In Her Defense

by Spectographer

When her teenage daughter is assaulted by a local football star, single mother Donna Paulsen blackmails prestigious New York attorney Harvey Specter into taking her case by threatening to expose his associate's fraudulent credentials. What begins as a forced partnership evolves into something deeper as Harvey becomes increasingly invested in helping Donna's family heal.

3. Allies

Chapter 3: Allies

I

Mike Ross stands outside Glacier Park International Airport, his Tom Ford suit – the one Harvey insisted every real lawyer needs – already collecting dust from the gravel parking lot. A quick glance at his phone confirms what he already knows: no service. Perfect.

He's checking his emails one last time through the airport's wifi when a massive pickup truck rumbles into the passenger loading zone, a horse trailer in tow. The driver's side door swings open, and out steps a man who can only be Louis Litt, attorney at law and apparent equestrian performance artist.

"Michael!" Louis calls, arms flung wide as though greeting an old friend. "Welcome to Big Sky Country!"

"Uh, hi." Mike approaches the man, who's wearing...well, Mike's not really sure how to describe it, but there's a lot of leather and fringe involved, and honest-to-god boots with spurs. "You must be Louis." He extends his hand. Louis bypasses it entirely for a full embrace.

"Louis the Magnificent, actually." He holds Mike out at arm's length, studying him. "You're even taller than I expected. How's your dressage? Ever done any cross-country jumps?"

"No?" Mike tries to extract himself from the man's iron grip. "I'm not really—"

"We'll have to fix that." Louis claps him on the shoulder. "It'll give us a chance to bond."

Before Mike can respond, a massive head appears over the side of the horse trailer, nickering softly.

"Oh, don't mind Thunder," Louis says, noticing Mike's startled expression. "He insisted on coming. He's very invested in justice."

"Your horse... is invested in justice?"

"Thunder has a very refined sense of moral outrage." Louis grabs Mike's luggage before he can protest, tossing it in the truck bed. "After you."

Mike climbs into the cab, which is somehow both larger and more cramped than he'd expected, thanks to the clutter of riding equipment and legal files spilling out of every available surface. A saddle takes up the back seat.

Louis slides behind the wheel, shooting Mike a grin. "Ready to rumble?" Without waiting for an answer, he revs the engine, and they peel out of the airport, dust swirling in their wake. Thunder snorts his disapproval from the trailer.

As they merge onto the highway, Mike sneaks another look at his new co-counsel. Harvey would have a field day with this guy. Hell, he'll probably never hear the end of it. But there's something about Louis' unfettered enthusiasm, and the way Thunder keeps poking his massive head through the back window to lip at Mike's hair, that makes it hard to hold on to his annoyance. It feels a bit like being caught in a particularly eccentric tornado.

"You're probably wondering what brings a cultured, sophisticated man like myself to this rustic paradise," Louis says, glancing at Mike. "Well, I'll tell you. It was love." He sighs dramatically. "The kind of love that sweeps in like a summer storm, unexpected and overwhelming." He slams his fist against the steering wheel. "Then it betrays you. It leaves you for some polo player from Buenos Aires without so much as a goodbye!"

"Louis, I don't—"

"My soulmate abandoned me, Michael." His voice softens, and he reaches over to pat Mike's knee. "But it led me here, to a land of beautiful vistas and even more beautiful horses. So really, who's the real winner in all this?"

"Um..."

"I am." Louis's expression shifts, and for a moment, something sharp glints behind his eyes. "Don't underestimate me just because I express myself through interpretive dance on horseback. I'm a damn fine lawyer. And I know this town inside and out." Then his smile returns, as bright and blinding as before. "Now, let's talk strategy. First thing we need is to get you on a horse. I have an outfit that will fit you perfectly..."

As the landscape rushes by and Thunder nickers his approval, Mike wonders what he's gotten himself into. Maybe Harvey was right to stay in Manhattan. But then he remembers the hollow look in Madison's eyes, and the shadows under Tyler's, and the fierce determination in their mother's face, and he reminds himself that sometimes the battlefield is where you make it. Even if that means facing down small-town corruption while wearing...whatever outfit Louis is holding up for his consideration.

"I think I'll stick to the suit, thanks," Mike says, eyeing the embroidered pants Louis is offering him.

"You're sure? The fabric really is breathable."

"I'm sure."

Louis shrugs, rolling down the window to let the cool mountain air rush in. As they turn off the main highway, Mike catches his first glimpse of the Rocky Mountains in the distance, their snow-capped peaks stretching toward the sky like the spires of some vast, primordial cathedral. He can't help but marvel at the scale of it all. It's a different kind of beauty than Manhattan's. Wilder, fiercer. It reminds him of the Paulsens, in a way.

"So," Louis says, his voice startling in the stillness. "Have you developed a strategy for approaching Maddie's case?"

Mike's gaze is fixed on the landscape, but he can feel Louis watching him. "Not yet. I thought maybe we'd start with a direct approach, see if we can get her to open up. Maybe talk to some people in town, see if there are any other witnesses who can back up her story."

Louis hums thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

"What?"

"Well, you're certainly not the first person to try a direct approach."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning there could be a thousand witnesses, but none of them will be brave enough to come forward. The Carters own half the town. The other half is owned by football fanatics who'll defend Ethan to the death. It's like a goddamn religion around here."

Mike leans back, absorbing this. "That's..."

"Insane? I know. But welcome to the frontier." Louis shoots him a look. "Trust me, I've seen it a hundred times. No one's willing to lose their job over this. Not the police, not the DA. They'd rather sweep it under the rug and pretend it never happened."

"Fuck."

"Indeed."

The silence stretches out between them, punctuated only by the sound of tires on gravel and the distant call of birds. Mike watches the scenery blur past, wondering what it must be like for a fifteen-year-old girl to face an entire town's apathy. What it's like for a mother to watch her daughter break under that weight.

He knows what it's like to be broken. But he's never had to be strong for someone else's sake. Has always been alone.

He doesn't envy Donna Paulsen.

"The biggest challenge we're up against is Stan Carter's influence," Louis continues. "He owns the biggest car dealership chain in three counties, chairs half the boards in town, and bankrolls most local politicians' campaigns."

"And the son, Ethan?"

"Golden boy. Perfect GPA, state champion quarterback, a whole resume of volunteer work." Louis shakes his head. "The town's convinced he's the second coming."

"What about physical evidence?"

"Eight days between the incident and the report. No rape kit, no photos of injuries. She showered, washed her clothes." Louis sighs. "Can't blame her – she's fifteen, scared, probably wanted to pretend it never happened. But for us, it makes things complicated."

They crest a hill, and suddenly the town of Riverstone spreads out below them. It looks almost picturesque from up here – neat rows of houses, church spires, the high school football stadium rising like a colosseum at the town's heart. Mike thinks about Madison Paulsen somewhere down there, carrying the weight of a truth nobody wants to hear.

They pass a sign welcoming them to Flathead County. The landscape has changed – fewer trees, more ranch land stretching to the horizon. A billboard features Ethan Carter's smiling face advertising "Carter Motors: Where Champions Buy Their Rides."

"I've known Madison since she was five," Louis says, breaking the silence. "Used to give her riding lessons. Smart as hell. Funny. Tough, too – took some hard spills without a single tear. She'd come back the next week with a grin and a bruise and do it all again." His expression tightens. "I've seen her a few times since...well, since. And Mike? She's a ghost."

Mike's grip tightens on the armrest.

"I don't care if I have to ride Thunder into every courtroom in the state," Louis continues. "I'm going to make this right. For her."

Mike's throat feels too tight for words. He can only nod. In the back, Thunder lets out a loud whinny, shaking his mane. It sounds almost like approval.

II

Rachel Zane stacks her World Literature essays, carefully tucking Maddie Paulsen's analysis of The Scarlet Letter between the others. The girl's writing had been haunting – too insightful about shame and public condemnation for a fifteen-year-old. It had made Rachel uneasy. Now, knowing what she does, that disquiet has transformed into something else. Anger, maybe, or grief. Or some complicated blend of both.

The wind sighs outside her classroom window. The sun is sinking behind the Rocky Mountains, painting the horizon in shades of orange and purple and gold. She should be going home – grading these papers will take her well into the evening. But home, if it can even be called that, is just a rental cabin that smells faintly of mold and is decorated in early 2000s kitsch. She's not sure she'll ever be able to look at a dreamcatcher again without feeling vaguely depressed.

Here in her classroom, though, she feels...not at peace, exactly, but close enough to pretend. Here she's Ms. Zane, teacher of literature and composition. In charge of her own little fiefdom.

She's made the space her own. The walls are covered in posters of Shakespeare and Austen and Toni Morrison. A sign above the chalkboard reads: "Be the Jane Austen heroine you aspire to be." It's not much, but it's hers. And she's carved out some sense of purpose here. Even if the rest of the town thinks she's just some interloper from Bozeman – the big city, they insist on calling it, as if a population of fifty thousand people is anything more than a glorified small town itself.

But Rachel's not thinking about her exile from civilization right now. She's thinking about Madison Paulsen and how her handwriting had changed halfway through her essay. Loopy script becoming tight, controlled letters. As if she were wrestling some internal demon and trying not to let it show.

Rachel had noticed. She'd wanted to ask, to offer help. But something had stopped her. Some fear that it wasn't her place, that she was an outsider in this tight-knit community. That any intervention might backfire and isolate Maddie further.

Now, of course, she knows the true nature of that demon. It's been the talk of the town – the police investigation, the school board meetings, Donna Paulsen's blistering accusations. And in the faculty lounge, the whispers about what happened at that party, and how the Paulsen family is trying to ruin poor Ethan Carter's bright future. Everyone has an opinion, but no one wants to get involved. Easier to watch the spectacle unfold from the safety of the sidelines.

The hallway's afternoon quiet shatters with a burst of muffled laughter. Rachel moves toward her door, drawn by the sound. Through the window, she sees a cluster of students hurrying past, phones raised. Beyond them, Madison Paulsen stands motionless in front of her locker. She's changed since August. Thinner, paler, like she's being slowly erased before their eyes. Her hair is loose, falling in tangled red waves over her shoulders. Her hands clutch the straps of her backpack too tightly. She doesn't look up.

Rachel's breath catches when she sees the locker. The metal door is covered in black ink, the letters jagged and angry: SLUT. LIAR. WHORE. Below, a crude drawing of a woman's body, naked and splayed open like a sacrifice.

"Maddie?" Rachel pushes through the gathering crowd. The girl doesn't move, just stares at the locker with an eerie calm that's somehow worse than tears. "Everyone, clear out. Now."

A few students linger, phones still recording.

"I said now." Rachel's voice carries her father's boardroom authority. "Unless you'd like to explain to your parents why you're in Saturday detention for the next month."

The hallway empties, leaving only echoes of whispers and laughter in its wake. Madison stands rigid, her gaze unwavering. In that moment, Rachel can almost see the scars, etched beneath the girl's skin like fault lines waiting to erupt. The kind that might never heal.

"Come on," Rachel touches Madison's elbow gently. "Let's go to my classroom."

Madison follows without resistance, allowing herself to be guided like a child. When the door shuts behind them, some of the tension eases from her posture. She lets her backpack fall to the floor with a heavy thud. Rachel's eyes dart to the girl's wrists, checking for any telltale marks. But her skin is unblemished. Small mercies, then.

Rachel clears her throat, searching for the right words. What can she say in the face of such cruelty?

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Madison shakes her head, a quick, sharp motion.

"Okay." Rachel hesitates. "I can...I can call your mom to pick you up."

"Please don't." Madison's voice is soft but firm. "She's working a double shift at the diner. She needs the hours."

"Maddie, this is serious—"

"It's just words." Madison traces the edge of a desk. "Mom's already lost one job because of me. I won't cost her another."

Rachel studies the girl's face, searching for cracks in the careful mask. Finding none makes her heart ache worse than if Madison had broken down crying. "Wait here," she says, and heads back to the hallway.

She finds Principal Delaney in his office, reviewing football statistics. Of course.

"We have a situation." Rachel describes the vandalism, watching his expression shift from annoyance to practiced concern. He's in his early fifties, a former All-State tight end who never left town. A man who still measures his worth in yards gained and victories won. She's not surprised when his first question is about the students who were taking photos.

"If this gets onto social media, it could be bad for our reputation," he says. "I don't need the superintendent breathing down my neck over some teenage prank."

"This isn't a prank." Her temper's rising. "This is bullying. Harassment. We have a responsibility to protect Maddie—"

"Look, Miss Zane, I understand the situation is...sensitive. But kids will be kids. I'll have the janitor clean it up, and we'll all move on with our lives."

"Kids will be—" Rachel wants to shake him, or worse. "This is creating a hostile environment. There are laws—"

"Laws?" A new voice cuts in. Rachel turns to find a man in an expensive suit standing in the doorway, briefcase in hand. "Which laws specifically? Title IX? The Civil Rights Act of 1964? Montana Code 20-5-209?"

"Who are you?" Principal Delaney stands, puffs out his chest like a posturing rooster.

"I'm Mike Ross, attorney representing Madison Paulsen." He steps fully into the office, followed by a man in riding clothes and a fringed shirt. Rachel's eyebrows shoot upward. "And my colleague, Louis Litt. We'd love to discuss these laws in detail, particularly as they relate to the school's liability in cases of institutional negligence."

Rachel feels something spark in her chest. Hope, maybe, or righteous anger. Or the thrill of watching someone call out a bully and mean it. She looks at Mike again – really looks this time. He's young, maybe late twenties, with tousled sandy hair and blue eyes that hint at both sharpness and kindness. She likes his eyes. Likes that he's here, talking about laws and liabilities and holding people accountable. It's more than she's been able to do. More than anyone else has tried.

Principal Delaney blusters something about lawyers and parents going too far. Louis – who seems to be the more dramatic of the two – launches into an impassioned speech about the injustice of it all, his hands fluttering like a conductor in front of an orchestra. Mike lets him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Rachel finds herself mirroring it, despite the circumstances. Despite the locker outside that's still covered in hateful words. Maybe because, in that moment, she knows something has shifted. A door has been opened that won't be easily closed. And whatever's on the other side is going to change things.

She hopes, anyway.

III

Donna sits on the back porch, wrapped in a flannel blanket, cradling a steaming cup of coffee between her hands, her laptop open and glowing in the late evening light. Harvey Specter had been predictably unhelpful, emailing her a list of firms that supposedly "handle these kinds of cases." As if her daughter was a case to be handled, rather than a person. A child. Broken in ways that Donna's not sure she'll ever understand.

Every email she's sent him since then has gone unanswered. She can practically picture him, reclining in some leather office chair, a glass of scotch in his hand, laughing at her audacity for thinking she could force him into anything. Arrogant, insufferable man.

Donna's fingers hover over the keys, wondering how to phrase her next email. Something stronger, this time. Maybe a threat to contact the New York State Bar Association. It's a desperate tactic – they'd probably just brush her off. But it might get his attention.

Or maybe it'll just make him hate her more. Not that she cares. She's beyond worrying about the likes of Harvey Specter. Let him loathe her. He's no better than the rest of them – the police who refused to file charges, the school that turned a blind eye to the bullying, the town that's already decided her daughter's a liar.

No. Donna won't be cowed. She'll keep pushing, prodding, demanding, until someone listens. Until someone acts.

"You okay?"

She turns to find her son leaning against the doorway, his expression cautious, like he's not sure if she wants company or solitude.

"I'm fine." It's a lie, of course, but one she's gotten used to telling. She closes her laptop and pats the chair beside her. "Come sit."

Tyler hesitates, then shuffles forward, sinking into the seat with a resigned sigh. "You work tonight?" he asks, fiddling with the edge of the blanket.

"Not until six," she says, glancing at the setting sun. "Another hour or so."

He grunts in response, his eyes fixed on the sky, which is bleeding into hues of violet and indigo. Snow flurries dance in the air, melting into nothingness just before they reach the ground. Donna watches Ty from the corner of her eye, noting the tightness around his mouth, the way his fists keep clenching and unclenching in his lap.

"You want to tell me what's bothering you?" she asks gently.

She waits, letting the silence stretch between them. In the distance, a coyote howls. Somewhere nearby, an owl begins its hunting call. Tyler's jaw clenches, and Donna wonders if he'll keep quiet. If the words will stay trapped behind his teeth, locked away like all the other things this family can't seem to talk about.

"I miss Dad," he says finally, his voice barely audible.

Donna's heart twists. "Me too, baby."

Tyler swipes at his eyes, his shoulders hunching as if trying to protect himself from a physical blow. Donna reaches out and places a hand on his arm, feels the coiled tension in his muscles. He doesn't pull away, but he doesn't relax either.

"It's just..." He trails off, swallows. "I feel like I'm supposed to do something. To fix this. But I don't know how. And Dad always said... he said if anything ever happened to him, it was up to me. To look out for you and Mads." His words are raw, jagged at the edges. "But I can't fix any of it. I can't."

"Oh, Ty." Donna's throat tightens. She pulls him into a hug, her arms wrapping around his too-thin frame. He resists at first, his body rigid with a teenager's awkwardness. But then he melts into her embrace, his head dropping onto her shoulder. He's still so young, she realizes, even if he's grown nearly a foot since Nate's death. There's a vulnerability in him that he tries so hard to hide. A softness that she's terrified of seeing shattered beneath the weight of all they're carrying.

"It's not on you, sweetheart," she murmurs into his hair. "This isn't your burden to bear. Your dad never meant for that."

"But it's true though," he insists. "I can't protect her. And you work yourself to the bone. And everything's falling apart." His voice breaks. "And I'm not doing enough to help."

"Listen to me." Donna leans back, tilts his chin up until their eyes meet. "You are not responsible for fixing any of this. That's not your job. You're a kid. Your job is to go to school and play baseball and be a teenager. Okay?"

He nods, his eyes shiny with unshed tears.

"You're enough, Ty. Just as you are." She kisses his forehead, then rests her chin on top of his head, holding him close. "I promise."

They sit like that for a long time, watching the stars emerge one by one in the vast Montana sky. And Donna thinks about the kind of strength it takes to hold a family together when everything else is tearing apart. She thinks about the weight of guilt and responsibility that her son is carrying. She thinks about the grief and anger that he's trying to keep at bay. And she wonders how much longer they can keep from drowning in it all.

IV

The truck rolls up the gravel drive as the last tendrils of daylight cling to the Montana sky. Mike feels the weight of exhaustion settling into his bones – not just physical, but something deeper. The kind of tiredness that comes from carrying other people's pain.

Louis parks near a weathered barn, its red paint faded but still proud. A massive white dog rises from the porch, watching their approach with wary eyes. Chickens scatter, and a pair of goats peek out from a nearby pen.

Donna and Tyler are silhouetted against the house's warm light. Mike adjusts his suit jacket, suddenly acutely aware of how out of place he looks. He's been in countless corporate boardrooms, negotiated million-dollar settlements, but something about this moment – this farm, this family – makes him feel like an imposter.

As they approach, Donna steps forward. Eira – Mike remembers Louis mentioning the dog's name – moves with her, a protective shadow.

Maddie emerges from the truck, and her mother envelops her in an embrace. The girl stiffens briefly before relaxing into her arms. There's something heartbreaking about the way she melts against her mother's chest, as if it's the first time she's felt safe all day. Donna murmurs something into Maddie's hair, and the girl nods, pulling back. She spares a glance at Mike before retreating into the house, her eyes downcast. She leaves a vacuum in her wake, and for a moment, no one speaks. The night wind rustles through the fields, carrying the scent of earth and hay. Tyler crouches to scratch the dog's ears, his expression a familiar mix of worry and anger. In the distance, a cow lows.

"Ms. Paulsen," Mike begins, but his greeting dies halfway.

Donna's eyes sweep over him, taking in his tailored suit, his polished shoes. He can see her weighing, judging, finding him wanting. And he can't help but agree.

"Where's Harvey?" she asks. No greeting, just the demand, sharp as a whipcrack.

"He's, uh, he's back in New York." Mike offers a smile that feels forced even to him. "Big corporate merger that couldn't wait. He's handling things from there."

"I see." Her lips press into a thin line. Beside her, Tyler scowls. "And you're his messenger boy?"

The words sting. He's used to being underestimated – hell, he's built a career on it – but somehow this is different. This isn't some shark circling a deal. This is a mother who's just had her family's world ripped apart.

Louis steps up beside him, his hand resting lightly on Mike's shoulder. "Now, Donna, Mike is the best of the best. He's going to help us."

Her gaze flickers to Louis, then back to Mike. She looks...tired. Not the temporary kind, born of a long day or a few sleepless nights. No, this is bone-deep weariness, the sort that comes from too much reality and not nearly enough hope.

"Come inside," she says finally, turning toward the house. Mike hesitates, unsure if it's an invitation or a command. But then Eira nudges his hand with her nose, her eyes wise and strangely comforting, and he follows. Louis trails behind, whistling a tune that Mike doesn't recognize. It's oddly calming.

The farmhouse is larger than it appeared from the road – a rambling structure that seems to have grown organically over time. The front room is cozy and inviting, with a stone fireplace dominating one wall and mismatched furniture arranged around it. A battered upright piano stands in one corner, sheet music scattered across its rack. Framed photos cover the walls, chronicling the lives of two children from infancy to adolescence: first steps, Little League games, Christmas mornings, summer camping trips. In every photo, they're smiling, happy, whole.

Mike lingers before one image showing Donna and who he assumes is her husband. He's a bear of a man, towering over the family with a grin that threatens to split his face in half. Even in the fading light, Mike can see the love radiating from his eyes as he looks down at his wife and kids. There's a lump in his throat as he turns away, wondering how a family that looked so full could be left so empty.

He can feel Donna's eyes on him as he takes it all in, but she stays quiet, giving him space to draw his own conclusions. Louis is chatting with Tyler, something about the latest NFL draft picks and their prospects for the upcoming season – a conversation Mike suspects is more for the boy's benefit than Louis's interest. Tyler's responses are polite but distant, as if he's only half-listening.

Donna moves toward the couch, settling herself with a grace that seems at odds with the exhaustion etched into her features. She pats the seat beside her, gesturing for Mike to join. He does, sinking into the worn cushions. Eira pads over to lay her head in Donna's lap. Absently, the woman strokes the dog's ears, her gaze never leaving Mike's face.

Louis and Tyler sit in adjacent armchairs, their conversation trailing off. The only sound in the room is the ticking of an antique clock on the mantle, counting off seconds that feel like hours. Finally, Donna speaks. "What's your plan?"

Mike blinks. He'd prepared a spiel, a carefully crafted speech about the nuances of sexual assault cases, the uphill battle they faced, the importance of building a strong case from the start. But sitting here, in this living room filled with the echoes of a family's love, it all feels...inadequate. Rehearsed.

"Honestly?" Mike runs a hand through his hair. "We need to know what happened. Every detail. No matter how hard it is to talk about."

A shadow crosses Donna's face. She looks toward the staircase, where her daughter vanished moments ago. Her jaw tightens, and she inhales sharply through her nose. When she turns back to Mike, her eyes are fierce, blazing with a protective fire he can't help but respect.

"Maddie will tell you when she's ready," she says, her voice low. "And only then. I won't push her to do anything that might hurt her more."

He nods. "Of course. We'll go at her pace. But we'll need her statement eventually. And the more we know, the better prepared we'll be to deal with whatever comes next."

Donna holds his gaze for a long moment, as if trying to gauge the sincerity of his words. Apparently satisfied, she nods, her posture relaxing fractionally. "I understand. I'll talk to her."

Eira nudges Donna's hand, seeking attention. The woman absentmindedly resumes scratching the dog's ears. "What else do you need?"

"Anything," Mike replies. "Photos, texts, social media... If it can establish a timeline, or provide context for what led up to the assault, it helps us piece together a narrative."

Louis clears his throat. "There's also the locker. Principal Delaney tried to sweep it under the rug, but I documented everything." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small digital camera, offering it to Donna. "I took photos. For evidence."

Her fingers tremble as she accepts the device. She glances down at the screen, and her expression crumples. "Those...those bastards," she whispers, her voice shaking with barely restrained rage.

Eira whines softly, licking at her owner's hand as if sensing her distress. Tyler sits frozen in his chair, his knuckles white as he grips the armrests, his face pale. Louis is beside him in an instant, placing a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Ty?" His tone is gentle, soothing. "Maybe you should check on Thunder. Make sure he's settled."

The teen looks at him, then at his mother, who still hasn't spoken. He seems torn, caught between the desire to comfort her and the urge to flee from this suffocating atmosphere. Finally, he stands, his movements stiff, and mutters something about needing fresh air. The screen door slams shut behind him, and seconds later, the sound of his boots crunching across gravel drifts into the house.

Donna's shoulders sag, as though held upright only by sheer force of will. She sets the camera aside and presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, taking slow, deep breaths. Eira lays her head in her lap, her dark eyes full of sympathy. The fire in the hearth crackles and pops, filling the silence. Outside, the Montana night stretches out, vast and indifferent.

Mike's heart aches for this family, for the weight they're carrying. He thinks of the photos lining the walls, the smiling faces frozen in time, and he feels a surge of protective anger. This is wrong. Maddie, Donna, Ty – they deserve better. Justice, maybe. Or at least some semblance of peace. He wants to give that to them. Needs to. He just hopes he's up to the task.

Finally, Donna lowers her hands and meets Mike's gaze. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry, and her expression is once again carefully composed, though her mask of control is frayed at the edges. She's a woman at the end of her rope, hanging on with white knuckles and gritted teeth.

"We'll do whatever we have to do," she says quietly.

And he believes her.

V

The hallway stretches empty and dark, moonlight filtering through frosted windows like silver paint spilled across linoleum. His footsteps echo despite his best efforts, each sound a thunderclap in the quiet. The varsity jacket weighs heavy on his shoulders, heavier than it's ever felt before.

He finds her locker easily – knows exactly where it is, has spent three years watching her there between classes, memorizing the way she tucks her hair behind her ear while searching for books, the small smile she gets when she finds a note from a friend. The black marks are still there, ugly words screaming in the darkness. He pulls a cloth from his pocket, douses it with rubbing alcohol, and starts scrubbing.

The first swipe of solvent makes the letters run like tears.

He works methodically, desperately, as if erasing these words might somehow erase everything else. His own cowardice. The sounds he pretends not to hear in his dreams. The knowledge that no matter how many yards he runs, he'll never escape the truth of what happened. What's still happening. The shame that gnaws at his insides until he thinks he might split open from it. He doesn't. He keeps going.

He remembers the party, the beer, the red cup that she held to her lips, smiling that shy smile that always made him feel like he'd swallowed the sun. He remembers following her, feeling ten feet tall, ready to finally tell her the truth that had lived in his heart since freshman year. But something was wrong. Her steps were uneven, her laughter too loose. And then she was gone. Just...gone. And so was Ethan, with his perfect smile and his quarterback arm and his golden future. The one who always wins.

There are no winners here. Not anymore.

When the last of the letters have dissolved, he sinks to his knees, the cloth falling from numb fingers. There are tears on his face but he barely feels them. All he can see is Maddie, and the look in her eyes as she watched her world burn down around her. And the guilt, the insidious whisper that says maybe, if he'd been there sooner, if he'd done something, anything, she'd still be smiling that smile.

"Shane?"

The voice cuts through the fog in his head, a lifeline in the dark. He looks up to see Ms. Zane standing at the end of the hallway, her silhouette framed in moonlight.

"I...I was just—" His voice cracks, and he scrubs at his face with the sleeve of his jacket, trying to erase the evidence of his breakdown.

But Ms. Zane only nods, her expression soft and knowing. "It's okay," she murmurs, moving closer. "I get it."

He laughs bitterly. "Do you?" He wants to believe her. Wants to believe that someone else sees what he sees – the rot beneath the surface of this town, the sickness that spreads like a virus, turning people into strangers, into monsters.

She crouches beside him, her skirt pooling on the floor. Her hand hovers over his shoulder, hesitant. "Tell me what's going on."

He shakes his head. He can't. If he says the words aloud, they'll become real, inescapable. He'll have to face them. So instead, he stays silent, staring at the empty space where the hateful words used to be.

"Hey." She touches his arm lightly, her fingertips warm against the chilled skin of his wrist. "You can trust me."

Trust. It's a word that's been thrown around a lot lately – trust the team, trust the coach, trust the town. Trust that things will work out, that justice will prevail. But he's seen what that really means: blind faith in a system that's rigged against them. A system that protects the Carters of the world, that sacrifices the Madison Paulsens on the altar of small-town pride.

Who can he really trust? His best friend is a rapist. The teachers and administrators are willing to look the other way. Even his own parents, wrapped up in their picture-perfect dreams for his future, seem oblivious to the nightmare unfolding around them. Everyone else, it seems, is complicit.

But he trusts Ms. Zane, he realizes suddenly. She's kind, and she's smart, and she's seen more of the world than Riverstone will ever know. He wants to tell her everything, to unburden himself of the secrets that are slowly poisoning him from within. But fear keeps his lips sealed, his throat tight. Fear of what it would mean to break the silence, to step outside the brotherhood that has been his only constant.

"It's okay," Ms. Zane repeats softly, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze before withdrawing her hand. "But when you're ready to talk, I'm here." Her gaze drifts to the locker, now bare and gleaming faintly in the moonlight. "You did good."

He scoffs. "Doesn't fix anything."

"Maybe not. But it shows that one person cares." She offers him a small smile. "And sometimes, that's enough."

She rises gracefully, smoothing her skirt, and Shane follows suit. He's taller than her by several inches, but right now he feels very young, very lost. Like a child stumbling in the dark.

"I'll give you a ride home," she offers, and he's too tired to refuse. They walk to the faculty lot in silence, his varsity jacket zipped tight against the autumn chill, her heels clicking softly on the pavement.

As he climbs into her car – a hybrid SUV, shiny and new and out of place among the rusting pickup trucks and secondhand sedans – Shane wonders what it would be like to escape this place. To go somewhere no one knows his name, his history, the things he's seen and done. Somewhere he could be anonymous, a stranger with no expectations weighing him down.

But even as the thought forms, he knows it's impossible. He's bound to this town, to the people in it, by ties too deep to sever. It doesn't matter where he goes; Riverstone will always be with him. Haunting him. Defining him. No, the only way out is through.

VI

Mike isn't sure what time it is when the barstool beside him scrapes back, and someone sinks onto the cracked vinyl seat. The bartender – a grizzled man with a permanent scowl and a greying beard – silently deposits another bottle of beer on the counter. The new arrival doesn't acknowledge Mike, which suits him fine. He's not in the mood for conversation. Not after spending hours at the police station, reviewing the (almost non-existent) investigation file, trying to build something out of nothing. It had been a fruitless task, and all he wants now is to lose himself in the bottom of a glass and pretend, for a little while, that the world is something other than what it is.

He takes a long pull of his beer, letting the bitter liquid slide down his throat. It's cheap stuff, watery and flavorless, but it serves its purpose. The bar around him is mostly empty, just a handful of patrons scattered throughout the dimly lit space. Country music plays softly from a jukebox in the corner, lending the place a melancholy atmosphere. Outside, the night has settled in, and through the window, Mike can see snow flurries swirling in the yellow glow of the streetlights.

"So, you're the big shot New York lawyer."

The words, drawled in a slow, almost lazy cadence, cut through the muted buzz of conversation. Mike glances sideways, his eyes flicking over the man beside him. He's in his early fifties, with a broad, weather-beaten face and calloused hands that betray a lifetime of hard work. There's a half-smile playing on his lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Mike doesn't reply, just lifts his bottle in a silent toast. The man chuckles, a low, raspy sound. "Not much of a talker, are you?" he continues, undeterred. "That's alright. I reckon there's plenty of people round here who'll do the talking for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mike asks, his voice flat.

The man shrugs, his gaze shifting to the row of bottles lining the wall behind the bar. "Just that people like to gossip. Small town and all." He pauses, as if considering his next words carefully. "And when an outsider shows up, well, folks tend to take notice."

Mike takes another sip of his beer, ignoring the sudden tightness in his chest. He knows he's an outsider here. Knows it in the way people's eyes linger on him when he walks down Main Street, in the hushed whispers that follow in his wake. It's not surprising, really. Riverstone isn't the kind of place where newcomers are welcomed with open arms. It's insular, protective of its secrets and its reputation.

"I'm only doing my job," Mike says finally, setting his bottle down on the counter with a soft clink. "Trying to help someone who needs it."

The man hums, a noncommittal sound. "That what they call it these days? Helping?" He turns to look at Mike, his eyes hard. "Seems to me you're stirring up trouble where there doesn't need to be any."

"Trouble?" Mike echoes, his pulse quickening. "A girl was raped. That's not trouble, that's a crime."

"Was she now?" The man's voice is low, almost dangerous. "You got proof of that?"

Mike stares at him, incredulous. "Her own testimony isn't proof enough for you?"

The man shakes his head slowly. "Listen, son. I get it. You think you're doing the right thing. But you gotta understand, this ain't some big city where everyone's out for themselves. We're a community here. We look out for one another."

"Even when that means letting a rapist walk free?" The words are out of Mike's mouth before he can stop them, and he instantly regrets it. He can feel the atmosphere of the bar shift, grow tense.

The man leans in, close enough that Mike can smell the alcohol on his breath. "You best watch what you say," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Ethan Carter's a good kid. Star quarterback, heading to college on a scholarship. He's got a future ahead of him."

"And Madison Paulsen doesn't? She deserves to be ignored, forgotten, because she doesn't fit into your neat little narrative?" Mike knows he should stop, that he's only digging himself deeper, but he can't help it. The anger, simmering just beneath the surface since he arrived in Riverstone, boils over. "This isn't about protecting the community. It's about preserving a lie."

For a long moment, there's only silence. Then the man pushes back from the bar, his stool scraping loudly against the wooden floor. "You'd better pray you don't find yourself alone in a dark alley, boy." He spits out the words, his face twisted in anger. "Because there are folks round here who take threats to their own real personal."

He turns and walks away, leaving Mike sitting alone at the bar, his heart racing. The weight of eyes on him is palpable, and he forces himself to lift the bottle to his lips, to drink as if nothing has happened. But the beer tastes sour now, and the bar feels suffocating, oppressive.

Mike tosses a few bills onto the counter and stands, grabbing his coat. He doesn't look back as he walks out, but he can feel the stares, the unspoken accusations, following him into the cold night air. It's only when he's outside, breathing deeply, that he realizes his hands are shaking. From fear, from anger, from adrenaline – he's not sure.

He stands there for a moment, snow settling on his shoulders, his hair, wondering how the hell he ended up here, in the middle of nowhere, taking on a case that seems more impossible with each passing hour. But then he thinks of Maddie, of the pain in her eyes. He thinks of her family, struggling to hold on in the face of tragedy. And he knows he can't walk away. Not now. No matter what it costs him.

The streets are deserted as he makes his way back to the motel, his shoes crunching softly in the fresh snow. The flakes are falling faster now, swirling in the wind, obscuring his vision. By the time he reaches the motel parking lot, his clothes are damp and icy, and his fingers are numb with cold. He fumbles with his keycard, cursing under his breath.

Finally, the door swings open, and he steps inside, grateful for the warmth. It's only when he flicks on the light switch that he realizes something is terribly wrong. The room has been torn apart, his belongings strewn across the floor. The mattress is slashed, spilling foam like entrails. Clothing, papers, everything he brought with him lies scattered and destroyed. Even his laptop is smashed, lying in pieces amidst the wreckage.

For a moment, Mike can only stand there, frozen in shock. Then the anger hits him, a wave of fury that leaves him trembling. He slams his fist against the wall, ignoring the pain that lances up his arm. He kicks at the debris on the floor, sending it flying.

"Damn it!" he shouts, his voice echoing off the bare walls. "Goddamn it!"

But there's no one to hear him, no one to witness his rage. He's alone, in a strange town, surrounded by hostility and secrets. And he knows, with a sudden certainty, that this is just the beginning. That what happened here tonight is a warning. And that if he's not careful, the next message might not be so subtle. Or so harmless.

Grabbing his phone, he debates whether to call the cops. This is a crime, after all. Vandalism. Breaking and entering. But what would he tell them? That someone hates him for trying to sue the local quarterback for rape? The thought is absurd. And anyway, this town has already made its position pretty clear.

Instead, Mike dials Harvey's number from memory, pacing back and forth across the small space, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart. Harvey answers on the second ring.

"What?" His voice is flat. Cold.

"Harvey." Mike closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I think I'm in over my head here."

Silence on the other end, save for the faint scratching of pen on paper.

"Did you hear me?" Mike asks, his stomach turning itself inside out.

"You wanted this case, Mike." Harvey doesn't even bother to hide his contempt. "You wanted to play lawyer in the boonies, so go play. I don't have time to hold your hand and walk you through every step."

"It's not about that," Mike snaps. He swallows, forces himself to take a deep breath. "Look, Harvey. Someone trashed my hotel room. Smashed up my computer, ransacked through my notes. They're threatening me, trying to scare me off."

A pause. "Who is?"

"Take a wild guess." Mike runs a hand through his hair, feels something like hysteria bubbling in his chest. "Probably the same people who wrote 'slut' and 'whore' all over a fifteen-year-old girl's locker today."

"What?"

"Madison Paulsen's locker. They decorated it real nice. Want to see?" Mike's fingers shake as he pulls up the photos Louis took, sends them to Harvey. It's a petty move, he knows. But he wants – needs – to make Harvey see what's happening here. To force him out of his self-imposed isolation. To make him feel something.

The email notification chimes. For several seconds, there's only silence. Mike can picture Harvey's face, the tightening of his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes as he processes. The realization slowly dawning.

"Jesus." Harvey's voice is softer now, edged with something Mike can't quite place. Disgust? Anger? Pity?

"Yeah." Mike sits down heavily on the remains of the mattress, feeling suddenly drained. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. His tie feels too tight. He tugs at the knot, loosening it. "This isn't some abstract legal debate, Harvey. This is a kid whose life has been ripped apart, who's being victimized by the very people who should be protecting her."

Harvey exhales, and Mike can practically see him leaning back in that ridiculously expensive chair, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. The silence stretches on, filled only by the sound of their breathing, and the distant hum of traffic beyond the window. Then Harvey clears his throat. "Alright," he says. Just that. One word.

Mike blinks, not daring to believe his ears. "What?"

"I said alright." A pause, then, "I'll book a flight out tonight." There's the rustling of papers, the rapid typing of a keyboard. Harvey's voice grows muffled, as though he's holding the phone between his shoulder and ear while he works. "Jessica's going to have my head, but I'll deal with her when I get back."

Relief floods Mike, warm and overwhelming. He hadn't realized how badly he'd needed Harvey's support until this moment.

"Thank you." The words come out hoarse, choked. "I... just, thank you."

Harvey grunts in response, clearly uninterested in any displays of gratitude. "Pack your stuff. Move to a different hotel – something in Kalispell, away from Riverstone. Use a fake name if you have to. I'll call you when I land." A beat. "And keep your head down, Mike. Don't let them see they've gotten to you."

"I won't." Mike closes his eyes. He feels exhausted, but also lighter, somehow. As if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. "I'll see you soon."

VII

Donna unties her apron in the back of the bar, exhaustion settling deep in her bones as the last of the customers stumble out into the cold Montana night. Her feet ache, her back throbs, and all she wants is to curl up in her bed and sleep for a thousand years. But then her thoughts turn to Madison, to those words scrawled across her locker, and her chest tightens. Anger, hot and bitter, rises in her throat. How dare they? How dare anyone in this town make her daughter feel ashamed for what happened to her? As if she were the one who had done something wrong.

She throws the apron onto a shelf, not caring that it misses and lands on the floor. Her hands clench into fists, and she has to resist the urge to scream, to lash out at something, anything. She's never felt so helpless, so completely powerless.

She grabs her coat and heads out into the snow, her breath fogging in the air. The streets of Riverstone are deserted, empty save for the drifting flakes that blanket the sidewalks. It would be beautiful if Donna didn't feel so damn alone. She thinks of Harvey, that arrogant jackass, who couldn't even be bothered to show up himself. And of Mike, with his earnest blue eyes and his careful words, the way his expensive suit had looked so out of place in her living room. He's just a kid himself, really. Playing at being a lawyer in a town that eats its young. A part of her almost feels bad for him. The rest of her is simply tired.

She doesn't remember driving home. The roads are slick, treacherous, and she grips the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles white. By the time she pulls into the driveway, her heart is pounding in her chest, a frantic rhythm that drowns out everything else. She sits there for a moment, letting the engine idle, watching the snow fall.

Tyler's bedroom light is on. Donna can see the glow through the half-drawn curtains. He's waiting up, she knows. Waiting to make sure she makes it home okay. A stab of guilt pierces her. She should go in, check on him, make sure he's doing alright. But she can't bring herself to move. She's frozen in place, trapped by the weight of her own failings as a mother. As a protector.

Madison's room is dark, and Donna's heart aches. Her daughter, her sweet, kind, talented girl, is suffering. And Donna can't do a damn thing to fix it. To make it better. To erase the pain that's been carved into her soul. Tears burn her eyes, and she wipes them away angrily. Crying won't help. It won't change anything. It won't make this nightmare go away.

With a shaky breath, Donna kills the engine and steps out of the car, her boots crunching in the freshly fallen snow. The cold air bites at her cheeks, and she pulls her coat tighter around her. Eira greets her at the door, her tail wagging gently, a soft whine escaping her throat. Donna crouches down, burying her face in the dog's fur, taking comfort in the solid warmth of her body. "I'm okay," she whispers, though she knows it's a lie. She's not okay. She doubts she'll ever be okay again.

She straightens up and moves through the house like a ghost, her feet barely touching the ground. Tyler's bedroom door is closed now, the light off. Donna stands outside for a long moment, her hand hovering over the knob. She could knock. She should. But what would she say? What words of comfort could she offer when she's barely holding herself together?

So she walks on, past the bathroom, and stops outside Maddie's room. The door is ajar, and Donna pushes it open slowly, silently. Maddie is awake, sitting cross-legged on her bed, her laptop open in front of her. She looks up as Donna enters, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

"Mom." Her voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "You're home."

Donna nods, not trusting herself to speak. She crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, reaching out to brush a stray lock from her daughter's forehead. Maddie leans into the touch, her eyes closing briefly.

"You should be sleeping," Donna says, finally finding her voice.

Maddie snorts, a sound so full of teenage derision that it almost makes Donna smile. "All I do is sleep." She opens her eyes, fixes them on Donna. "You're the one that needs sleep. You look like hell."

Donna laughs, a short, sharp burst of sound that surprises them both. It's a relief, really, to be reminded that her daughter is still in there somewhere. That the events of the past few months haven't completely destroyed the spirited, sarcastic girl she's always been.

"I know," Donna says, running a hand through her hair. "Believe me, I know."

Maddie studies her for a moment, her gaze thoughtful. "I don't want to do this, Mom," she says, gesturing to the computer. "The lawsuit, the lawyers, all of it. I just want to forget it ever happened."

Donna's heart clenches, and she feels tears sting her eyes once more. "I know," she whispers. "But we can't let them get away with this. We can't let him win."

"Why not?" Maddie challenges, her tone defiant. "Everyone else has. Why shouldn't we?"

The words hang heavy in the air, and Donna can't find the breath to answer. She wants to tell her daughter that she's strong, that she can fight this, that justice will prevail. But the words feel hollow, meaningless in the face of everything they've endured. So instead, she pulls Maddie close, wraps her arms around her, and holds on tight. Maddie resists at first, her body rigid with anger and fear. But then she relents, her shoulders sagging, her head coming to rest against Donna's chest.

They stay like that for a long time, neither willing to break the fragile peace.

Donna is the first to pull away. She cups Maddie's face in her hands, looks deep into her eyes. "We'll get through this," she says, her voice fierce. "I promise. Whatever happens, we'll get through it."

Maddie nods, her expression unreadable. "I'm going to try to sleep," she says, her voice flat. "Goodnight, Mom."

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

Donna stands, smoothing the wrinkles in the comforter. She turns to leave, but Maddie's voice stops her. "Mom?" she says, her voice barely a whisper. Donna looks back, sees the tears welling in her daughter's eyes. "I love you."

Donna's breath catches in her throat, and she has to blink back tears of her own. "I love you, too," she manages, the words coming out thick and choked. "More than anything."

Maddie nods, and turns away, curling up in her bed. Donna lingers in the doorway for a moment longer, watching her child sleep, wondering how they got to this point. How she failed so completely as a mother.

And then she closes the door, shutting out the pain, the anger, the grief. She moves through the house like a shadow, extinguishing the lights, locking the doors, Eira's nails clicking softly on the floor behind her. By the time she reaches her own bedroom, the tears are flowing freely, hot and bitter down her cheeks.

The room is dark, but she doesn't bother turning on the light. She knows every inch of this place – the placement of each piece of furniture, the feel of the rug beneath her feet, the slight dip in the mattress where her husband used to sleep. Everything in here is a reminder of what was lost. Some days, it's a comfort; others, it's a weight she can barely carry. Tonight, it just...is. Another part of a life she never imagined leading.

She shrugs off her coat, letting it fall to the floor, and collapses onto the bed. Eira jumps up beside her, curling against her side, offering silent support. For a moment, Donna considers getting undressed, washing off the day's grime, but it seems like too much effort. So she lies there, fully clothed, her shoes still on, staring at the ceiling as the minutes tick by. Sleep eludes her, no matter how hard she tries to grasp it. Her mind races, replaying the past few months over and over again, searching for some way she could have done better, been better. Been enough.

And every time she closes her eyes, she sees those words, scrawled across the locker. Slut. Whore. Liar. The drawing. She hears her daughter saying, "I just want to forget it ever happened." Sees the resignation and defeat in her eyes. Sees her son's anger, his helplessness. Sees Nate's coffin being lowered into the ground, the folded flag in her hands, the bell ringing out three times across the hushed cemetery, his last call sounded.

She sits up, suddenly restless, the need to move, to act, surging through her veins. Eira looks at her quizzically, tail thumping softly against the bedspread. Donna stands and begins to pace, back and forth, back and forth, her footsteps echoing in the stillness.

She needs a plan. A way forward. A way out. A way to fix this. But what? What can she possibly do to make this right? To mend the damage that's been done?

It's not a conscious decision; she doesn't even remember making it. One minute she's pacing, her heart pounding in her chest. The next, she's in the closet. Inside hangs a jumbled assortment of clothing – most of it practical and functional, with a few remnants of a former life, back when she had the luxury of leisurely brunches and cocktail parties. She pushes those aside.

The locked case is exactly where Nate left it, buried beneath old sweaters and shoeboxes of Christmas decorations on the closet's top shelf. Her fingers brush against its cool metal surface, sending a shiver down her spine. For a long moment, she hesitates. What is she doing? This isn't her. Has never been her. But then, again, she thinks of Madison. She can still hear her daughter's voice, thin and shaky, telling her about the rape. About the pain, and the humiliation. About how no one has done a goddamned thing. Not the cops, not the school, and not the fucking lawyer Donna had placed all her hopes in. And she knows, deep down, that this is who she is now. A mother prepared to do whatever it takes to protect her children. Even if that means crossing a line she swore she'd never approach.

Donna grabs a chair from the corner, stepping up onto the seat so she can reach the lockbox. It's heavier than she remembered, and her arms strain as she lowers it, setting it down on the floor of the closet with a dull thud. Eira pads over to investigate, snuffling at the box as Donna kneels in front of it. She runs her fingers over the combination lock, trying to remember the code. Their anniversary, Nate had said. But they'd had more than one of those, and he'd always been sentimental.

Donna closes her eyes, thinking back to happier times. Their first anniversary, a candlelit dinner in Paris. Their third, hiking in the Grand Tetons, Maddie strapped to Nate's chest in a carrier, squealing with delight as they summited. Their fifth, a quiet evening at home, just the two of them, Tyler finally sleeping through the night. A lump rises in her throat. How had they gone from that to this? To a world without Nate, to a daughter who wakes screaming in the night, to a town that would rather turn a blind eye to a boy's brutality than admit its golden son isn't so perfect after all?

She wipes away a stray tear, angrily. There's no time for sentimentality, no room for regret. Not tonight. Donna opens her eyes, enters the code. The lock clicks, and the lid opens with a metallic groan. Inside, resting on a bed of faded velvet, lies her answer to all the justice the system has denied them. All the justice Harvey Specter is too busy to fight for, all the justice Mike Ross is too green to win.

Right and wrong – it doesn't matter, not in this town. Not for a family like hers. Only power. And Donna is tired of being without any. Tired of waiting for someone to fix things, waiting to be rescued. To hell with that.

She traces her fingers along the cold steel, remembering Nate's words from years ago: If you ever have to use this, things have already gone to shit. Don't hesitate, babe. Do what's necessary to keep our family safe.

Donna nods, as if he's standing there in front of her, giving her permission. Absolving her of guilt before she's even acted. She picks up the pistol, feeling its weight, its potential. She's done nothing, while her daughter's been brutalized. She's watched, while the entire town threw stones, called the victim the whore. She's pleaded, and begged, and hoped, and prayed. And not a goddamned thing has changed. Her family has only suffered. But that ends now.

Outside, the snow falls harder, thick flakes swirling in the darkness. The wind howls, rattling the panes of glass. The storm gathers strength, feeding off the collision of warm air from the valleys and the cold wind sweeping down from the Continental Divide. But it's not the only pressure system building over Riverstone tonight. In scattered pockets of darkness across town, things are shifting: Louis Litt pores over transcripts in a pool of lamplight, a mug of cooling coffee by his elbow. Mike Ross stares up at the ceiling of the Super 8, sleepless, thinking of the girl he couldn't shield from a vandalized locker today.

And at the Riverstone Regional Airport, a few miles away, Harvey Specter steps off a private jet, his collar turned up against the wind. He'd rather be anywhere else, of course, but here he is, chasing his mentee into a storm. Getting his shoes full of mud. Slogging his way to the Avis desk, to pick up whatever piece of crap they have on hand. He's already regretting his decision to come. But he's here. In Riverstone. And even though he doesn't believe in omens or fate or any of that bullshit, even though he's a man of science and facts, as he drives through town, watching the streets and storefronts emerge from the gloom, Harvey feels something. A tingling on the back of his neck. A sense of recognition, somehow, like a dream coming into focus.

And in a small farmhouse, at the end of a long driveway, on the outskirts of town, a mother stands in her bedroom, loading bullets into a magazine, preparing to do the unthinkable. She's not a vigilante. She's not even an anti-hero. She's just a mom. Just a person whose back is against the wall. A person who's been pushed to the brink, who's done playing by the rules that everyone else ignores. Rules that have failed to keep her children safe.

As the clock strikes three in the morning, the first power line snaps, and a swath of the valley plunges into darkness. Donna puts the pistol in her coat pocket, as she kisses Eira's head and locks the door behind her. Harvey, driving too fast, curses as the streetlights flicker out, and he nearly misses his turn. And somewhere, in a place that might be called destiny, or coincidence, or something else, two paths begin to converge. Two forces, driven by different motivations, but headed for the same destination, hurtle through the night. Toward an ending that's written in the stars. Or etched in stone. Or maybe just a product of chance, and human failing, and the choices we all make, in the moments when it matters most.