Chapter 1

Camilla

The morning light filters through my apartment windows—pale, reluctant, the kind of winter gray that makes New York feel like it exists inside a snow globe someone forgot to shake. I stretch under my duvet, the silk cool against my skin, and reach for my phone out of habit.

Three thousand notifications.

My heart kicks up a notch. The trial starts today.

I throw back the covers and pad barefoot across the hardwood to my closet, coffee first forgotten in favor of the more pressing issue: what does a girl wear to potentially change her entire career trajectory?

My closet doors swing open to reveal organized chaos—racks of bold prints, jewel tones, statement pieces that cost more than they should but photograph like a dream. I pull out a crimson blazer, hold it against myself in the mirror. Too aggressive? I don't want to be written off as some vapid content creator.

Next: a cream turtleneck with tailored black pants. Classic, professional, but maybe too safe? I'm not trying to blend in with the court reporters who've been doing this for twenty years.

"Come on, CJ," I mutter to my reflection. "You know better."

I settle on a deep emerald blouse, which is sophisticated, camera-friendly, and I pair it with high-waisted charcoal trousers that say I mean business. Gold hoops, my grandmother's watch. Confidence without trying too hard.

Coffee. I need coffee before I spiral.

My espresso machine hums to life, and while it works its magic, I lean against the kitchen counter and unlock my phone properly this time. My fingers move on autopilot, thumb scrolling through Instagram, Twitter, TikTok, the holy trinity of my professional existence.

The hashtags are already trending. #SinclairTrial. #JusticeForElena. #VeronicaSinclair.

Everyone has an opinion. Everyone thinks they know what happened that night at the Sinclair estate, when Elena Vega—actress, philanthropist, America's sweetheart—ended up dead in the pool house, and her best friend Veronica became suspect number one.

I screenshot a few particularly unhinged takes, mentally filing them away for content later. My followers eat this stuff up: the wild speculation, the armchair detectives convinced they've cracked the case from their couches in Wisconsin.

My own post from last night has over fifty thousand likes. Just a photo of the courthouse at dusk, captioned: Tomorrow, we find out what really happened. I'll be bringing you every moment.

Simple. Effective. Tantalizing.

The comments range from supportive ("You're going to crush this!") to skeptical ("Stick to your podcast, influencers don't belong in courtrooms") to thirsty ("Can I get a trial date with YOU?").

I heart a few responses, reply to my loyal followers, ignore the trolls. It's all part of the game.

Steam rises from my cup as I pour the espresso, add a splash of oat milk until it turns the perfect shade of caramel. The first sip hits my system like a reset button, warming me from the inside out.

This case. This goddamn case.

I've covered murders before. The Sacramento yoga instructor, that cult leader in Oregon, the hedge fund manager who definitely pushed his wife off their yacht. But this is different. This is national. This is morning show coverage and CNN breaking news alerts and Saturday Night Live cold opens.

This is my shot.

I pull up my notes app, reviewing the goals I typed out at two in the morning when sleep wouldn't come: Secure at least one exclusive interview—family member, witness, someone close to either Veronica or Elena. Provide real-time courtroom updates with analysis that goes deeper than the mainstream outlets. Get noticed by a major network or streaming service.

Number three makes my stomach flip. It's ambitious, maybe too ambitious, but isn't that the point? I didn't move to New York to play small.

I drain my coffee and set up my ring light in the corner of my living room where the exposed brick provides the perfect backdrop. My phone slots into its tripod mount, camera pointed at the stool I've positioned just so.

Deep breath.

I hit record.

"Hey, everyone. It's CJ, and I'm coming to you live from New York on what is probably the biggest day of my career so far." I pause, let a smile play at my lips. "No pressure, right?"

I stop, watch the playback. My voice sounds tight, nervous. That won't do.

Delete. Start again.

"What's up, crime junkies? CJ here, and listen, I know you've been waiting for this. I've been waiting for this. Today, the Veronica Sinclair trial begins, and I'm going to be inside that courtroom bringing you everything."

Better. More energy. But I'm talking with my hands too much, a nervous tell.

Third time.

"Hey, loves. I'm not gonna lie, I barely slept last night. This case has consumed me for months, and today we finally get some answers. Or at least, we start to." I lean forward slightly, channeling the intimacy my followers respond to. "I'll be threading live updates, posting Stories throughout the day, and tonight I'll break down everything that happened. The lawyers, the jury, the family reactions, all of it. This is going to be intense, and I'm so glad you're here with me for the ride."

I watch it back. That's the one. Authentic, enthusiastic, professional enough that the gatekeepers can't dismiss me, relatable enough that my audience feels included.

I don't post it yet. I'll share it right before I head to the courthouse, maximize engagement.

My reflection stares back at me from the darkened phone screen. Twenty-eight years old, about to walk into a media circus where every established journalist will be looking for reasons to discredit me. Too young, too pretty, too focused on entertainment over hard news.

They don't get it. My generation doesn't trust talking heads reading from teleprompters. They want real people, real reactions, someone who feels like a friend explaining the insanity of the world.

That's what I do. That's what I'm good at.

I move to my vanity, start on my makeup. Foundation, concealer, contour. TV lighting is unforgiving, and the courtroom sketch artists are even worse. Defined brows, a subtle smoky eye, mascara that makes my eyes pop without looking overdone. A bold lip, because why not? This is New York, and I refuse to disappear.

While I blend my highlight, my mind runs through everything I know about the case. Elena Vega, forty-two, found floating face-down in the heated pool house of the Sinclair family compound in the Hamptons. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Time of death estimated between midnight and two AM.

Veronica Sinclair, forty-one, her best friend since childhood, was the only other person on the property that night. Her husband was in London on business. The staff had the weekend off. Security footage shows no one else coming or going.

The prosecution says it was a crime of passion, years of resentment boiling over during a girls' weekend that turned fatal. The defense claims an intruder, a setup, reasonable doubt.

I don't know what I believe yet. That's the honest truth. I've watched every interview, read every piece of evidence that's been made public, listened to countless theories. Part of me thinks Veronica did it. Part of me thinks there's something we're all missing.

That's the part that excites me most. The unknown. The possibility that I might see something in that courtroom that everyone else overlooks.

My phone buzzes. My producer—well, my friend Maya who helps me organize content and manage my schedule—has sent a text: "You ready to make history?"

I fire back: "Born ready. Meet me outside the courthouse at 8:30?"

"Already got us coffee. You're gonna kill it."

The support settles something in my chest. I'm not doing this alone. I have my team, small as it is. I have my followers, hundreds of thousands of people who've chosen to trust my perspective.

I slip my laptop into my leather tote, along with two backup phone chargers, my press credentials, notebooks, pens, mints. I look like I'm preparing for war, and in a way, I am. A war for attention, for credibility, for the story that could define my career.

One last check in the mirror. Hair perfect. Makeup flawless. Outfit projecting exactly the right balance of serious and stylish.

I grab my coat—a long camel wool number that photographs beautifully—and take one final look around my apartment. The exposed brick, the plants I barely remember to water, the vision board above my desk covered in images: courtroom sketches, magazine covers, talk show sets.

Goals. Dreams. Possibilities.

"Let's do this," I whisper to the empty room.

I post my pre-recorded video, watch the likes start rolling in immediately, then lock my phone and head for the door. The courthouse waits, and with it, everything I've been working toward.

The elevator ride down feels longer than usual, my heartbeat a steady drum against my ribs. When I step outside, the cold hits me like a wall—sharp, crystalline, the kind of winter morning that wakes you up whether you want it or not.

I pull my coat tighter and start walking. Manhattan streams past in a blur of gray buildings and hurried pedestrians, everyone moving with purpose, everyone chasing something.

Today, I'm chasing the story of my life.