Page 16 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

He pauses, glancing down at the polished wood of the witness stand before meeting Carrie’s gaze again.

“I sent him on trips, had him managing deals, resolving conflicts. It kept him away from home for weeks, sometimes months at a time. It caused… strain. Isabella felt abandoned, and she wasn’t entirely wrong.

She was trying to raise two boys while her husband was rarely there, and I,” his voice catches, but he powers through.

“I facilitated that distance. I bear responsibility for it.”

“So you’re saying the lack of presence from her husband, in part due to your decisions, contributed to Isabella’s alcoholism?”

“Yes,” Alfred says firmly. “It wasn’t the only factor, but it didn’t help.

When Chris was home, there were arguments.

Resentment. Isabella felt unsupported, and that frustration built over the years.

I should have seen it, stepped in somehow, but I didn’t.

And when she started drinking…” He shakes his head.

“It became her way of coping. And it cost her everything.”

“How did this impact her relationship with Zane?”

Yvette stands again, practically spitting her objection. “Your Honor, this line of questioning is leading!”

Carrie raises her hands defensively. “I’m establishing context.”

The judge sighs, motioning for her to continue.

Alfred hesitates, glancing down at his lap before meeting her gaze. “She wasn’t kind to him. Her anger… her pain… she took it out on him. He bore the brunt of her frustrations.”

“And Alex?” Carrie asks gently. “Zane’s younger brother?”

Alfred falters for the first time. “She… she ignored him, mostly. Alex was a sweet boy, but he didn’t demand her attention the way Zane did. In her eyes, Zane was the problem. Alex… was invisible.”

“Mr. VonKrauss,” Carrie begins again, “do you believe Zane’s actions were premeditated?”

Alfred’s gaze hardens. “Absolutely not.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Because I know my grandson,” he says firmly. “Zane is not a monster. He’s not a killer. He’s a boy who was pushed to his breaking point.”

Carrie steps back slightly, giving him room to speak. “Can you elaborate on what you mean by that?”

“Isabella… she wasn’t just an alcoholic. She was cruel. She belittled him. Hurt him. Zane grew up in a house where love was conditional and scarce. He did what he could to protect Alex, but…” He trails off, his voice cracking. “There’s only so much one person can take.”

Carrie lets the words hang in the air for a moment before speaking again. “Mr. VonKrauss, would you say that Zane acted in self-defense?”

“I would,” Alfred says without hesitation. “He acted to protect himself and his brother. If he hadn’t… I fear both boys would’ve suffered unspeakable consequences.”

Yvette slams her hand on the table as she rises again. “Objection, Your Honor! This testimony is speculative and biased!”

The judge raises a hand to calm the room. “Sustained. Jury, disregard that last statement.”

Carrie turns back to Alfred. “One last question, Mr. VonKrauss. Do you believe Zane regrets his actions?”

Alfred meets her gaze, his eyes glistening. “Every day of his life.”

The camera cuts to Zane and he rubs his thumb across his lower lip, trying to hide a smile. The fucker. I can’t tell if he’s entertained by the circus his grandfather’s putting on or if he’s just biding his time to tear it all down later. Either way, it’s infuriating.

Alfred’s practically breaking himself into pieces for Zane’s sake, and the bastard looks like he’s barely holding back a laugh.

If I’d so much as witnessed something like this growing up, my parents wouldn’t have hesitated for a second.

They’d have handed me over to the cops themselves, probably with a lecture about morality and “facing the consequences of my actions.” But I guess things work differently in families like Zane’s.

When you’re rich enough, even murder is something you can argue your way out of.

Carrie’s voice snaps me back to the courtroom. She’s circling Alfred now. “Mr. VonKrauss, you mentioned earlier that Zane acted to protect himself and his brother. Is that also the belief of his father, Christopher Valehart?”

“Yes. Christopher believes the same.”

“So why isn’t Christopher Valehart here today, testifying on behalf of his son?”

“Christopher is a grieving—”

“Grieving. That’s one way to put it.” She turns toward the jury, spreading her hands. “Christopher Valehart has taken on over twenty-eight thousand cases in the last two decades. Of those, he brought two hundred eighteen to trial and won every single one. Every. Single. One.”

“This is the man who once defended a client accused of fourteen murders. There was DNA evidence tying that client to the crime scenes, fingerprints, and even multiple eyewitnesses. And yet, Christopher Valehart managed to win that case. He’s decorated, celebrated, practically untouchable in the courtroom.

But he couldn’t be here today. For his own son.

Isn’t that a little shocking, Mr. VonKrauss? ”

Yvette leaps to her feet. “Objection, Your Honor. The prosecutor is editorializing and attempting to sway the jury with irrelevant details.”

The judge nods. “Sustained. Ms. Loeser, please stick to the facts.”

“Let me rephrase. Mr. VonKrauss, wouldn’t you agree it’s odd that Christopher Valehart, a man known for his unmatched dedication to his clients, couldn’t find time to defend his own child?”

“Christopher… has always had a complicated relationship with Zane. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t support him.”

“Doesn’t support him? Or can’t bring himself to look Zane Valehart in the eye while he sits in this courtroom, pleading not guilty to the deaths of his wife and son?”

Yvette slams her hand on the table. “Objection, Your Honor! Speculative and inflammatory!”

The judge nods again. “Sustained. The jury will disregard that statement.”

Carrie lets a small, satisfied smile play on her lips as she turns back to the judge. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

I’m about to close the screen when my phone buzzes on the bed next to me. My heart jumps, stupidly, and I grab it so fast I almost drop it. But the excitement fizzles out just as quickly as it came.

It’s not Zane.

It’s an email.

From Dr. Harrington.

My eyes scan the subject line: Project Approval Reminder. I try to push away the disappointment as I open the email.

Apparently, the ethics board still has issues with my proposal, and if I don’t fix it and resubmit by midnight, it’ll get delayed again.

“Fuck.” I toss the phone onto the bed. Of course, I forgot. Between this trial and Zane’s ridiculous radio silence, it’s a miracle I remember my own name, let alone deadlines.

My eyes turn to the laptop in front of me, still open to the trial feed. Zane’s face is frozen on the screen.

The idea hits me all at once. I sit up straighter, setting the wine glass on my nightstand and clicking over to my project folder. Psychological Case Studies. The cursor blinks at me, almost daring me to type.

Zane Valehart.

It’s not just an idea, it’s the idea. The perfect one. He’s everything this class is about: deviant psychology, moral dissonance, environmental influence. He’s the perfect case study. The only problem?

He’s not returning my messages.

My brain starts arguing with itself, the way it always does when I’m about to do something that’s probably a bad idea.

This is insane. You don’t have enough access to him.

But what if I can get it?

He’s ignoring you.

So? I like a challenge.

I type his name into the document anyway.

The second it’s written, I pause and read it over, biting the inside of my cheek.

The title alone feels like I’m biting off more than I can chew.

Zane isn’t exactly the open-book type, and without his cooperation, I don’t have a lot to go on that isn’t public knowledge.

The court records, the interviews, the media circus, they’re a starting point, sure, but they’re shallow.

Surface-level. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s shallow work.

I pull up the project submission form, staring at the blank fields.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, and I start typing. The layout comes together faster than I expect. Background research, psychological profiling, interviews (if I can manage to get Zane to talk to me), and the overarching question: is Zane a product of his environment, or a true outlier of human behavior?

I hit submit before I can talk myself out of it, and the confirmation screen pops up. My wine glass is back in my hand before the reality of what I’ve done fully sinks in.

“This is stupid,” I whisper to myself, taking a long sip. “So fucking stupid.”

I glance at my phone again, at the message thread still sitting there like a big middle finger. The last message I sent to Zane stares back at me, taunting me with its patheticness.

How the fuck am I supposed to write anything meaningful if I can’t get into his head? The thought makes me want to throw something. Instead, I drain the wine glass and slam it onto the table a little harder than I meant to.

I shouldn’t be here.

Every step closer to the glass doors of Valehart LLP feels like a step into traffic. The kind you see coming but don’t bother dodging.

I stop just outside, my reflection staring back at me from the towering black windows.

My hair is frizzy, I have under-eye bags, and a tote stuffed with documents I barely understand.

The firm’s name is etched in silver above the revolving door like it belongs to another world. One I have no business stepping into.

This is a bad idea, Faith.

I tell myself that again, even as my legs carry me forward.

I head straight for the front desk, already holding out the manila envelope I need to fax.

“Hi, I need to use the fax machine. It’s important. I’m submitting a deferral request. College deadlines are today, and I was told your firm has public fax access.”

“We don’t.”

“But I was told that some law firms allow.”