Finn appeared at her elbow at some point, looked at the screen, and said, "That's a lot of people."
"Yes," Jade said, "it is."
He pulled a chair up beside her without asking and started reading over her shoulder. After a while, he said very quietly, "He did this to all of them?"
"Looks that way."
Finn did not say anything else; he just kept reading. And something in his face—something in the set of his jaw that looked so much like Derek—made her chest tighten, telling her he understood more than she had given him credit for.
She cooked dinner that evening. Nothing complicated: rice, chicken, the green beans Finn claimed to hate but always finished. She turned the television off and kept it off. No news cycle, no share counts, no comment sections. Just the two of them at the table with the window open, the warm evening air moving through the curtains, and Zeus and Ares settled on the kitchen floor in their usual spots.
Jade watched her son eat and thought about Derek—about what he would say if he were sitting in that empty chair right now. She could hear his voice so clearly; sometimes it almost hurt. Low and steady and certain, the way it always was when things got hard: "You handled it, Jade. Now let the rest take care of itself."
She almost smiled.
"Mom," Finn said, looking up, "are we going to be okay?"
She looked at him directly. She never lied to him, not once in 10 years. "We're going to be okay," she said.
He nodded once, serious and trusting, and went back to his green beans. They washed the dishes together after dinner: Finn washed, Jade dried. Nobody said much. The kitchen was warm and ordinary and safe, and Jade held on to that feeling with both hands.
Her phone buzzed on the counter later that morning. Marcus Hale calling, not texting. She looked at the screen. She knew that number; she knew the difference between a check-in call and a brace-yourself.
Marcus did not waste time. "Harlan is suing you," he said. "Filed this morning. I'm looking at the paperwork right now."
Jade sat down slowly at the kitchen table. The coffee in front of her had gone cold; she did not notice. "Tell me everything," she said.
"Civil suit. His claim is that your dogs created an unlawful, threatening situation and caused him emotional and physical distress. He's calling it menacing by use of dangerous animals." Marcus paused. "He's asking for $500,000 in damages."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"And the dogs?" she asked. She already knew; something in his voice had told her before he had said a single word.
"He's requesting permanent seizure." Another pause, shorter this time. "And euthanization of both animals."
Jade put her hand flat on the table. She pressed it down hard against the wood and breathed through her nose and did not say anything for five full seconds.
"Who's behind it?" she said.
"Councilman Bryce Caldwell. He's retained a top civil litigator for Harlan, no cost to Harlan personally. And Jade, there's more. Caldwell has been working the city attorney's office. There's a motion being fast-tracked to impound Zeus and Ares pending trial. If a judge grants it—"
"How long?"
"Days, maybe less."
She closed her eyes just for a moment. Then she opened them. "Fight every single motion," she said. "All of them. Whatever it takes."
"Already on it," Marcus said. "But I need you to stay off social media, stay away from the press, and let me work. Can you do that?"
"Yes. I'll call you this afternoon."
She sat at the table for a long time after she hung up. The house was still. Finn was upstairs; the dogs were in the backyard. She could hear the ordinary sounds of a morning, and they felt strange and far away, like sounds coming through a wall.
$500,000. Her dogs. Everything she had rebuilt.
She got up, washed her coffee mug, dried it carefully, and put it back in the cabinet. Then she went upstairs and knocked on Finn's door. He was lying on his bed reading a book, Zeus curled enormous and unbothered at his feet. He looked up when she came in and must have read something in her face, because he sat up immediately and put the book down.
Jade sat on the edge of the bed. She had always believed in telling him the truth. Not every detail, not always—he was 10 years old, and some things were hers to carry—but the shape of the truth, the honest shape of it.