The Billionaire They Buried

Chapter 9: Isabella Visits

The officer led me through a series of hallways without a word, and I spent the walk guessing who was waiting for me. Benjamin? Someone from the board? A reporter looking for a quote? When we stopped outside the visitation room, he unlocked the door. "Your lawyer is here."

A woman stood the moment I stepped in — early thirties, a navy-blue pantsuit, a few files already arranged on the table in front of her. She looked calm. Confident. Nothing about her suggested she was nervous to defend a man the whole country had already decided was a murderer.

"Mr. Ethan Hayes." She offered her hand.

"You must be Isabella Carter." Her handshake was firm.

"Please, sit." The officer closed the door and left us alone, and for a few seconds she just looked at me. "You look exhausted."

"I haven't slept much."

"I didn't expect you to." She opened the file in front of her. "I've spent most of the night reading everything about your case."

"And?"

"If I only looked at the headlines, I Would probably have believed you were guilty." and looked away. "So would everyone else," I said. "But I don't build cases from headlines," she said. "I build them from facts." It was the first thing anyone had said since my arrest that made me feel like I still had a chance.

"Benjamin Brooks contacted me yesterday."

"I figured."

"He told me Charles Hayes trusted you completely. He also warned me that taking your case would make me some powerful enemies."

"And yet you're here."

"I've never been very good at walking away from difficult cases."

"Why choose me? There are hundreds of lawyers in New York."

"There are. Guilty people usually spend their first meeting trying to convince me they're innocent." I frowned. "And I didn't?" "You didn't. You spent most of your time trying to understand what happened."

I hadn't even realized that about myself. "Whether you're innocent or not isn't something I decide in a single meeting," she admitted, "but I do know something about this case doesn't fit."

"What do you mean?"

She opened another file and counted off on her fingers. "The poison. The vial. The security footage. The fact that you were alone with your grandfather. They think that's enough."

"They're hoping it's enough," I said.

She slid a document across the table. "I requested copies of the preliminary forensic reports this morning. The report confirms your grandfather died from poison — but it doesn't tell us when the poison entered his system."

"What do you mean? Everyone assumes it was in the wine he drank at dinner."

"Maybe. Maybe not." She folded her arms. "If the poison entered his body before dinner, the timeline changes. And if the timeline changes, so do the suspects."

My heart started beating faster. No one had raised that possibility before — for the first time, I could see an actual crack in the case against me. "I've also asked for the full toxicology report," she said.

"You think they'll give it to you?"

"They'll try not to."

"And if they refuse?"

"Then I'll make sure a judge orders them to." Benjamin had been right about her — she wasn't afraid of a fight. She closed the file and looked at me directly. "Now it's your turn. I need you to tell me everything."

"I already have."

"No. You've told me the version you're comfortable sharing. I can tell you're holding something back." My hand moved toward my pocket before I could stop it — an old reflex for a key that wasn't there anymore, locked away with the rest of my things. She noticed. "What were you reaching for?"

"Nothing."

She didn't believe me, and she didn't pretend to. "Ethan. If I'm going to defend you, I need to know what you're protecting." She seemed genuine — exactly the kind of lawyer I wanted in my corner but my grandfather's letter came back to me all the same. Trust no one, except the man carrying this letter. Benjamin. No one else.

"I'm sorry. There are some things I can't tell you."

She was quiet for a moment, then nodded like she expected that. "I was afraid you would say that."

"I wish things were different."

"So do I. But understand — if whatever you're hiding affects this case, it could hurt both of us. And if it puts your life in danger, I can't protect you from that either."

"I understand."

Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then she broke it. "I'm filing motions this afternoon. I want every piece of evidence the prosecution has — the surveillance footage, the forensic reports, the witness statements. Everything."

"They're not going to like you."

"I don't need them to." She gathered her files. "I'm also going to interview everyone who attended your grandfather's birthday."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone."

"What about Ryan?"

She looked me straight in the eye. "Especially Ryan," and something tightened in my chest at that. A week ago I would have trusted him with my life. Now I wasn't even sure I knew who he really was.

A knock interrupted us. The officer stepped in. "Time up."

Isabella stood, packing her files. "One last piece of advice," she said, glancing back at me. "Prison has a way of changing people. Don't let it change the man your grandfather believed in."

"I'll try."

"No," she said, with the faintest smile. "You'll do more than try." Then she walked out, and the officer motioned for me to follow.

On the walk back to the cell block, her words stayed with me. For the first time since my arrest, someone was actually fighting for me — maybe I wasn't as alone as I let myself believe.

Near the vending machines, two inmates were talking low, and they stopped the moment they saw me. One quietly pressed a folded stack of cash into the other's palm, and the second man glanced my way before closing his fingers around it. Neither looked surprised to see me. They walked off in opposite directions without a word.

Daniel had been right. Someone inside this prison was being paid — and as I watched the two of them disappear down separate corridors, one thought settled into place that I couldn't shake.

Whoever was behind this hadn't stopped at the prison gates. They had already found a way inside.