Page 1 of The Guilty Trial

Chapter One

Cascade Foothills

Chelan County, Washington

Thomas Sterling sat hunched over a small wooden desk, tapping away on the old Remington. The keys struck the paper with a satisfying click-tap, each letter appearing in sharp black ink against the cream-colored page. He enjoyed the methodical rhythm of the machine, the way it forced him to slow down and consider each word before committing it to the page. No delete key, no backspace. He felt the permanence of the ink and inhaled the faint smell of ribbon and oil. It made him feel as if he were living in a different age, one where a man could disappear into the wilderness and emerge with something meaningful.

The cabin was rustic by design, just two rooms total: a main living area with the desk pushed against one wall and a worn leather sofa against the other, and a small bathroom with a shower that seemed to produce more rust than hot water. A kitchenette occupied one corner, the mini-fridge humming a quiet complaint. He had rented the place specifically for its isolation, nestled halfway up the Cascade foothills on a private logging road that saw maybe one vehicle a week. No cell service. No internet and no distractions. Just the trees, the wind, and the steady percussion of keys against paper.

Two days ago, he had loaded his car with supplies and driven three hours from Tacoma, leaving behind his practice, his colleagues, and the relentless demands of his phone. At sixty-two, Thomas had spent four decades in the U.S. Attorney’s Office, prosecuting cases that made headlines and careers. He had put away drug kingpins, corrupt politicians, and organized crime bosses. But none of that had ever satisfied the quiet ambition he’d nursed since law school: to write a novel.

And in spite of his background, he had no interest in penning a legal thriller. He found those tedious, too close to the work that had consumed his life. No, Thomas wanted to write something different. A psychological thriller set in the Pacific Northwest, featuring a protagonist that was nothing like himself. A young woman. Someone with demons he could only imagine. The idea had been rattling around in his head for years, waiting for him to finally sit down and give it shape.

He paused, allowing his fingers to hover over the keys, and read back his last paragraph. The prose felt stilted, overwrought. He frowned and reached for the tumbler of bourbon beside the typewriter. The ice had long since melted, but the whiskey still burned pleasantly as it went down. He rolled the tumbler between his palms, watching the amber liquid catch the lamplight.

Outside, the wind was picking up. It whistled across the eaves with a high, keening sound that made the cabin feel even more remote. Thomas glanced toward the window, but the glass reflected only his own face and the warm glow of the lamp behind him. Beyond that, nothing but inky darkness. The nearest neighbor was miles away. The nearest town, farther still.

He returned his attention to the page, determined to push through another few paragraphs before calling it a night. His protagonist was about to discover something terrible in her basement. He'd been mentally circling the scene for an hour, adding a sentence, taking it out, adding it back in. As he saw it now, the problem wasn't the words—it was the pacing. He needed the reader to feel it before they knew what it was.

He typed: She descended the stairs.

Too flat. He deleted it, tried again.

The stairs groaned under her weight.

Better. He kept going, finding the rhythm now.

At the bottom, to her left, was a door. She hadn't noticed it before—or maybe she had, and hadn't let herself think about why it was always closed. Yes.

That was it. The dread had to feel earned, had to feel like something the reader had been carrying without realizing it.

Her hand found the handle. Cold metal. She told herself it was just the basement air.

Thomas sat back, satisfied. He reached for his glass with a smile on his face.

The lights flickered.

Thomas looked up, watching the bulb strobe twice before steadying. The mini-fridge’s hum faltered, recovered, then faltered again.

Then everything went dark.

He sat motionless in the sudden blackness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. His hand was still wrapped around the tumbler. He set it down carefully and felt for the edge of the desk. The wind seemed louder now, more insistent, pushing against the cabin walls as if testing their strength. He could hear the creak of old timber and the rattle of a loose shutter somewhere.

Thomas pushed back from the desk and stood, remembering the battery-operated lantern he’d seen stashed in the bathroom cabinet along with a first-aid kit and some spare batteries. He moved carefully through the darkness with one hand extended. His fingers found the doorframe. The tile was cold beneath his bare feet as he crouched and fumbled with the cabinet door.

The lantern was exactly where he remembered. He twisted the switch, and pale white light flooded the small space, harsh after the darkness. He carried it back to the main room and set it on the desk beside the typewriter.

The wind gusted hard enough to make the walls groan. Thomas moved toward the window to peer outside. He saw nothing but the dense, indistinct shapes of trees, their branches thrashing in the wind like arms reaching for something just out of grasp.

The bourbon helped settle his nerves. He was a city person, and unfamiliar sounds were just that—unfamiliar. The cabin had been standing for decades. It would survive one windstorm. Besides, he himself had survived worse. A windstorm was nothing compared to a three-week RICO trial with a hostile jury.

He sat back down at the typewriter and positioned the lantern to cast its light across the page. Where was he? The basement. The discovery. He placed his fingers on the keys and tried to recapture the thread of his story.

For a while, he lost himself in the work. The wind faded to background noise, the darkness beyond the lantern’s reach becoming irrelevant. The scene was finally coming together, each sentence pulling the next one forward, pulling the reader into his protagonist's fear.

Scritch scritch.

A thin metallic scratching near the front door.