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~Chapter Five~


I'll let it show that I'm not always hiding
Come all the way down
And watch me burn
I won't let it show that I'm not always flying
So on the way down
I'll watch you burn

~Three Days Grace, Burn~


I am perched on the edge of the modern-looking couch in the Donavan's living room, staring at the television screen in front of me, looking, but not truly watching the Hallmark movie that had been playing when I walked through the front door.

Never in my life have I felt so uncomfortable around Elena or Matt. It unsettles me to see the effect this is having on her. She has since gone upstairs to remedy the situation, but when I first saw her I was taken aback. She had looked like a wreck, lounging on a barstool in her kitchen, in an old bathrobe, crying between bites of soggy Fruity Pebbles, hair knotted and gathered up in a giant-sized clip. I had just entered the house upon Elena's request. Matt had never been a fan of the open-door policy between his wife and me, but he's done a good job acting as he does.

Especially now.

Their choice in interior design is eclectic, a mixture of homey and sharp. Modular furniture accented by throw pillows with sayings like happy wife, happy life stitched across them. Wedding photos are strategically placed throughout the entire house but seem to be concentrated mostly in this area. There is one of Elena and me on a black side table. I hated that aqua-colored dress she had picked out. Short and strapless, with a weird-looking flower adornment at the waist. Sky-high heels in silver. I had been so excited to be her Maid of Honor, even after she showed me the horrid bridesmaid attire, and then I realized that I'd probably have to confront things that I had kept at bay for so long.

The two things that got me through the reception were how good my hair had looked and the open bar—and the giant bottle of champagne on ice in the bridal suite. I remember finally accepting that I got lucky and dodged a bullet when the party began to wind down.

My eyes flit over to the huge engagement photograph hanging just above the TV stand. A sunny day at the beach. Matt kneeling on one knee, a little black box open in his palm. White button-down and cargo shorts. Elena in a pink dress, flowing in the breeze. Sand white, water a deep blue.

Another perfect moment in the life of the eldest Gilbert offspring.

I can't help but think about how Elena will gloss over this dark time in her life. With more curated moments to drown out all the tainted days? Or would she just pretend this year never happened at all?

Right now, she's floundering, but after she feels the hardest obstacle has been overcome, she will bounce right back. Act like this nightmare was just that—a terrifying dream. Once it's over, she won't suffer any side effects. And until then, she has my hand to hold.

It's a rare ability to go through life as if things are always just right.

I envy that particular habit of hers. While I cling desperately to the things that make me feel warm and fuzzy inside, my best friend ignores all the unpleasant roadblocks she encounters. It's a lot easier to go about day-to-day life when you have on rose-colored glasses.

Elena was made for Mystic Falls.

I can hear Elena and Matt rushing downstairs. They sound like a herd of elephants. When the doorbell rings, signaling the arrival of her parents, she flings the door open. I feel like a stampede is headed straight for me as they hurriedly greet each other, a jumble of frantic voices and chaotic movements.

I had anticipated this, which is why I dragged myself out of bed a full half-hour before I had originally intended. It is going to take time to prepare Jeremy's family for the next chapter of this long-winded story. And what they've yet to realize is that today will be the easiest day out of them all.

That's a tough pill to swallow.

I switch the movie off as they filter into the room, all dressed up with somber faces. I move aside as they all squeeze onto the only seat available.

My directions for dressing were simple: nice clothes, crisp, clean, and muted. Nothing too fancy or too casual. We need to be somewhere in the middle—a happy medium. Light make-up for Elena and Isobel. Moderate hair gel usage for Matt, who usually liked to use an insane amount when he had to attend any event with a dress code.

Thankfully, I don't have to send anyone away to change. The only faux pas I can spot is the amethyst necklace around my best friend's neck. It's far too showy for the setting we will be in. I had told her husband to select something less flashy for her Valentine's Day gift, but he ignored me. And Elena pretended to love it whenever they had a party to go to.

Quite frankly, I find it nauseating. What's the point of a relationship if you feel obligated to do things or act in ways you don't find natural or enjoy?

"First things first," I say, moving to the front of the room in lawyer-mode. "Ditch the necklace. It's a flashing neon sign that says, 'look at me.'"

Elena doesn't protest as she gathers her long brown hair to the side and turns so Matt can unclasp it.

"Secondly, you are to show nothing. You need to be robots. The whole courthouse will be swarming with the press, wanting the inside scoop. They will take whatever leverage they can get and spin a nasty story out of it."

They all nod like automatons, but I can see that it will be very hard for them to wear the mask of a stoic observer. I feel a pang of sadness—how are they going to manage that? They are victims, too, even if it doesn't appear that way. It is extremely hard to sit by and watch as your loved one is condemned for something he had nothing to do with. And that doesn't even include the fact that Anna's grieving family will be there, crying, agonizing, wishing for their worst fears to come true.

"What are we… expecting to happen?" Isobel inquires, voice shaking.

I hate to see her look so broken. When Grams passed away, she took on the role of a mother to me. When I got my first period, I had gone to her, because I had no one else. She tried to be there for Jeremy, and they stopped using him as ammunition when they learned that he'd heard most of the fighting.

It didn't make up for the times when the nasty words were spoken, but I remember telling Jeremy, who had been around ten at the time, that at least his mom wanted to do better. He had felt so ignored amongst all the fuss about Elena's impending nuptials that Isobel had started to take him out for ice cream once a week. It improved the climate in the Gilbert house. I can only hope that this doesn't completely derail that progress.

Minor teenage mistakes are manageable… but felony offenses don't fit under that umbrella.

"For him to be released in your custody," I explain. "The bail will be lower than usual as long as I can convince the judge that he isn't a flight risk. And I will not have any problem doing so unless he's attempted to run away before."

"He hasn't," John assures me, tugging at the buttons on his collared shirt.

I smile hopefully. "Good. Now, this is very important. I'm not Elena's best friend. I'm here to do a job—that's it." I make a sharp gesture with my hand for emphasis. "Obviously, that's false, but if the prosecution claims that there's a conflict of interest, I'll have to jump through a ton of extra hoops."

"We understand," John, Isobel, and Elena say in unison.

Matt looks like he is going over the logistics of everything in his head. "How do you know the prosecution will do that? Jeremy's entitled to a lawyer."

"Because I've done it, Matthew." I wish I didn't have to sound so… disconnected, but I can tell that he's gone into the protective husband setting, and while that's one of the reasons I didn't castrate him when he and Elena hit rough spots over the years, it's fucking aggravating at the moment.

"And?"

"And when young girls die everyone's out for blood. Someone's got to pay, or things will never go back to normal. Innocence doesn't always matter to some people. Good intentions don't always matter," I try not to flinch as that last sentence leaves my mouth. "Personally, I like to have more proof before I push for an indictment, but that's in a much bigger county and Mystic Falls doesn't have a long criminal history."

"Okay." It's a quiet response, one I can barely hear, but I don't have time to express my sympathy for his plight.

We need to get going. I pick my briefcase up and go over to hug everyone—even Matt. It's the only reminder of our closeness I will be able to give them until we are alone with each other again.

"You are the best sister anyone could ask for," Elena murmurs, eyes watering.

"It'll be okay, Elena. I've got your back, I promise."

"I know."

"Remember—don't cry, it will ruin your make-up."

"Right, right," she grabs a tissue from the box Matt holds out to her.

"I'll meet you guys outside of the main entrance after I give Jer his suit." Because even when you spend the night in lockup, you're expected to look presentable.

Isobel hands over a plastic grocery bag containing a button-down shirt, coat, a red tie with blue sailboats printed on it, and slacks. I don't tell them I might not be able to see him until the last possible second, that Enzo St. John may have to deliver the clothes to him. That's mostly because I really don't want to deal with him and only partially because I don't want to stress them out if it isn't needed.

Sometimes, not saying anything is the best action to take, if it will spare someone extra heartbreak.

I only subscribe to that viewpoint when I know there's no other choice. So far, I've only had to deal with three situations like that, and that includes this instance.

"See you there," Elena says with a sniffle.

I find myself wanting to answer with an ironic "I wouldn't miss it," but acting cavalier as a defense mechanism is something I've only been able to do with Damon.

When Elena's involved, I'm usually vying for the chief protector role with Matt.

I've always stayed strong for her and I won't stop just because I feel nostalgic. Besides, Elena isn't privy to my friendship with Damon. When she and Matt broke up, she expressed interest in that blue-eyed asshat and something told me that if I didn't maintain my "hatred" of him, I might have to set them up and that was just a train wreck waiting to happen.

I've never been more relieved than when Matt showed up on her doorstep, begging for a second chance. It absolved me from the guilt of wanting to spare my two friends from extra sadness.

It had been for the greater good—and if I have to hurt a little bit to achieve that, then so be it.


Compared to the courthouse I frequent in North Carolina; this tiny building is much less impressive. When stacked up next to the old-time architecture of every home, store, or library in Mystic Falls, it's one of the grandest structures in the entire town. Constructed of marble, held up by large pillars, steps upon steps leading to the doors.

I climb each stair, keeping my head down as a crowd of reporters tries to follow me.

"Miss Bennett, do you care to explain why you've come back here to defend a murderer?"

"Do you care about justice or is this just a job for you?"

"Did Jeremy Gilbert admit he did it?"

This is a cruel joke. Before this, Mystic Falls had been almost cut-off from the majority of the world. Hence my bubble analogy. Now, anything that is said or done here, will be broadcast across the country. Front page news on every website or newspaper within a four-state radius.

The shouts halt abruptly when the double doors leading into the building slam shut behind me. I go about checking in with all of the needed people as if partaking in the routine of a defense attorney is something I do every day.

I end up being directed down a long corridor that is dimly lit. Every inch of the interior walls is covered in cherrywood paneling. The carpeting is an ugly shade of red with a green diamond pattern like something I've seen in many a hotel lobby.

The security officers instructed me to enter the second room on the left. I'm not surprised to see that Jeremy is currently the only defendant present. Whether that is due to the severity of the crime or because no one is required to attend traffic court, I don't know.

He looks exhausted. Jeremy couldn't have gotten any decent sleep last night. His black Five Finger Death Punch t-shirt is wrinkled, sweatshirt tossed on the circular table he's propping himself upon. As I get closer, I also take note of the fact that he stinks, and his hair is sticking out every which way.

Thank God his mother had remembered to put a brush and deodorant in the bag along with her son's Sunday best.

And yet, Jeremy's B.O. is still somehow less offensive than the presence of the officer they appointed to watch over him. Enzo stands in the corner of the room, arms folded over his chest, facial expression unreadable.

Fuck, and I thought I would be able to avoid him.

I've already decided that I will just have to act as though he isn't here. "Hello, Jeremy. How are you?"

Okay, so I must remain formal, but aside from that, Enzo St. John is just a statue, something meant to liven up the décor in this cage, of which there is none. Matching wooden walls and flooring. Table and two chairs. That's it.

"I feel shitty," he mutters. When he turns his head, I can see how heavy and dark the bags under his eyes have become.

"I know," I answer softly, handing him his belongings. "I have a couple of things I need to deal with, but I'll be back shortly, alright?"

He nods.

I want to tell him to utilize his zombie-like appearance to his advantage, but I don't think that would go over well with the numbskull watching over us.

I don't say anything else before I go.

When I exit the building again, I stand on the top stair, searching the ever-growing mob of people for Elena and her family. I catch a glimpse of her exiting Matt's jeep and take off to catch up with them before everyone else descends upon the couple. I nearly trip on a crack in the sidewalk in my haste to reach her. I begin talking even before I regain my balance, a task Matt helps with by catching my flailing arm and steadying me.

"It will probably be a bit of a wait," I say, desperate to catch my breath before I take them inside. "These things always are, but it doesn't look like many other cases are going on. It shouldn't be too long."

Matt's eyes flicker with a brief light. It comes as no surprise that he appears to feel guilty for accosting me. He's a complete teddy bear, only lashing out when he feels Elena requires that of him. I get it—I do the same thing. The only difference is I refuse to apologize afterward, no matter how I feel.

Call it a personality defect if you want, I prefer to think of it as showing unwavering strength.

"Thanks for helping…" I can tell my nickname is about to pass his lips—Bon. Everyone calls me that—all my close friends, at least all of them excluding Damon who has a multitude of monikers for me.

I give him a sharp look and he shuts his mouth before anything affectionate can be said. "Follow me, Mr. and Mrs. Donavan," I pause, giving Isobel and John time to close the gap between us. "We're going this way, Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert.

If the reporters were crazy when I was by myself, they have completely lost their minds now. We have to ignore more yelling than questioning, horrible things regarding Jer are flying at us left and right. Flashes indicating someone took a photo or a beeping that lets us know they have chosen to record a video.

And then it's silent once more.

I escort my clientele into the waiting area, show them where to sit, point out the tiny watercooler on the other side of the room. I tell them to hang tight. I need a minute to myself before the show begins.

I find myself in the bathroom on the other side of the courthouse. Unlike everywhere else, everything is a brilliant white, which probably looks very nice before people use it. Now it just stinks of excrement and cheap air freshener, the kind that vaguely smells like a tropical smoothie. The white tiled floor is muddied by dirt from everyone's sensible loafers and wads of wet toilet paper. The mirror is smudged with soapy fingerprints.

Unfortunately, it doesn't prevent me from staring at my reflection.

The strong mask I've been parading around town has slipped a little bit. My brows are knit together in worry, my bright green eyes dulled by uncertainty. Every other trait about me screams of professionalism—from the neat bun resting on the nape of my neck to my toes, which are covered by boxy heels.

I wish I could do something to quell my nervousness, but these few minutes alone are all I'm going to get.

Don't let them smell your fear, Bennett. Just go save Jeremy.

So, that's exactly what I do.

We are herded into the courtroom only forty minutes after we were originally scheduled to be. If I were home, I'd probably still be waiting, reviewing each point I wanted to make until they were permanently drilled into my brain.

As I walk to my designated spot on the left side of the room, I feel more at ease. Courtrooms don't vary much in appearance—the only ways in or out would be the entryway or the emergency exit. Both sets of double doors are manned by bailiffs. The man in charge of recording all of the information relayed today is off to the side. The table I'm stationed at is made of the same cherrywood as the walls, as are the chairs, witness stand, judge's podium, and benches. I'm in my element. I've got a handle on this.

We go through all the usual formalities: standing to greet our honorable judge Agatha Lowell, one of the oldest females in her profession. To be more accurate, I think she is the oldest presiding judge in the entire county. Then we listen to her bang her gavel with authority and those who have just come to watch are told to sit. I'm very aware of all the eyes boring into the back of my head.

"Does the defendant wish to have the charges read aloud?"

Jeremy stands next to me, eyes on the white-haired woman. He never averts his gaze, but he is very fidgety. He pulls at his tie, taps his foot, clears his throat. Jer looks like a clean-cut young man. No sign of the unkempt teen from hours ago, but his behaviors don't do him any favors.

Better make this quick. "No, Your Honor."

She then turns to the prosecutor. A forty-something man named Alaric Saltzman. He doesn't look like the typical middle-aged lawyer. He's handsome and lean. Features brought on by aging are minimal—lines on the corners of his eyes, around his mouth. His demeanor reminds me of a less arrogant Enzo. He'll put up quite the fight, I'm sure.

He goes on to describe the details of the crime, why Jeremy has been charged and passes the ball back to me.

"And how does the defendant plead?"

"Not guilty, Your Honor."

Now is when the negotiation begins.

Alaric sees this as the perfect moment to bring the hammer down. "I recommend the bail be set at 20,000, given the nature of the charges."

My turn.

"Your Honor, that's a ridiculous amount. Mr. Gilbert is a minor, he has no prior history of violence, no misdemeanors. He is an average student who is considered one of the least disruptive kids in his class. He's certainly not a flight risk. His only mode of transportation is being evaluated in a forensics lab outside of town. I know he desires nothing more than to mourn what happened to Anna Zhu—he wants to prove his innocence, so the true perpetrator is brought to justice. I know he can be released in his own recognizance."

That's an unrealistic request, but if I ask for something unlikely, we'll get a smaller amount than what the prosecution suggested, simply because what we are hoping for seems more attainable.

The following moments feel as though they are hours long.

"I'm inclined to agree with you, Miss Bennett. Mr. Gilbert is still a child and given his travel circumstances, I am going to rule that O.R. is acceptable but I think the use of an ankle monitor would be prudent here."

"I don't believe that is a necessary precaution, Your Honor."

"Would you prefer the bail be set as Mr. Saltzman wants?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Then it's settled. Mr. Gilbert will be fitted with the monitor and released to his parents when the appropriate agreements are signed. We will set preliminary hearings for July 2nd. The court is adjourned." Gavel smacks into the wooden pallet.

I'm silent as those who do not have a stake in this matter exit the courtroom, whispers, and rumors echoing throughout the windowless box. I try not to come off as stunned. The issue of money had been avoided. I secured something that would be virtually unachievable in most circumstances.

It's small, but it's still a victory.