The Sterling study had always been a room of quiet authority. Dark wood, leather-bound books, the faint scent of pipe tobacco and lemon polish. It was Jonathan Sterling's sanctuary, where he solved problems and steered the family ship through calm and storm. Today, it was a courtroom. And the accused sat in a high-backed chair, facing the bench of her family.

Lara had been cleaned up, as if for an execution. Her mother, with red-rimmed eyes, had practically scrubbed her, putting her in a simple, severe grey sweater and trousers, clothes that felt like a penitent's sackcloth. The yellow dress, the last remnant of the girl she had been, had been bundled away, a piece of evidence disposed of.