"And," she added, voice sharpening just slightly, "the victim's head was found in the trunk of that same vehicle."
Evelyn closed her folder with a soft motion. "The People will demonstrate that the defendant acted with intent, with brutality, and with full awareness of his actions."
She stepped back.
George nodded once, then shifted his attention toward us. "Defense?"
I stood slowly, smoothing my jacket out of habit.
"Your Honor," I began, "before any plea is entered, the defense would like to submit preliminary findings relevant to the defendant's condition at the time of the alleged offense."
Evelyn's eyes flicked toward me, irritation already forming.
George raised a hand slightly. "Go on."
I reached into my folder and pulled out the report, placing it carefully on the table before stepping forward just enough to bridge the distance.
"Independent toxicology results," I said. "Authorized by this court."
That got a reaction from almost everyone in this room.
"Analysis indicates the presence of gamma-hydroxybutyrate—GHB—in the defendant's system."
"GHB is a central nervous system depressant," I continued, "It can induce unconsciousness, memory loss, and severe impairment of cognitive function. It is not included in standard toxicology panels and requires specific testing to detect."
George leaned forward slightly, his eyes moving across the document now in front of him, so I pressed on.
"This finding directly supports the defendant's statement that he has no recollection of the events in question. More importantly, it raises serious concerns regarding his capacity to form intent."
Evelyn stepped forward immediately. "Your Honor, the prosecution objects to the implication—"
"I am not implying," I cut in, not raising my voice but sharpening it just enough. "I'm stating a medically supported fact."
George lifted a hand again, stopping her.
"Let him finish."
I inclined my head slightly before continuing.
"The defense is not, at this time, entering into argument," I said. "We are placing this information on record. Because whatever happened that night—" I paused. "—it is no longer as simple as the prosecution would like it to be."
George looked between us, then down at the report once more.The silence stretched just a second longer before George set the report down, his fingers resting on top of it like he was weighing more than paper.
"Noted," he said finally. "The court acknowledges the submission of the independent toxicology report. Its relevance will be addressed in due course."
Evelyn didn't look pleased. And now George's attention shifted again, this time directly to Raymond.
"Mr. Gilmore," he said, voice steady, formal. "Please stand."
Raymond rose beside me. If anything, he looked… detached. Like he was attending someone else's hearing.
George studied him for a brief moment. "State your full name for the record."
"Raymond Gilmore."
"Do you understand the charges that have been brought against you?"
"Yes."
"Have you discussed these charges with your attorney?"
A beat.
Raymond didn't look at me.
"Yes."
George nodded once. Then came the question that mattered.
"How do you plead?"
There it was.
The room held its breath.
I turned my head slightly toward him, just enough to catch his profile. "Raymond," I said quietly, low enough that only he could hear, "we are not doing anything stupid today."
For a split second, nothing. Then, "…Guilty."
The word dropped into the room like a stone and everything shifted.
"What?!" I snapped under my breath, turning fully toward him now. "No. No, that's not—"
"Mr. Gilmore," George interrupted, "you are entering a plea of guilty to all charges?"
"Yes."
Evelyn didn't even try to hide the flicker of satisfaction that crossed her face.
I stepped forward immediately. "Your Honor, I need a moment with my client—"
George ignored me.
"Mr. Gilmore," he continued, his eyes locked onto Raymond, "are you entering this plea voluntarily?"
"Yes."
"Has anyone coerced or threatened you into making this plea?"
"No."
"Do you understand that by pleading guilty, you are waiving your right to a trial?"
"Yes."
Each answer came out flat, like he'd rehearsed it.
I felt my jaw tighten. "Raymond," I hissed, leaning in closer, "this is not strategy, this is suicide."
He didn't even look at me.
George leaned back slightly, studying him, then glanced briefly at me before returning his focus.
"The court will not accept a plea of this magnitude without ensuring the defendant fully understands the consequences," he said. "Mr. Gilmore, you are facing charges that carry severe penalties, including life imprisonment without parole. Do you understand that?"
"Yes."
"Do you still wish to plead guilty?"
Another pause, but longer this time. For a second—just a second—I thought he might take it back.
Might being the important word.
"Yes."
I exhaled slowly, stepping back, running a hand over my face as the weight of it settled in.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
George remained silent for a moment, then gave a short nod.
"The plea is… noted. The court will reserve acceptance pending further review, given the circumstances raised by the defense."
Not accepted. Not yet. But close enough to feel like the ground was already cracking.
George glanced down at his notes. "The defendant will remain in custody. A further hearing will be scheduled to determine next proceedings."
His gaze lifted one last time, briefly landing on me.
"Court is adjourned."
The gavel came down. And just like that, everything I'd built in the last seventy-two hours started falling apart.