Orla Moreau entered the sterile visitation room of the detention center with purposeful strides. Her designer heels clicked against the cold concrete floor, echoing in the sparse space. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who belonged anywhere she went.
On the other side of the partition glass sat Colette Blackwood. Her usually immaculate appearance had deteriorated after just one night in custody. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. Her hair hung limply around her face.
"Mother," Orla greeted coolly as she took her seat.
Colette leaned forward eagerly, pressing her palm against the glass. "Orla, darling. Thank God you're here. This is all a terrible mistake."
"Is it?" Orla's perfectly manicured fingers drummed against the metal counter. "The police seem quite convinced of your involvement."
"Nonsense! I've done nothing wrong." Colette's eyes darted nervously. "You must get me the best lawyer. Your father would have wanted—"
