I went home by 6:30 PM after dropping off my client at her house and grabbing a cup of coffee from the corner stall. The sun had dipped beneath the skyline of San Agero, and the air smelled like smoke, dust, and the early whiff of dinner from homes I passed.
"Oh, Thea, you're home. What happened at your court hearing?" my mother called from the kitchen, stirring a pot of nilagang baboy. The scent of ginger and boiled pork broth clung to the warm air like comfort.
"We'll have to wait five business days for the decision," I said as I slipped off my leather sandals and placed them neatly on the rack. "But I think I'm going to win this one."
My mother looked over her shoulder with a smirk. "You're quite confident… I like that."
I smiled faintly as I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
"So, do you have any new cases?" my father asked, just emerging from the stairs. His voice still carried that crispness from his days in uniform, even though his back had slightly bent with age.
"Well, it's a high-priority one."
"That's good," he said, lowering himself into the living room chair. "What is it?"
I hesitated. Not because I was unsure, but because I knew where this would lead.
"I've been assigned to handle the case of Mr. Julian Landez."
There was a pause. A long, telling one.
My father's face tightened. "You're defending a criminal now, huh?"
I sighed, setting down my bag. "Not really. There's no case against him. And he's not on trial — he's dead, Dad. I'm investigating the incident at the request of his family. Let's not jump to conclusions based on online noise."
But my father was already shaking his head, muttering. "People like him get what they deserve. I saw a post last week about how he pocketed donations during the typhoon relief efforts in Silay. Men like that don't change."
He was a retired soldier, and ever since he'd been discharged, his radar for corruption had grown more… sensitive. If he even caught a whiff of a comment — no matter how unverified — suggesting someone was shady, he took it as gospel.
I remember how I had to show him actual documents to convince him that one of my past clients had been wrongly accused of homicide. Another time, it was CCTV footage to prove an elderly man hadn't stolen from a sari-sari store but had actually dropped coins by accident.
"Allegations don't equal truth, Dad. I thought you taught me that."
He grunted in response, turning his attention to the news bulletin flashing on TV. My mother gave me a look — the kind that said "don't bother." I took a deep breath and let it pass.
I went up to my room and sat by my desk, opening the file Mina had handed me. Julian Landez. Barangay Silay. Killed in an explosion — a targeted detonation rigged to his campaign vehicle. No suspects. No leads. Just a grieving family and a lot of speculation.
I glanced at my planner.
Tomorrow afternoon, I had two counseling sessions scheduled before I could even make the trip to Silay. No rest, but that's the job.
I flipped through the first few pages of the case. Something about it felt off. Not just the way he died, but how clean the aftermath appeared.
Too clean.
I stared at the name for a moment longer, then reached for my pen.
Let's see what happened, Mr. Landez.
"Right, I forgot about my online lecture."
"Oh dear," a sarcastic voice echoed from the hallway—my older brother, undoubtedly. He must've overheard me from his room. Probably reclining like a prince with his headset on, pretending to be busy with work calls while playing strategy games.
I rolled my eyes and muttered, "Mind your own business, Kuya."
Back in my room, I opened my laptop and glanced at the time—6:54 PM. Just in time.
I plugged in my earphones and joined the session. My professor's voice filtered through the speakers, already halfway through a discussion on the inconsistencies of plea bargaining in politically motivated cases. Fitting.
As I settled into the rhythm of the class, I opened a separate document beside my notes—the preliminary report on the Landez incident. A few bullet points stood out:— Male, mid-40s— Julian Landez— Barangay Captain candidate of Silay— Died via car explosion— Suspected to be a planted device— Under media attention due to political rivalry
I leaned on my elbow, listening with half an ear to the professor, the rest of my mind drifting to the trip I'd have to make tomorrow. Silay wasn't exactly far, but it wasn't somewhere I visited often either. And even from early accounts, it was already clear:This case wouldn't be clean.
When class ended, I saved everything and closed the tabs. My brain ached, not from the lecture, but from the weight of what was to come.
Tomorrow, I'd step into the wreckage of Julian Landez's death—and the mess that was left behind.
The alarm rang at exactly 5:30 a.m.
I was already awake.
Lying still in bed, I stared at the ceiling while quietly reviewing the checklist in my mind. Clothes — ironed and ready. Files — all compiled. Mental preparation? Not quite.
I finally sat up, brushing my hair to the side as I looked at the folder I had left open on my desk the night before. Landez. Silay. Explosion. Politics. I hadn't even stepped into that barangay yet, and already his name was louder than most of the clients I've handled in the past.
I freshened up quickly, pulling my hair back into a neat low bun as I dressed in a pressed gray blouse, black slacks, and my usual modest heels. Nothing flashy. I wouldn't be standing in a courtroom today—I was stepping into something more uncertain. A different kind of confrontation.
Downstairs, I found my mother already in the kitchen, cooking.
"You're awake already? I packed your lunch," she said, not turning from the stove.
"Thanks, Ma." I kissed her cheek and took the lunchbox she had neatly prepared. "I might not be home for lunch. I'm heading somewhere after work."
She glanced at me, concerned. "Is this about that Landez case?"
I nodded as I poured the coffee she had already set aside for me. "I'll go to the firm first, but after that, I'm heading to Barangay Silay. I want to make sure the family's request was sincere—and not just for appearances."
She gave me a look, eyebrows raised. "Be careful, Thea. Explosions like that aren't just accidents."
"I know," I said, quietly.
At 7:15 a.m., I was already in a hired car, heading to the Bright Espiritu Law Office. The streets still glistened from last night's rain. The sun had just begun to peek through the city skyline, casting golden light over the buildings and shadows across the glass windows like something ominous was waiting beneath.
My phone vibrated. A message from Mina:
Mina Bright "Briefing at 8 sharp. Conference Room B. Julian Landez dossier has new additions. Come prepared."
I quickly typed a reply:
"On my way."
As the car turned onto Sagrado Avenue, I leaned my head back and quietly said to myself:
"Let's find more about Julian Landez."
I arrived just on time.
The elevators opened to the quiet hum of the 8th floor. I walked briskly toward Conference Room B, the halls still relatively empty, save for the occasional early riser in tailored suits and purposeful silence. The smell of fresh paper, old coffee, and ambition lingered in the air — a scent I had grown used to.
Pushing the door open, I was greeted by Mina Bright's poised figure, already seated with a spread of folders arranged across the table. Her eyes flicked up, sharp and expectant, as if she'd timed my arrival to the second.
"Good. Sit," she said, gesturing to the seat beside her. "These just came in."
She handed me a fresh stack of documents—clean, crisp, and heavier than they looked.
"The Landez file," she added. "Expanded."
I opened the first folder.
Campaign Records. Photos of community events. Financial statements. Volunteer lists. It was a surprisingly clean trail. No missing funds. No questionable affiliations. All receipts were intact, permits signed, and endorsements genuine. If there was something suspicious here, it was how ordinary it looked.
"He ran a textbook campaign," I murmured.
"Not even a typo," Mina replied dryly. "Too clean for someone who was expected to win."
I flipped open the second folder.
Family Records. A scanned ID of his wife, Rosa S. Landez, age thirty-seven. A medical note confirming her pregnancy, four months along. Two children enrolled in kindergarten at the nearby Silay Elementary. Their drawings were paperclipped to the back — one of them had scrawled a stick-figure family with a smiling sun. Julian Landez was 46 at the time of his death.
"She was the one who filed the request?" I asked, glancing at Mina.
Mina nodded. "Personally. Walked into our front desk with tears and everything. Said she didn't want this swept under the rug. No police bribery. No politics. Just truth."
I didn't respond. Not yet.
I turned to the third folder — the one I hadn't wanted to read.
Autopsy Report. The photos were tucked behind the paperwork, but I didn't need to see them to feel the weight of it. The damage was extensive — multiple compound fractures, third-degree burns, organ rupture. The report confirmed that if the blast hadn't killed him instantly, the pain alone would have.
I swallowed.
Even the medical examiner's handwriting seemed hesitant. As if they were reluctant to describe what was left of him.
The room was quiet for a moment.
I finally opened the fourth folder.
Legal History. Blank. Not a single case filed against him. No harassment claims, no land disputes, no corruption allegations. Just a handful of online posts — vague criticisms about being "too good to be true" or "probably hiding something." Rumours. Internet fodder.
"I can't blame them," I said under my breath.
Mina looked at me.
"After what happened in Marquez's case," I continued, "it's hard not to be suspicious of people who seem perfect."
Mina tapped her pen on the table once. "Difference is, Marquez had skeletons. Landez? Just a quiet campaign, a clean record, and a bomb planted under his car."
I leaned back in my chair, the folders still open in front of me like an unsolvable puzzle.
No enemies. No dirt. No warnings.
And yet, someone wanted him dead.
I closed the last folder and leaned back on the leather chair, eyes lingering on the grainy black-and-white image from the autopsy report. Whoever Julian Landez was, either he kept his enemies well hidden—or there were none to begin with. And yet, someone had wanted him dead badly enough to rig his vehicle with explosives.
I stacked the files neatly and slid them back into the envelope Mina had prepared. I had two counseling sessions lined up in the afternoon—both emotionally taxing, both requiring me to be completely present. No room for distractions or a wandering mind. But a part of me was already in Barangay Silay, mentally tracing the outline of a case that didn't quite sit right.
"I'll head there once I'm done with both court counseling sessions," I murmured to myself. "No delays."
For now, I had to compartmentalize—something every good lawyer masters early. Focus on the living, on the victims still breathing. The dead could wait… for just a few more hours.
My first client for the day was a mother of three, her hands trembling as she clutched a small zippered pouch that never left her lap. Her daughter had been the target of an attempted kidnapping outside their local elementary school. Thankfully, the school guard had intervened in time, but the trauma was fresh. The girl hadn't spoken since the incident.
The mother sat across from me in the private consultation room. Her eyes were swollen, but her voice was clear. "I just need to know what happens next, Attorney Althea. They caught the man, but he… he keeps claiming it was a misunderstanding."
Misunderstanding. That word again. I'd heard it from predators, abusers, and manipulators. It never got easier.
"He's currently in police custody, ma'am. The school's CCTV and the witness reports make it clear this was not a misunderstanding. The case will be pursued," I assured her calmly. "We'll push for no bail. You don't need to worry about him getting near your children again."
She broke down in relief. I gave her a few tissues and let her cry. Sometimes, what they needed wasn't legal expertise — it was assurance that someone still believed in justice. Someone who wouldn't let fear silence the truth.
We spent the next half hour going through procedures. I explained the protection orders she could file, the emotional support her daughter might need, and how we would handle the trial. When she left, she thanked me five times. I just nodded, told her to message if anything felt off, and moved on.
Second Counseling – 3:00 PM
The atmosphere shifted sharply the moment I stepped into the second room.
This time, I was facing a boy no older than sixteen. Pale skin, blank expression. His hands were cuffed. A social worker stood in the corner, watching closely.
The case file was already open in front of me. Victim: Male, 28 years old, foreign national. Deceased at the scene. Suspect: Minor. Motive: Unknown.
He wouldn't speak. Not even his name. The arresting officers said he was calm, eerily so, even while covered in blood.
"He hasn't spoken since the arrest?" I asked the social worker.
"Not a word," she replied quietly. "But there's no doubt he did it. The weapon was still in his hand."
I looked at the boy. He didn't flinch. His eyes were glassy, but I could tell there was something behind them — something twisted or maybe deeply wounded.
"Did you know the victim?" I asked gently.
No reply.
"Was he hurting you? Did you feel threatened?"
His eyes twitched, just slightly.
That was enough. I wrote a note down for psychological evaluation. This wasn't a simple case. No one just kills without a reason — especially not someone this young.
"I'll take your case," I said.
The social worker raised an eyebrow. "You're sure?"
"I'll file a motion for clinical assessment," I replied. "Until then, keep him away from media, and no interrogations without me present."
The boy finally looked at me.
It was just one second. But it felt like he saw something in me — or maybe recognized something.
That was the moment I knew: this wasn't the end of his story. This was the beginning of another storm.
I stepped out of the room, letting the door close quietly behind me. The hallway was silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioning. I stood still for a moment, holding my breath like I always did after difficult sessions.
I couldn't help but think — lately, the cases I've been getting are never just what they appear to be. They always unravel. Always lead to something deeper, darker, heavier.
It wasn't just a child nearly abducted. It wasn't just a boy who killed a foreigner. No, they were threads — pulled from knots that hadn't even been untangled yet. Complicated. Dangerous. And somehow… connected.
I stared at my reflection in the glass panel beside the door. I didn't look tired. But I felt it.
"You're in too deep, Althea," I muttered under my breath.And then I turned away — because I had one more trip to make before the sun set.