Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rain. How perfectly ironic. Edgeworth snapped his umbrella shut, shaking water from the folds as he entered the dank apartment building. Gray eyes travelled around the room with careful calculation, the brain behind them already forming theories about a case he wasn’t even sure he was taking.

Tenants get their mail here at the lobby door. It wouldn’t be difficult to observe someone from the street and learn their habits. His gaze darted from crack to hole to mismatched stroke of paint and back again. Money is not a motive. I can’t imagine anyone who lives like this having something worth stealing.

“Hey! Don’t touch anything until Prosecutor Edgeworth gets here, pal!”

Edgeworth inclined his head towards the stairs, annoyance curling his lip as he started the short trip to the second floor. If the killer had been looking for a victim of opportunity, they would have chosen someone downstairs. It’s unlikely every tenant on the ground level was gone at the time of the murder, so there must have been a specific target. Wood panels creaked under his feet, hidden somewhere beneath a layer of carpeting that was repulsive both aesthetically and bacterially. No, money was definitely not a motive.

He stopped at the top of the flight, taking a moment to peer down the hall before actually stepping into the corridor. Gumshoe said it was the second door on the right. It seems the victim had several neighbors. Someone had to have heard something, especially at two in the morning when there’s no bustling activity or heavy traffic to mask the sound of a gunshot. He entered the apartment, immediately noting it was cold and poorly lit as well as in a general state of disarray, each footstep summoning a puff of dust around his shoes.

“Prosecutor Edgeworth, you’re here!”

Edgeworth forced himself to acknowledge the familiar presence, fingers rising to rub the equally familiar sensation of a migraine forming. “Yes, it appears I am. Tell me, Detective, did you or your men look for a distinct set of footprints in this dust, or did you trample all over the crime scene without paying attention to anything at all?”

Gumshoe blinked. “Uh…”

“Never mind,” Edgeworth sighed. “Where is the body?”

“Well, sir…” Gumshoe rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish in that ‘kicked puppy’ kind of way that always accompanied a blunder. “To be honest, I don’t think you needed to come out for this one. We got it pretty much nailed. Our suspect is down at the precinct, and most of the evidence is already on the way to your office.”

Edgeworth arched a brow, not bothering to keep the irritation from his face. “You didn’t think to call and tell me this before I drove all the way here in such miserable weather?”

Gumshoe kept rubbing his neck, looking at anything but Edgeworth’s face. “I, uh, I didn’t want you to talk and drive in the rain, you know… it’s really dangerous.” He jumped then, a big grin parting his lips as he apparently remembered a redeeming feature of the situation. “This case is a lot less depressing than your usual cases, though!”

If there had ever been a moment when Edgeworth considered the man in front of him to be relatively intelligent or competent human being, he recanted the thought immediately.

“It’s a self-defense case. So, you know, there’s not really a bad guy here. Or, I guess, there is, he’s just, y’know, dead.” Gumshoe laughed again, broad shoulders bouncing.

“Murder never bears good fruit.” Edgeworth tapped his upper arm and lectured the man in a low, almost deadly tone of voice. “You would do well to remember that, given the fact you’re a detective. It’s your job to catch the criminals, not civilians. If someone had to use self-defense, it’s only proof the department isn’t doing its job properly.”

Flinching back, Gumshoe returned to rubbing his neck. “Right, sir. Sorry, sir. I didn’t think about it that way, sir.”

Edgeworth struggled not to roll his eyes. “Clearly,” he drawled. “Can you at least tell me if there’s anything I need to do right here, right now, at the crime scene, tonight?” He figured being as specific as possible was best when dealing with Gumshoe.

“I didn’t let the boys move anything in the bedroom—that’s the crime scene—because I thought you might wanna take a look. Thought it might be a little better than pictures.”

Incredibly, a shred of intelligence has been shown. Outwardly, a nod was all Edgeworth offered, pushing past the detective and down the short hall to the master bedroom. It looked fairly typical, with jewelry scattered across the carpet, a toppled bookshelf, and a full-length mirror broken on the floor. His eyes wandered to the red splatters on the bedspread as well as the middle-aged man at the foot of the bed who, presumably, was their source.

That’s not right. Edgeworth gave the body a wide berth at first, observing from a distance as he tried to figure out how the victim died in a sitting position, slouched over and somewhat lilting to the side, if he was the aggressor. It almost seems he was sitting down when he was killed. Unless the body was moved after the fact, but that seems unusual for a self-defense case. Crouching down, he took a glove from inside his coat and slipped it on, picking up the necklace closest to him. Cheap. He followed the angle of impact with his eyes and eventually wound up at the top of a dresser. I understand not purchasing a box for the jewelry if it wasn’t valuable, but…

Frowning, Edgeworth made a sweeping motion with his arm, trying to imagine doing so in the middle of a fight. He stood up and moved closer, turning around to try falling backwards with the same kind of motion. It’s possible, I suppose. She grabbed the dresser for support while backing up and dragged the jewelry over the edge. He ruminated on it a moment more and then decided to inspect the next thing.

Edgeworth approached the mirror and fingered the mangled corner, looking at the half-torn sticker at the bottom. Wal-Mart, and I believe the color of the sticker implies a clearance price. He looked at the bookshelf, scowling for several moments before abandoning it in favor of a closer look at the body that had rubbed him so wrong.

I’m no medical examiner, but I’m going to say single gunshot wound to the chest is our COD. It probably didn’t take long to die, if it took any time at all. He leaned forward and sniffed. Interesting. I’m anxious to learn how intoxicated he was. Standing back up, he made a few more mental notes—clothing, hands, bloodstains—and then looked at the doorway. He was shot here by someone in the doorway. Isn’t that a bit backward for self-defense?

Turning his attention back to the bookshelf, he tried to view it as a defense attorney’s. Perhaps, he thought, his inner monologue sounding an awful lot like Phoenix Wright, the enraged husband pushed it over as a show of force. That could have made her feel threatened.

Or, a more cynical, familiar voice that sounded an awful lot like himself replied, it’s an inexperienced attempt to fabricate signs of a struggle. But he would withhold his judgement for now. It wasn’t an incredibly unlikely scenario, and he had seen cases with abnormal positions and circumstances before. Depending on what the defendant claimed happened, they might reveal an unusual but valid explanation.

Or they might trip over their own lies.

“Gumshoe.” Edgeworth stepped away from the corpse and peeled his glove off, dropping it into the detective’s hand. “Did Wright take the case?”

Receiving the trash far too enthusiastically, Gumshoe shook his head. “No, sir! He’s sick with the flu and said he can’t.”

That was off, too. Because, as infuriating as it was, Phoenix Wright would fight for an innocent person come rain or shine, rich or poor, peak health or literal deathbed. I’ll call him.

“I take it the trial is tomorrow?”

Gumshoe nodded sharply. “Yessir!”

“Have you talked to any of the neighbors? Did anyone hear or see anything?” It was difficult, after all, for a prosecutor to prosecute without at least one witness. Not that he couldn’t do it—because of course he could—but he wasn’t exactly hoping for such a situation to arise.

“Nobody was home when it happened, so we got nothing.” Gumshoe held his hands up helplessly.

“Nobody? Not a single person in the entire building was around to hear or see anything?” Edgeworth scowled, disliking the situation a little more with every detail he learned. “Interesting.”

“Yeah, I thought it was weird, too. But,” the detective shrugged, “the kid saw everything, so I think we’re good as far as witnesses go.”

Edgeworth’s brain took a beat of deafening silence to jump the gap Gumshoe had left in his details. “There was a child in the house?” He rubbed his temple more aggressively, trying not to raise his voice. “He saw everything, and you waited until now to tell me?”

“Well… uh…” Gumshoe opened and closed his mouth like a gaping fish, struggling to explain away his bumbling incompetence, and he finally settled on a weak, “It didn’t come up?”

Heaven help me. Edgeworth pushed past his useless partner for the second time that night, looking into the neighboring room. That would certainly be the bedroom of a child, yes. But it was empty, so he kept moving until he was through the living room and into the dining and kitchen area.

“Can I see Daddy now?”

That was the first thing Edgeworth clearly heard the boy say, and it brought back entirely too many unwanted memories.

“I wanna see my daddy. Please? Please, I wanna go to Daddy…”

“I know, sweetie, but you can’t right now.”

Edgeworth cleared his throat to get the officer’s attention and, once she looked up at him, gestured to the boy on her lap. “I need to speak with him.”

Glaring, the woman tightened her protective embrace. “He’s in shock. He doesn’t need to be questioned right now.”

Edgeworth arched a brow and crossed his arms, exuding displeasure. “Being shocked and being in shock are two different things, which you should know.” He glared. “The Initial Trial System ensures a three-day trial will commence the day after the crime is committed, and on top of that, the longer I wait, the less reliable my only witness is going to be. I need his statement now, before the details start fading, so I do apologize, but I don’t have time to wait.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Gumshoe’s booming voice cut her off.

“Hey, pal! Prosecutor Edgeworth needs evidence so he can… uh, be Prosecutor Edgeworth. If he doesn’t have witness testimony, he can’t prosecute, and that would make him… y’know, just plain old Edgeworth.”

That is so far from correct I don’t even know where to begin. Still, it was effective enough, and after a seething glare was sent his way, the female officer turned her attention to the boy on her lap.

“Arthur, this man is going to ask you some questions about what happened tonight.” She flashed a warm, kind smile at him. “We really need you to get the answers as soon as possible. Do you think you can give it a shot?”

Rubbing his eyes and sniffing, the blonde gave a mumbled, “Mhm.”

Edgeworth acknowledged the officer with a nod, understanding her perspective but unable to summon enough sympathy to risk evidence, and then he knelt in front of the chair. “Hello. My name is Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth. Arthur, was it?”

Arthur, presumably, nodded and curled up a little tighter. “Arthur Coleman, fourth grade, 522 Del Monte Street. My daddy’s phone number is (714) 547-3339.”

Edgeworth pursed his lips, noting the compulsive answer and its format, but he simply nodded. “Thank you. That’s very helpful. Now—”

“You’re welcome.” Arthur sniffed.

Edgeworth wet his lip and nodded slowly, somewhat peeved by the interruption. “Right... Can you tell me what happened here tonight?”

“Um…” Arthur breathed deeply and dragged his hands over his face, a few more cries shaking his shoulders before he managed to form words. “Um, Daddy came home acting funny, and… and Mom told him not to do that anymore, so… so, uh, she…” He blinked rapidly, fresh tears welling up in his light blue eyes and spilling over his cheeks. “She said to—to hide under the bed, and…” he cleared his throat, “…and, um, she told him to leave, or she would call the police… and then it got really loud and… noisy, um… and then there was a big bang, and ev-erythi-ng got re-ally qui-et and…”

Once the boy started gasping between every syllable, Edgeworth suspected he had gotten all he could, and his theory was confirmed a moment later when Arthur burst into tears. Standing up and stepping back, Edgeworth left the child to the very attentive officer and turned his own attention to his barely redeemable partner.

“Did you get all of that?”

Gumshoe nodded, entirely too proud of the meager accomplishment, and handed over a notepad. “Here you go, sir!”

Edgeworth took the booklet in hand and skimmed the contents. His punctuation and spelling are atrocious. But Gumshoe had taken notes about body language and emotional cues just like Edgeworth had taught him, so he supposed he couldn’t complain. “It’s sufficient.” He sighed and tucked the book away in his coat. “We’ll have to wait and see how the defense pleads before we do much more in the realm of investigation. Oh, how I loathe the first day of a trial.”

Gumshoe laughed, a bit nervous but a bit pleased. “I know you do, sir, but the paperwork and forensics take time. We gotta get the photos printed, and we—”

“I know that, but it’s inconvenient,” Edgeworth snapped. “Regardless, I was referring to the problem of not knowing what kind of case I need to build until I get there.” Not that he expected Gumshoe to understand. “It doesn’t matter. My point is, there isn’t much else I can do here, so I will see you in the morning, Detective.”

“Goodnight, Prosecutor Edgeworth!”

Edgeworth had already started walking away, and the farewell was met with an absent-minded, over-the-shoulder wave. His thoughts were already back at his office, organizing evidence and contemplating different ways the defense could possibly spin things.

“Hey, Detective Gumshoe, what are we doing with the kid?”

Edgeworth slowed, and he turned back towards the kitchen, rolling his eyes when Gumshoe shrugged. Completely out of answers, per the usual.

“Great question, pal! DCFS isn’t going to open a case in the middle of the night, and we haven’t found any living relatives in the area. Mom also couldn’t provide any friends or neighbors she wanted to turn the kid over to, so…” Gumshoe nodded toward the kid and then made a gesture with his hands. “I know it sucks, but it’s not like one of us can just take him home.”

“Uh, actually…”

Edgeworth saw Gumshoe’s gaze shift to a young man dusting for fingerprints, and he silently urged the two of them to hurry up and come up with a solution so he could leave.

“In a situation like this, if the precinct is too full, someone with legal authority can take temporary custody until the trial is over. Once the Initial Trial System went into effect, several states adopted a legislation to cut out or simplify the steps involving minors so trials could still be completed in three days. I know the precinct isn’t full right now, but…”

There was an awkward silence and several exchanged glances.

“Hey, don’t look at me, pal! I can barely afford instant noodles for myself!”

“I don’t think my wife would take that kind of surprise very well...”

“My apartment’s too small. I wouldn’t have any place to put him.”

Excuses were tossed around from person to person until there was no one left, and Edgeworth slowly lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Can anyone in this entire bloody unit accomplish anything? “Gumshoe,” he started, already regretting the words he had yet to speak. “How long would the boy need to be in the custody of a legal authority?”

“Should just be until the trial’s over, sir.” Gumshoe gave one of his big, toothy smiles.

Scowling, Edgeworth snapped his fingers and demanded a better response. “I do not have time for uncertainty, Detective. I need a definitive answer, and I need it now.”

Gumshoe winced. “I mean, again, it should just be until the trial’s over, but there’s always a chance something goes wonky.” He shrugged. “But we can make arrangements if we need to, so… if you’ve got a caretaker in mind, we can say definitively just until the trial’s over!”

 “Definitively isn’t… you… never mind.” Sighing, Edgeworth gestured toward the kitchen, knowing the boy was just out of sight. “Send him out. I’ll take him home with me.”

“What?” Gumshoe stared, jaw dropping and eyes bulging. “You, sir?”

Edgeworth lifted a brow, annoyed. “It’s the most efficient solution, and it can’t be that difficult to watch a single child for a few days.”

Gumshoe threw his head back laughing while the policewoman guided Arthur around the corner and into the living room. She gave Edgeworth a deadly glare, and he stared right back, utterly unfazed. He knew he wasn’t the best with children—he didn’t understand a single thing about them, to be sure—but it was only three days. He was hardly going to let the boy starve or drown, and honestly, what else was there to childrearing?

“Y’know I’m standing right here, right?”

Edgeworth met the fiery gaze of a traumatized, nine-year-old witness to a murder who was trembling with some combination of anger and grief. Perhaps I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. “Well, why don’t you stop standing there and march down to the car instead?” No, that’s ridiculous. If I can handle adults, I can handle children. They can’t be that different.

However, as Edgeworth followed Arthur out of the apartment, he noted with no small amount of unease that Gumshoe had yet to stop laughing.

Chapter Text

“Come along, and don’t trip over the rug.” Edgeworth stepped into his home and shed his coat, hanging it on the nearby rack before turning to take Arthur’s and do the same. He stopped, realizing with a bit of embarrassment the boy didn’t have one. Because they had left the apartment without one. Without getting any of Arthur’s belongings whatsoever, actually.

Sighing, Edgeworth let his hand fall back to his side. “We’ll have to go get your things before the trial tomorrow.” Which meant waking up earlier in the morning. Fantastic. “You can’t very well go without clothes.”

“Could’a told you that,” Arthur muttered with an eye roll.

Edgeworth gave him a sideways glance. “Then why didn’t you?”

Arthur shrugged, but there was some bite in his tone when he replied. “You didn’t ask.”

Edgeworth stared for a moment and then crouched down, making deliberate eye contact with his temporary charge. “Arthur, I am going to tell you something that will, hopefully, make your stay very smooth and uneventful: I am always, entirely, irrevocably, and unconditionally in charge. I don’t have the time or patience for an attitude.” He stood up and removed his cravat with a stare down his nose. “You didn’t have a coat to keep you warm and dry on the way here, and now you don’t have pajamas to wear tonight, all because you decided to be petty. You’re impulsively sabotaging yourself, and while that doesn’t affect me directly, it is irksome, and I won’t tolerate it. Understand?”

Arthur crossed his arms with a pout. “No.”

Edgeworth scowled, disapproval in his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said no.” Arthur reiterated slowly, as if Edgeworth were the dumbest person on the planet. “I don’t even know half the words you used. How’m I supposed to understand you? What, did’ja swallow a dictionary or something?”

Edgeworth went to pinch the bridge of his nose, as he often did when frustrated, but his fingers never made contact. “I wasn’t going to hit you.” He was certain he would look back at the moment and lament how idiotic he must have looked with his hand frozen in midair. “I was going for my nose.” He would probably lament how ineloquently his words were coming out, too. But for the moment, he just lowered his hand. “I would never hit you.”

Arthur watched him, all defiance gone from his eyes, replaced by fresh tears and fear. He swallowed thickly, chewing on his lip, and he didn’t relax in the slightest.

Edgeworth observed, meeting the anxiety with curiosity and suspicion as his mind took the revelation and ran with it. He responded like an abuse victim, but abuse was never mentioned as a part of this case. Not physical abuse, anyway. I imagine there was a fair amount of verbal abuse going on in that household… perhaps emotional, if there was an element of control and fear… He creased his brow and kept thinking, vaguely aware of Arthur’s bewildered stare. It’s possible the defendant’s motive wasn’t protecting herself, but rather, her son.

“Mr. Edgeworth?”

“What kind of clothing do you have?” Edgeworth asked suddenly, shifting to a new train of thought. “Do you have a suit or dress pants?”

Biting his lip, Arthur shook his head. “No. I never needed one before.”

Edgeworth contemplated the situation for a moment before accepting the most obvious option with a mild sigh. “I’ll have to take you shopping, then. It won’t be until after the trial tomorrow, but at least you’ll have something presentable for the last two days.”

Arthur continued to chew on his lip, stuffing his hands in his pockets and retreating into himself like a turtle. “But I like these pants.”

“You can’t wear the same pants three days in a row.” Edgeworth unlaced his shoes and slipped them off before walking into the living room and pulling the guard from the fireplace. He figured a damp and cold person of any age could use some warming up, and it had been his own failure that caused Arthur to be in such a state to begin with. “You can’t wear the same shirt that long, either.”

“Mom let me.” Arthur lingered in the archway with that ever-present, confusing mix of hostility and timidity in his red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t wanna change clothes.”

Edgeworth turned his head to deliver a sharp look. “What did I just get done telling you?”

Arthur shuffled in place. “That you’re in charge,” he sighed, eyes downcast.

“That’s—”

“A bunch of fancy words in charge.”

“—ri…” Edgeworth stared for a moment, struggling to summon a response, but he eventually went with a simple nod. He understands the important part, I suppose. Turning back to the fireplace, he said, “You can come in, you know. Just take your shoes off and leave them by the door.”

Arthur took a breath as if to speak, but Pess came bounding down the stairs before he could, barking in the joyous and energetic way that always brought a smile to Edgeworth’s face. She was the best part of coming home, her shining eyes and wagging tail doing wonders to ease the weight of the day.

Arthur, evidently, had a different perspective. He screamed the second he saw her, darting across the room and practically tackling Edgeworth to the ground. “Pick me up! Pick me up! Now, now, now!”

Edgeworth buffered, lost in the sudden hysteria, and it wasn’t until Pess came close enough to trigger another terrified scream that he jumped into action. “Pess, zurück!” Grunting, he got one arm underneath the boy while the other wrapped around Arthur’s waist. “Calm down, she won’t hurt you. She’s perfectly tame.”

“I don’t like dogs,” the boy blubbered, trying to climb higher. “I don’t like them, please get it away. I don’t like dogs, I really don’t like dogs.”

“Well—” Edgeworth huffed, “—what would you like me to do about that?”

Arthur buried his face in Edgeworth’s shoulder and held on tight, still pushing his feet against Edgeworth’s belt and hips to get farther from the ground. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I just don’t like them!”

Edgeworth took a deep breath, collected his thoughts, and looked around at the quickly growing list of things to deal with. There were dirty shoeprints on his cream-colored carpet, and the shoes that made those prints were now staining his shirt and pants. There was snot on his shoulder, Pess needed fed, Arthur was terrified, and there was still no fire in the fireplace.

“I need a minute to think.” Edgeworth attempted to put Arthur on the couch. “Just—"

“No, no, no! No, I don’t want to!” Arthur wrapped his legs around Edgeworth’s waist and somehow managed to wind his arms around the prosecutor’s neck even tighter. “Don’t put me down! Please, don’t put me down!”

Exhaling sharply, Edgeworth straightened back up and continued to hold the screaming, twisting form in his arms. “Arthur, this is absurd. She won’t come near you. Just—”

“No, no, no, don’t put me down, don’t put me—”

Edgeworth finally managed to untangle the limbs and wrestle Arthur onto the couch, catching his flailing ankles before the muddy shoes could do any more damage. “You need to calm down.”

“Pick me back up!” Arthur clawed at the burgundy suit.

Edgeworth grabbed Arthur’s wrists and tore them from his lapels with a stern, “That is enough.” It wasn’t quite a yell, but it was enough of one to be effective.

Arthur froze on the spot, still whimpering and sniffing but no longer behaving like the couch was on fire.

“Good.” Edgeworth blew his bangs out of his eyes and looked toward Pess, repeating the order to keep her distance. “Zurück.” She immediately obeyed, understanding the portion of the couch where her master currently knelt was not to be approached. Releasing Arthur’s wrists, Edgeworth shifted his attention to the boy’s feet, wrestling off the dirty, barely-held-together shoes. “I’m going to put these by the door, and I’ll be back. Pess won’t come near this end of the couch. Understand?”

Arthur didn’t seem to take the slightest bit of comfort from those words, but he didn’t move from the couch. Satisfied, Edgeworth took the shoes out to the foyer and returned to the train wreck his living room had become.

“I need to clean these footprints before the stains set, and then I’ll get a fire started. Pess is going to the kitchen to eat, so there is nothing to worry about.” Edgeworth made deliberate eye contact.

Arthur said nothing, gnawing on his lip, his skin growing noticeably red.

“If you keep that up, you’re going to hurt yourself,” Edgeworth chided.

Arthur didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t respond in any way; he just kept staring at Pess and chewing.

He probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. I suppose I’ll have to get some chapstick. But that was a problem for later. Right now, Edgeworth had floor stains and a hungry puppy and a cold child with no pajamas, so he went across the foyer to the kitchen with Pess trailing after. I think it’s safe to say this is not as easy as I thought it would be.

Still, he made a commitment, and he was determined to see it through. It was difficult, but Edgeworth had always enjoyed a good challenge, so he returned to the living room with cleaning supplies and got to work, glancing up every few seconds to see if Arthur was still crying.

He was.

Edgeworth groaned internally. “Arthur, there is nothing to be afraid of.”

Arthur hiccupped, knees to his chest and arms wrapped tightly around them. “So?” He wiped his face with his sleeve. “I’m still—” sniff, “—scared.”

Pressing the paper towels into the carpet, Edgeworth tried to veil his frustration. “That doesn’t make any sense. How can you be scared of nothing?”

“I don’t know!” Arthur cried, pushing back into the cushions even more as his voice cracked. “Haven’t you ever been scared of something stupid?”

Edgeworth opened his mouth. Oh.

Elevators. Perfectly safe, used by millions of people every day, and yet he couldn’t set foot in one. He was too afraid—too afraid of nothing—and when he thought about it that way… “Well, I might be afraid of something harmless, but I have good reason for it.” Which was a rationalization, and he knew that, but he didn’t like the thought of losing an argument with a   nine-year-old.

“Yeah, and so do I,” Arthur snapped through angry tears.

Edgeworth focused on cleaning the carpet. “Is that so?”

“Ya-huh.” Arthur sniffed, still curled up in a little ball on the couch.

“What reason do you have, then?” Edgeworth hated to admit he was wrong, but he knew it was about to happen. This is why you don’t make arguments before you’ve examined all the evidence.

“I…” Arthur shifted on the couch. “I used to have a dog…”

Edgeworth frowned slightly, putting the wet paper towels aside. “So, you used to like them.”

“Yeah,” Arthur spoke with a bit of a slur, and even though Edgeworth wasn’t looking, he had to assume the boy was once again gnawing on himself. “His name was Maelstrom. Daddy named him, not me. I wanted to call him Blackie. ‘Cause he was back all over.”

Edgeworth nodded his head, gathering up the garbage and supplies. “Ah. Very original.”

“Thanks,” Arthur said, missing the sarcasm entirely. “He was… the best dog ever—like, like ever—until he—got sick.”

“Did he die?” Edgeworth wanted to retract his question the second he saw Arthur’s face crumble, realizing he had chosen the wrong words, wrong tone, and essentially wrong everything. “I, uh, apologize. I didn’t mean to upset you, I…” He shook his head with a sigh. “Just… ahem, just tell me what happened.” Wait. “If you—If you want to, that is, of course.”

Thankfully, Arthur seemed to miss the awkward way Edgeworth was stumbling over his words just as much as he had missed the sarcasm. “He got really sick… and he came after me.” He put his chin on his knees. “He bit me… dragged me around…” He sniffed. “Everything hurt all over, and I had to go to the hospital and get a bunch of shots. Then I had to get more shots at home, and Maelstrom…” He trailed, leaving the rest of his perspective on the story unsaid.

Edgeworth pressed his lips together and offered a stiff nod. “Sounds like he contracted rabies.” And that would certainly be a good reason for a fear of dogs even when—or perhaps especially when—they were friendly and trained.

But Arthur didn’t say anything, so there was really no opening to ask, and Edgeworth wasn’t sure how to continue the conversation after that. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if he should even try to cultivate further conversation given the luck he had had so far, but he couldn’t not speak to the boy for three days straight, especially if he wanted the truth of what happened in the apartment.

“Arthur.” Edgeworth kept his voice soft, sitting on the floor in front of the couch. “I have never spent any time with children before, and I—”

“Yeah, I can tell.” Arthur rubbed his eyes with sleeves that were too damp to really help.

“…and I have difficulty understanding how other people feel.” Edgeworth cleared his throat. “I am very… logical, and I don’t…” He rubbed his temple with a sigh. “I’m trying to say I shouldn’t have disregarded your fear just because I don’t share it. I…” He averted his eyes, heat rising in his chest. “I don’t really know… what I’m doing, here, in this particular… so I ask you to please be patient with me.” He swallowed and forced himself to look at Arthur, watching the blonde head slowly lift, green eyes glassy. “Do you think you can do that, Arthur?”

Arthur gave a timid jerk of the head. “Yeah.” He dragged his arm across his eyes, and Edgeworth wondered if lotion could combat how raw and irritated the skin around them was. “Yeah, okay.”

Edgeworth flashed a small smile, something that required a bit of effort on his part, and then he got to his feet. “I still have to feed Pess and get a fire going. Are you hungry?”

Arthur shook his head immediately, which made Edgeworth suspect his witness wasn’t telling the truth, but he didn’t press. He had to get his house in order before he could even think about starting another debate with the emotionally unstable child. We got off on the wrong foot, but I can still do this.

He could almost hear Wright shouting, ‘Objection!’ from the other side of the city.

“Are you still cold?”

Arthur looked at the opposite end of the couch and shook his head, prompting Mr. Edgeworth to give a sharp nod and stick his equally sharp nose right back in his book. Arthur watched for a moment, lips twisting as he contemplated, and then he hugged his knees a little tighter and turned back to the fire. He liked Mr. Edgeworth. Maybe not as much as he liked his teacher, Miss Penelope, but he still liked Mr. Edgeworth. He was a kinda mean and kinda scary man, but he was also a kinda confused and kinda dorky man.

Yeah, he definitely dunno what he’s doing. Arthur hid a little grin behind his knees, nose wrinkling after a second when he caught a whiff of the mild odor from his sweatpants. They’re starting to smell funny… but Mom’s not here to do the laundry… He felt a chill run down his spine. I don’t want new clothes. I don’t like changing clothes.

He startled, seeing movement near his feet out of the corner of his eye, and he froze when he realized the large dog was sniffing him. He glanced to the left, but Mr. Edgeworth was lost in his book, so he looked back at the dog and stared in helpless terror. Go away. Go away, go away, go away! I don’t like you, go away! He pushed himself backward when she laid her head on the cushion, but to her credit, she never touched him. She was just too close.

Arthur swallowed and glanced at Mr. Edgeworth again but still got no help, so he took a moment to breathe and just watch the very calm, steady way Pess stood there. Her head was on the cushion, and he could hear a soft whine every few seconds, but she didn’t move closer, and she didn’t paw at the sofa. Slowly, shakily, Arthur extended a hand and let it brush against the top of her head—her fur was so soft, softer than Maelstrom’s had been, and he wondered why—and pet her a few times before drawing his hand in close.

“There,” he whispered. “I pet you. Now go away.”

Pess whined again, this time pressing her wet nose against his foot.

“Pess, leave him. Zurück.” Mr. Edgeworth didn’t even look up from his hardback, turning a page before continuing coolly. “If you pet her, you’re only encouraging her to come near you again.”

Arthur chewed his lip and inside of his cheek, the chapped skin stinging and in some places burning. Pess unhappily pulled her head off the cushion and trotted over to her master, who began stroking her fur with a soft smile on his face. Her eyes closed, and she enthusiastically wagged her tail to let him know how happy she was with the attention. No. Dogs are scary. I don’t like them.

Mr. Edgeworth eventually returned to his book, leaving Pess to complain a bit before she settled on the floor at his feet. Arthur flashed a weak smile and waved at her when she looked over, hoping it wouldn’t encourage her to come closer the way Mr. Edgeworth said petting her would. Because she really was pretty, and she wasn’t nearly as scary from a distance as she was up close. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

But then he remembered the trial. He remembered Mr. Edgeworth was going to try to put his mom in jail, and he remembered why she was on trial in the first place. He remembered coming around the corner and seeing his father on the floor, limp and bloody, with his mother standing over him. He remembered her grabbing his arm so hard it began to bruise, and he remembered her hitting his sides as she told him exactly what to say when the cops came.

“For Heaven’s sake, what are you crying about now?”

“I’m sorry.” Arthur responded instinctually, clenching his teeth and bracing himself.

For a second, there was nothing, but then the cushions shifted, meaning Mr. Edgeworth had gotten up. Arthur covered his head and waited, knowing he couldn’t stop whatever was about to happen, but the only thing that happened was a gentle hand on his knee.

“You don’t need to apologize for crying. I…” Mr. Edgeworth sighed, and when Arthur braved a quick look, the man was staring at the ceiling and moving his mouth in a silent struggle to find the right word. “I told you, I have… a hard time… with…”

Arthur watched the battle in Mr. Edgeworth’s head play out, heart pounding against his battered ribcage.

Sighing in defeat, Mr. Edgeworth dropped his gaze to Arthur’s face with an expression of weary helplessness on his own. “I was raised in a very strict household. Sometimes, I just respond to things in the way I’m accustomed to—sorry, used to—without thinking.”

Arthur sniffed, toes wiggling as he fidgeted anxiously on the couch. He chewed on the inside of his lips, knowing if he was too obvious, Mr. Edgeworth would likely tell him to stop. Which would probably be best for him considering he could taste blood, but that wasn’t the point right now. “You, uh… you, too?”

Mr. Edgeworth gave him a tight-lipped smile and a stiff nod. “Me, too.”

“So, you won’t…” Throat suddenly dry, Arthur cleared it and wet his lips, reigniting the burn. “You won’t hit me? Even if I deserve it?”

“No, I won’t.” Mr. Edgeworth’s voice was soft—softer than it had been since he stepped into the apartment and snapped at Mr. Gumshoe—and he didn’t seem sure of what to do with his hands or face, or even where he was supposed to look. “I would never hit you, even if you deserve it. Because I… don’t think you do deserve it. I don’t—my brain doesn’t work that way. Alright?”

Arthur blinked a few times, profoundly confused, but he nodded his head anyway. Mr. Edgeworth had just said he wouldn’t get hit, and while there was always a chance Mr. Edgeworth was lying, there was also a chance he wasn’t. Although, just to be safe…

“Do you promise not to hit me, Mr. Edgeworth?”

Still wearing that half-forced, half-nervous face, Mr. Edgeworth nodded. “I promise not to hit you. I promise I will never, ever hit you, Arthur.” And despite his general lack of confidence in the situation or the role he was supposed to play, he had no lack of confidence when he said those words.

But Mom says a lot of things, too. And she’s always confident. And they’re still not true. Arthur slowly nodded, still chewing on his lips, though he had graduated to the upper instead of the lower one. “Okay.”

“You really do need to break that habit of yours. They’re already chapped and raw. If you keep it up, you’ll be bleeding soon enough.”

“Sorry.” Arthur did stop, but his lips began to twist in the absence of his teeth gnawing on them.

Sighing quietly, Mr. Edgeworth shook his head, but there was a smile on his face. “It’s alright. I said that for your benefit, not mine. I’ll go fetch some chapstick.”

Arthur jerked his head in a nod, but when he saw his caretaker start to stand, a “Mr. Edgeworth?” burst up his throat without permission.

“Yes?” Mr. Edgeworth sank back into a crouch.

Swallowing, Arthur forced himself to breach the topic, not wanting to hear the answer but knowing he needed to. “Do you… have to put my mom in jail?”

Mr. Edgeworth sobered, his smile immediately gone. “If your mother didn’t do anything wrong, then no. I would not put her behind bars for a charge with no evidence behind it. But if she did do something wrong, then I will find out. And then I will absolutely put her behind bars. It has to be that way, otherwise more people could wind up hurt.”

“But what about me?” Arthur blurted the words before he could stop himself. “I don’t wanna get hurt! don’t wanna go to foster care! I wanna stay here, with my school, and my friends, and, and…” His mouth moved as he struggled for words.

Mr. Edgeworth’s face was blank for a few more moments, and then he sighed softly. “I know. We’ll… just have to wait and see. Things will work out in the end.”

“Do you promise that, too?”

“I can’t promise that one, no, but I think there is a high probability of it happening.”

Arthur creased his brow, the stinging in his eyes temporarily abated by confusion. “And… what does that mean?”

“It means it’s very likely. I believe there’s a very good chance things will work out.”

“Oh.” Arthur nodded, gaze wandering downward. “I guess that’s better than no chance… or a bad chance…”

But it wasn’t a promise, and that meant things could go wrong. It meant his mother could still wind up in jail. It meant he could still end up alone. And Arthur couldn’t wind up alone.

He just couldn’t.

Edgeworth was pulled from his novel by the clock, eyes taking a moment to adjust and read the hands telling him it was midnight. Heaving a sigh, he grabbed his bookmark from the end table and put the book away. “Well, Arthur, I think it’s about time for you and me to—”

He stopped when he saw the boy passed out on the couch, arm hanging over the edge of the couch while the rest of him remained curled up on the cushion. Pess was on the ground right beside him, keeping watch as if she thought her eyes alone could protect him from all unseen threats and monsters.

Amused, but also feeling like he had just done something a responsible caretaker shouldn’t,  Edgeworth stood up and stretched with a deep inhale. He winced at the pop in his lower back, the relief always outweighed by the feeling of doing something undignified. “Come on, Pess. Bedtime.”

Pess jumped to her feet and headed for the stairs, and Edgeworth couldn’t help but smile, an expression that lingered as he turned his attention to the boy on the couch. So peaceful… so beautifully non-verbal…

And significantly less fearful.

Edgeworth leaned down and, after some deliberation, got Arthur situated against his chest. He replaced the fireplace guard with one hand, wanting to ensure the smoldering embers didn’t find their way onto the carpet, and then, with one last look around the room to confirm everything was in order, he flicked off the lights and started walking. Navigating the dimly lit foyer and hallway was easy, and soon he was peeling back the covers of the bed in the guest room. He lowered Arthur as carefully as he could and then stepped back, trying to think of anything he may have missed. I can’t do anything about the lack of pajamas. He shouldn’t need a nightlight because he’s already asleep. He didn’t wash up or brush his teeth, but again, he’s already asleep. He can do that in the morning.

Satisfied with the state his troublesome little guest was in, Edgeworth left the room and closed the door, making his way toward his own quarters. This is wrong. That thought had been popping in and out of his head ever since he examined the crime scene; the nagging feeling that had been eating away at his brain from the moment he met Arthur to the moment he was in. This is wrong.

Edgeworth grabbed his toothbrush and turned on the water, his brain still attempting to piece together the events of the evening. He said he didn’t want to be taken away because he didn’t want to leave his friends and his school. He didn’t seem at all concerned about being away from his mother. Brush. He refers to his father as ‘Daddy,’ but refers to his mother as ‘Mom.’ It’s the opposite of how things usually are. Spit. In fact, if I recall correctly, he was asking for his father when I walked into the kitchen. He didn’t mention wanting his mother at all when he should have, at the very least, been asking for them both. Brush. What was that little rehearsed introduction he gave me? Name, address, and… his father’s cell phone number. Spit. If the victim was an absent father, the mother would have taught Arthur to give people her number when he was lost. But he recited his father’s when, again, he should have at least memorized both. Gargle. He said he didn’t like dogs, but what he meant to say was that he was afraid of them. Did he mention not liking anything else? Rinse. He doesn’t like changing pants. No, wait… he said he likes his pants, but he said he doesn’t like changing clothes. If saying he doesn’t like something is his subconscious way of saying he is afraid something, why would he be afraid of changing clothes?

Edgeworth spit one last time and braced his arms against the counter, staring his reflection down as if he thought the double might offer something helpful. Because he didn’t have any evidence to back up those little psychological tics—nothing to prove they were associated with the case at all—and without evidence, it didn’t mean much.

But I do know one thing. His expression darkened slightly, hard lines drawn across his face, and he wasn’t sure if he was feeling determination or a hot, sharp bitterness in his chest. Something about this case is very, very wrong.

What? Edgeworth startled awake, subconsciously aware of a loud thump being the cause, and his bleary eyes searched frantically for the clock on his nightstand. 2:37. He had fallen asleep not twenty minutes prior. What on Earth…? Throwing the sheets back, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up, creeping to the door. He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting to see if the sound came again. He heard stark silence, a frown pulling on his lips as he looked over his shoulder. Pess was wide awake but not necessarily agitated, and more importantly, she was lying at the foot of the bed. It couldn’t have been her knocking something over, and it definitely wasn’t Edgeworth himself, so that left two options. It was either a home invader or—

“Mr. Edgewooorth!”

Edgeworth opened the door. “Arthur?” He squinted, trying to see if the boy was coming toward him or if he had to go—Oof! Something collided with his waist, little hands pulling on his shirt while their owner wailed into his stomach. “Arthur, calm down.” He went to his knees, trying to get a look at Arthur’s face but finding himself enveloped in a hug. “Arthur, you have to tell me what’s wrong. You have to calm down, and breathe, and tell me what’s wrong.”

Arthur shook his head, still screaming at the top of his lungs but offering no explanation as to why.

“Do you feel sick? Do you need a nightlight?” Edgeworth tried again to find Arthur’s face. “Couldn’t find the bathroom? Surely you didn’t get lost. My house isn’t that big.”

But the sobbing continued unhindered.

“Arthur, if you don’t tell me what the problem is, I’ll go back to bed and leave you out here to cry.”

“No!” Arthur tried to go one step further and wrap his legs around Edgeworth as well, practically climbing him. “No, no—no, please don’t—go back—to bed.”

“Then tell me what’s wrong,” Edgeworth repeated, taking Arthur by the arms and trying to form some semblance of face-to-face conversation. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Arthur stayed close, barely allowing any space between himself and Edgeworth. “Had a bad dream—about Daddy—and Mom.” He hiccupped in between the words, wiping his tears on his sleeve and successfully smearing the saline and snot all over himself.

“First of all, stop that. You only have one shirt, and you’re making a mess of it.” Edgeworth stood up and pulled Arthur into his bedroom, flicking on the light and fetching a tissue box from the dresser. “Second of all, you need to take a deep breath and calm down. Getting hysterical over a dream will not make it go away.” Trust me, I know. But he didn’t say that. He simply put a hand on Arthur’s head and waited for the boy to follow instructions.

Arthur tried to breathe, grabbing a tissue with a quiet, “Okay.” He blew once, twice, thrice… and then five or six more times. He pulled tissue after tissue from the box, wiping his face and muffling his cries in crumpled wads of white.

“Uh… there, there.” Edgeworth hesitantly pat Arthur’s head. “It’s alright.”

“I want my daddy…” the boy breathed, trembling as he stood there with a handful of tissues.

Edgeworth sighed. “I know, but I can’t help you with that.” He winced at his own words. “And I’m sorry about that. I… I wish I could help you with that.”

Arthur didn’t say anything, instead grabbing another handful of tissues and continuing to quietly cry, blowing his nose in between staggered gasps for air.

I don’t know what to do. Which was ironic and very much an understatement. Edgeworth had been plagued by bad dreams every night since his father was murdered, and even after his nearly twenty years of dealing with them, he still didn’t have a truly reliable or healthy method.

“Can I sleep with you, Mr. Edgeworth?” Arthur’s voice broke.

Edgeworth opened his mouth, unable to offer anything but a panicked, “Oh, well, uh—”

“Please?” Arthur wiped his face yet again and lifted his eyes from the floor, peering up at the prosecutor imploringly. “I don’t like—being alone.”

There’s that word ‘like’ again. Edgeworth could hardly send him back to the guest room knowing how terrified he would be, and it was indisputable that they both needed quality sleep before the trial.

“Alright.” Edgeworth lifted Arthur into his arms, freeing a hand to grab the tissue box as he returned to the bed. “I don’t suppose it would hurt this one time.”

For a split second, something like a weak smile pulled on his lips, and he seemed truly relieved, but then he changed. He stiffened up, eyes wide, and shook his head as he began to pull away. “N—no. No, that’s a bad idea. Sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I—I wasn’t thinking.”

Edgeworth frowned, not letting the boy scurry off just yet. “What’s the matter?”

“I told you, I wasn’t thinking,” Arthur insisted, sounding panicked. “I just wanna go back to my room and sleep. Okay?”

Gray eyes narrowed slightly, devoid of anger but certainly bearing suspicion and bewilderment. It took a moment, but when he contemplated the possible cause for the sudden change inside the context his own childhood experiences provided, the answer was obvious.

“Arthur,” Edgeworth started softly, waiting until the boy stopped wriggling in his arms to continue. “I won’t be mad if you wet the bed.”

Arthur froze, expression torn between shock and disbelief as his eyes slowly made their way up to the prosecutor’s face. “But…” He blinked. “You won’t?”

Edgeworth smiled softly, and he briefly wondered how many times he had done that in the past twenty-four hours. “No, I won’t. I promise. And if it makes you feel better…” he shifted Arthur onto the mattress and unwound his arms before moving toward the bathroom, “…you can sleep with a towel under you.” He didn’t wait for an answer, retrieving one from the closet and bringing it to the bed. “How’s that?”

Arthur took the towel timidly, biting down on his lip with a hesitant nod. “It’s, uh… it’s good. Th-thank you. Um, Mr. Edgeworth.”

“Mmhmm.” Edgeworth felt a yawn coming as he crawled back to his side of the bed, and by the time they were both settled under the covers in the dark, he was quickly drifting back toward unconsciousness.

“Thanks, Mr. Edgeworth. I, um, I really, really mean it.”

Edgeworth felt a little fist curl through his shirt, and he reached out blindly to rest his hand on whatever he could find of Arthur. “You’re very welcome. Now…” he blinked a few times, knowing the second his eyes closed, he was gone, “…mm, we both need to sleep, or we might find ourselves snoring in the courthouse tomorrow, and that would be rather inappropriate.”

Arthur giggled and then fell silent, curling up on his half of the bed while Edgeworth kept to his own, though he never fully let go of Edgeworth’s shirt.

I suppose, Edgeworth thought, watching the digital numbers change from 2:59 to 3:00. I suppose this isn’t all that terrible. There are worse things. Still, he would be relieved when his three days were up. Not that he didn’t like Arthur—he did, actually; more than he thought he would—childrearing just… wasn’t for him. He didn’t have the temperament for it, his schedule was always full and extremely unpredictable. Even without those factors, he didn’t have any kind of knowledge or understanding on how to do even a remotely adequate job. He wouldn’t be able to do it. It wasn’t for him.

It just wasn’t.

Chapter Text

Arthur grabbed onto Mr. Edgeworth’s hand as they crossed the street, eyes darting in every direction. He had never see a building so big and yet… so not square. He was used to seeing tall buildings in a rectangular shape, with their identical rows of windows and lights and fire escapes. But courthouses were not just tall buildings. They weren’t plain and square—they weren’t even skyscraper-y or tower-y—and they looked more like palaces to him, but they were so, so big.

“Have you ever been to a courthouse, Arthur?”

Shaking his head, Arthur leaned into Mr. Edgeworth’s side and held his hand a little tighter. “Huh-uh.”

Mr. Edgeworth glanced down with a light smile. “You don’t need to be afraid. It’s just a building, and there’s nothing inside but people.”

“Bad people,” Arthur muttered in reply, still looking all around himself, wondering if and when a boogeyman might jump out. “Scary, awful, mean people.”

Mr. Edgeworth looked surprised for a moment, but then he offered a smirk and a sideways nod. “True enough, but it’s my job to get rid of bad, scary, awful, mean people. You don’t have anything to fear. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Arthur nodded, but he wasn’t convinced. Wasn’t Mr. Edgeworth going to try and hurt him in court today? Or at least hurt his mother? Wasn’t Mr. Edgeworth going to get Arthur sent to an orphanage where he wouldn’t know a single soul? Wasn’t Mr. Edgeworth going to make it so he was more alone than he had ever been? Because all of that sounded like it was going to hurt.

“Hold on.” Mr. Edgeworth let go of Arthur for a moment to open the door, a black briefcase preventing his other hand from doing the job. “Go on.”

Arthur ducked his head and shuffled in, avoiding eye contact even though it looked like the building was mostly empty. Mr. Edgeworth came in after, and Arthur quickly grabbed the prosecutor’s hand, happy to be holding on to someone he knew.

“Um, Mr. Edgeworth? Can I… Can I go see my mom now?”

Edgeworth shook his head without so much as a glance in Arthur’s direction, but that was probably good, because Arthur wasn’t looking where they were going, so someone had to make sure they didn’t run into anything. “No, unfortunately. She has to stay in the defendant’s lobby until we’re in court. You’ll be near her when you’re on the stand, and when you’re done, you’ll go to the gallery. You won’t be close to her there, but you’ll be able to see her.”

“What’s, um…” Arthur almost tripped over his own feet, and he realizing he really should have been trying to watch where he was going. “What’s the gallery?”

“It’s a place where people can watch the trial without being down by the lawyers and witnesses and such. This way.”

“Huh?” Arthur yelped softly when they changed directions, his brain running a little behind the sudden jump from an answer to an order, but he kept his feet under him. “Um, Mr. Edgeworth?” he started, nervous about asking his question but not liking the thought of being somewhere so far away from anyone he knew.

“Yes?” Mr. Edgeworth started up a staircase.

Arthur followed obediently. “Can I just, um, like, stay with you?”

“Behind my desk?” Mr. Edgeworth snorted. “I don’t think so.”

Arthur stuck out his bottom lip, contemplating the idea of digging his feet in so they had to stop walking. “But why not? I wanna stay with you, Mr. Edgeworth!”

Mr. Edgeworth continued to drag him along, shaking his head. “I already said no.”

“But I don’t want to go to the gallery!”

Mr. Edgeworth screeched to a halt at the top of the steps, turning on the spot and glaring the young boy into silence. Arthur leaned back slightly—not so much he might fall down the stairs behind him—and bit the inside of his cheek to keep Mr. Edgeworth from noticing he was engaging in his chewing habit again. He stared, heart pounding, and waited for punishment.

“If I say the answer is no, it’s no. There’s nothing else to discuss.” Mr. Edgeworth narrowed his eyes with a very pointed, very intentional expression. “I am not about to waste my time explaining myself to a child. You do as you’re told. Understood?”

“But—”

“Am I understood?”

Struggling, jaw moving soundlessly as the desire to be heard and the desire to please battled in his mind, Arthur tried to form an answer. Eventually, the desire to please won, and he bowed his head with a quiet, “Yes, Mr. Edgeworth.”

Mr. Edgeworth didn’t say anything, turning around and pulling Arthur in the direction of… wherever it was they were going. Arthur kept his eyes down the entire time, tears welling up and forcing him to sniff the moisture away. He won’t even listen to me! I want Daddy!

“What are you crying for?” Mr. Edgeworth’s voice was terse.

“You won’t let me finish…”

“That’s because whatever you have to say is irrelevant. It’s not as if you can change my mind.” Mr. Edgeworth stopped outside a door and let go of Arthur long enough to fish around in his pocket and withdraw a set of keys. “I told you where you’re going to sit, and that’s where you’re going to sit. Simple as that.”

Arthur opened his mouth with an objection dancing on his tongue, but it never made it past his lips. He looked back down at his feet instead. It was pointless to argue. That was what caused him to cry in the first place: the helpless frustration he had to keep bottled up inside. I shoulda kept my mouth shut.

Mr. Edgeworth got them both into the room and closed the door behind them, leaving Arthur to his own devices as he made his way over to a nearby table with a box. He grabbed a note off the top and read it silently before setting it aside, murmuring about a pay cut as he pulled the flaps apart.

Hesitantly, Arthur slid the note toward himself, wiping his face on his sleeve as he scanned the words.

Hey, Prosecutor Edgeworth!

 

This is all the evidence we found at the scene! Sorry I didn’t take it to your office… looks like I lost the key… again. There’s some stuff for Arthur in the other box. I would have brought it over last night, but I had a weird fainting spell, and I guess it slipped my mind.

Good luck, Prosecutor Edgeworth!

 

Love, Gumshoe

Arthur giggled to himself, finding it silly the policeman from the night before would sign a letter to Mr. Edgeworth with ‘love.’ Detective Gumshoe was the first person to come when Mom called. Frowning, he abandoned both the note and the train of thought. He went to the second box—which supposedly had his ‘stuff,’ which hopefully meant toys—and wrapped his arms around it. He picked it up with a soft grunt and a little muscle, carrying it a few feet away and plopping down on the ground with it. Peering in, he quickly found a mess of socks and toothpaste and—ooh!

Arthur immediately snatched his bright green hoodie, wrestling it down over his head and humming to himself at the resulting warmth. So soft. So fuzzy. Still, clothing wouldn’t keep his mind occupied, so he looked again and lit up at the sight of a red racecar. He grabbed it, sadness all but gone, and continued to dig until he found the blue corvette that went with it.

Humming a little tune, Arthur started driving the cars around. He had plenty of space to work with, his hands steering the vehicles anywhere from the windowsills to the potted plants, underscoring the movements with the necessary sound effects all the while.

I wonder what Mr. Edgeworth’s box is for. The note said it was evidence, so… stuff for the trial? Maybe I should look… I don’t want anything in there to hurt Mom… He shook his head. He didn’t want to think about her; didn’t want to think about what she had done. He wanted to play, so he left his thoughts in the metaphorical dust and did exactly that, racing over the top of a television and underneath the tables.

“Are you quite enjoying yourself?”

Arthur jumped, having forgotten Mr. Edgeworth was in the room with him, and he wondered if he was breaking a rule without knowing it. “Um… yeah. Mmhmm.”

Mr. Edgeworth didn’t look angry. He offered a faint smile—which Arthur was realizing was the same as a regular smile for a normal person—and turned his attention to the bag in his hands. It seemed all was well, so Arthur continued to play, and a sense of peace settled over the room.

A peace that lasted until a young girl with strange hair and purple robes burst through the door with a loud, “Mr. Edgewooorth!”

She was followed by a man in jeans and a bright blue sweater who rubbed the back of his neck and nervously laughed from behind a surgical mask. “Hi, Edgeworth.”

Mr. Edgeworth acknowledged them with a nod. “Maya. Right.”

That doesn’t make any sense. Frowning, Arthur slowly approached the group.

“I heard you were sick,” Mr. Edgeworth continued.

Chuckling, the man waved it off. “It’s really not that bad. You shouldn’t worry about it.”

Purple Girl—who he assumed was called Maya—rolled her eyes and folded her arms, bracelets knocking against each other. “He’s got a fever of 102, and he was up all night coughing his guts out. I told him to take medicine, but he won’t listen to me!”

Mr. Edgeworth sighed, thoroughly exasperated. “You need to take care of yourself, right.” He looked at the girl, then, with a flat affect and dry tone. “Please keep an eye on him, Maya.”

Maya nodded enthusiastically, confirming that was definitely her name, and her lips parted in a broad, cheeky smile. “What do you think I’ve been doing? He’d probably be dead by now if it weren’t for me.”

The man’s jaw slackened. “Hey! I can handle myself, thank ya-choo!” He coughed into both the mask and the crook of his arm several times while Mr. Edgeworth looked on with raised eyebrows.

“Sure you can, right. You’re also an excellent defense attorney.”

Arthur tugged on Mr. Edgeworth’s jacket and waited until the gray eyes were on him instead of the stranger. “Are you guys friends? What’s his name?”

Mr. Edgeworth pointed to the man. “Right.”

Okay, so they were friends. “What’s his name?”

Mr. Edgeworth looked bewildered. “…it’s right.”

“About what?” Arthur asked, looking up at his caretaker’s friend.

Crouching down, the man rubbed the back of his neck and laughed. “My name is Phoenix Wright. W-R-I-G-H-T, like the brothers who invented the airplane.”

“Ohhh.” That made sense. His dad had taught him about the Wright Brothers. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Wright. I’m Arthur.” He held out his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Arthur, but we better not shake hands while I’m sick. Also, you can just call me Nick. Or Mr. Nick, if it’s more comfortable for you.” Mr. Nick smiled, and Arthur knew he was smiling even with the mask in the way because it was the kind of smile that went up to his eyes.

So, Arthur smiled back. He liked Mr. Nick.

But then Mr. Nick was looking at Mr. Edgeworth, and then he was using the grown-ups-are-saying-things-they-don’t-want-kids-to-hear voice as he tried to pull Mr. Edgeworth aside.

Mr. Edgeworth glanced at Arthur, and while he didn’t seem angry, he definitely wasn’t happy. “Arthur, stay in here with Maya, and behave yourself. I’ll be right back.”

Arthur bit down on his lip but stopped the second Mr. Edgeworth gave him a disapproving look. Don’t leave. But he nodded obediently. I didn’t mean to make you upset. I’m sorry.

Mr. Edgeworth didn’t hear his silent pleas—obviously, and Arthur really couldn’t blame him for that—and he left the room with Mr. Nick and pulled the door shut behind them, leaving Arthur and Maya alone. For a moment, they just sort of… looked at each other, neither of them knowing exactly what to say.

“Do you like Steel Samurai?” she blurted suddenly, unable to contain her excitement.

Arthur blinked, processed the question, and grinned like mad. “Do I ever!”

“What’s this about, Wright?”

Phoenix glanced around to ensure the hall was empty. “Alyssa Coleman is guilty.”

Edgeworth visibly struggled not to roll his eyes. “Well, yes. She admitted to shooting her husband, and there was a witness, so we can safely assume—”

“No, I mean it wasn’t justifiable. That’s why I didn’t take the case.”

Edgeworth wasn’t any less dismissive. “I would imagine that’s why the State is charging her. If it were clean-cut justifiable hom—”

“Edgeworth, let me finish.” Phoenix looked around again, wary of people and security cameras alike. “Look, I know I’m not supposed to shape your opinion and stuff because it’s against the rules, but I’m telling you, she’s hiding something. Something bad.” He paused, letting the point sink in, and once Edgeworth registered the statement and began to contemplate, Phoenix reached into his pocket for a slip of paper. “I’ll keep my hands to myself, but if it comes down to it…” he discreetly slipped the scrap to his long-time friend, “…this person might be able to give you some… perspective on the case.”

Edgeworth didn’t look at the scrap, probably just as wary of the security cameras as Phoenix was, and instead slipped both hands into his pockets to regard his childhood friend with cool eyes. “If you have it all figured out, why didn’t you take the case?”

Phoenix lifted his arm to his mouth and coughed weakly. “Haven’t you heard, Edgeworth? I’m sick. Very, very sick.” He opened his mouth to continue, but his pseudo-coughing had put a tickle in his throat, and soon his wheezing was genuine.

“This is why you should never try to be funny.”

Phoenix slapped himself on the chest, doubled over and trying to force the spasms out of his ribcage. “You’re one to talk—” cough, cough, “—I’m surprised you even got—” cough, cough, gasp, cough, “—the joke, given your non-existent—” cough, cough, “—sense of humor.” Coughing, coughing, and more coughing, until it finally subsided and he could breathe again.

“Do you need a glass of water, Wright?”

“Shut up,” Phoenix groaned, sinuses throbbing behind his eyes. “There’s a water fountain around the corner.” He cleared his throat, waving his hand in an ‘moving on’ sort of gesture. “It’s better sometimes if I’m on the outside. I already know the right verdict, and I can look into things without anyone getting suspicious that I’m fishing for something.”

Edgeworth paused and glanced off to the side, chewing on his bottom lip.

Phoenix cleared his throat a few more times, still recovering from the fit, and tried to reassure his childhood friend. “I know you and I don’t always agree about what it means to be a prosecutor or a defense attorney, but… for Arthur’s sake, don’t you think we should wrap this up as quickly as we can? Less trial, less trauma.” Ideally, anyway.

Edgeworth didn’t reply at first, his sharp, gray eyes brimming with a mixture of frustration and bewilderment. Phoenix kept quiet, brow creasing with worry as he waited for Edgeworth to give him a clue as to what was going on in his head.

“What will happen to Arthur?” was what Edgeworth finally asked.

The question caught Phoenix off-guard, and it took a moment to respond. “I… don’t know exactly. He’ll have to go to an orphanage or foster home of some kind. He’ll be somewhere in the system.” He paused, scrutinizing the torn look on Edgeworth’s face. “You’re not seriously considering letting her off the hook because she has a kid.”

“Of course not!” Edgeworth glared at him with a familiar, righteous fire in his eyes. “I would never do such a thing. There are just… aspects of this case I want to look into first.” He tapped his jawline with his index finger, lips pursed. “I’ll have to play it by ear today. My first witness—” he glanced toward the room they had just left, “—is most likely going to fall through, but that’s irrelevant. I simply have to make the cross-examination go long enough to push the trial into tomorrow and buy myself more time to collect evidence.”

Phoenix nodded. “Knowing she’s guilty and proving it are two different things.”

“As are proving it and convincing a judge,” Edgeworth tacked on dryly.

“True.” Phoenix chuckled softly, but the resulting vibration in his throat sent him into another series of coughs. “Okay, I need a drink.” He buried his face in his arm again. “Send Maya out, would you? We’ll be—” two more coughs and a violent clearing of his throat, “—sitting in the gallery. Might help to have an extra pair of ears in there listening.”

Edgeworth nodded once and grabbed the doorknob, but he didn’t twist it. “Would it be alright if Arthur sat with you before and after his testimony? He seems perturbed by the idea of sitting in the gallery alone.”

Phoenix blinked, confused by the tender-hearted nature of the request. No offense to his best friend, but Edgeworth wasn’t exactly ‘good’ with children—or people in general—and sympathy was not high on his list of skills. Actually… was it on his list of skills? Like, at all?

“Uh, sure.” Phoenix cleared his throat several times, wishing he could get rid of the allover sore, achy, phlegmy state of his throat, and shrugged his shoulders. “Why not? We sit with Pearls when she’s here. What’s the difference?”

Edgeworth’s mouth twitched up in the corner. “Thank you, Wright.” With that, he disappeared into the pre-trial prep room.

Maya came out a moment later, babbling about her new best friend, and Phoenix pretended to listen, his head bobbing on an automatic cycle as his mind wandered. He isn’t wrong. There are still some things that don’t add up… and we need enough evidence to convince the judge… but I know she’s guilty, and he should know I know these things. Even if that means bad news for Arthur, he can’t just… Phoenix shook his head and bent over the water fountain, getting the long overdue drink he needed. I hope you know what you’re doing Edgeworth.

“Court is now in session for the trial of Alyssa Coleman.”

Arthur pressed down on his stomach and bit his lip, taking a deep breath to calm his nausea.

“The prosecution is ready, Your Honor.” Mr. Edgeworth spoke seamlessly with an air of relaxed confidence. He was prepared.

“The defense is ready, Your Honor.” The defense attorney on the case was no different, his solid voice leaving a faint echo in the open courtroom. He was prepared.

Even Arthur’s mom, sitting in the defendant’s chair and dabbing her eyes the way she did when she wanted his dad to buy her things they couldn’t afford, was prepared.

Arthur was the only one not prepared.

His fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, heart racing at the thought of standing before the judge, the gallery, and two shouting lawyers as he recalled the worst night of his life. He just wanted to be alone—well, no, actually, he didn’t, but he didn’t want to talk about what happened in front of dozens of strangers.

“And it looks like the defendant is pleading not guilty, correct?”

“Correct, Your Honor.”

Arthur gulped. Not guilty of what? What did they say she did? Does she mean… she got rid of Daddy because he was hurting her, so she’s not guilty of the… not-okay one, or is she saying she didn’t do it at all? I don’t understand. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. He gnawed on the inside of his lower lip.

“Would the prosecution make their opening statement?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Mr. Edgeworth leveled a stony gaze across the room at his opponent. “Bruce Coleman was shot in his apartment at approximately 9:45 p.m. on August twenty-first. Police arrived at the scene to find the defendant sitting on the couch with her unconscious son. She claimed self-defense, the child later woke up in hysterics and corroborated her story. The State is charging the defendant with murder in the second degree.”

What’s murder in the second degree? What’s a degree of murder?

The judge nodded. “I see. The prosecution may call its first witness.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Arthur’s gut clenched, and he balled his fists at his sides.

“The prosecution calls Detective Dick Gumshoe to the stand.”

Arthur blinked, staring at Mr. Edgeworth in confusion. Huh?

“They always call the detective first.”

Arthur startled with a shout and turned to the man beside him. “M-Mr. Nick!”

Putting a finger to his mask, Mr. Nick shushed him. “Remember, we’re in court.”

Arthur felt blood rushing to his cheeks, his face heating up as his heart continued to pound, and he shrank into himself as he realized with no small amount of embarrassment that the whole courtroom had probably heard him shout, including Mr. Edgeworth.

Mr. Nick gave a warm smile. “It’s okay. I was explaining that the detective always goes first. He’ll state the facts he found in his investigation, and then Edgeworth will call you.”

Arthur took deep breaths, trying to settle his mind as well as his trembling hands. Mr. Nick tapped his shoulder, and Arthur looked over expectantly, wiping his slick palms on his pants.

“I just wanted to say good luck, and don’t worry. You’ll be great up there.”

Arthur forced a smile, but he felt even worse than before. If I’m gonna be so great, why’d he wish me good luck, huh?

Edgeworth crossed his arms over his chest, listening carefully to Detective Gumshoe’s layout while looking at the plans spread on his table. Occasionally, he would glance up at the gallery, hoping to see Arthur but failing to, and then his eyes would return to the witness.

“Hold it!”

The defense attorney on the case, an out-of-towner named Luke Stevenson, pressed Gumshoe this way and that, but the facts of the case were standard. Edgeworth rarely had to object, and Gumshoe was on and off in a flash, the only big difference being that of evidence added to the court record.

“Will the prosecution call the next witness?”

Edgeworth nodded. “The prosecution calls Arthur Coleman to the stand.” He watched as a bailiff retrieved the crates often sued for shorter witnesses, and Arthur came into view a moment later when he started down the steps toward the stand.

Arthur waited until the crate was in place to hop up, quietly thanking the bailiff before facing forward, fingers nervously toying with the hem of his shirt.

“Witness, please state your name and grade in school.”

Arthur looked at him, and Edgeworth could tell how unbelievably terrified he was, as if the fact he wouldn’t look at anyone or anything other than Edgeworth in the first place wasn’t enough of a clue.

Softening his tone, Edgeworth repeated himself with just enough of a smile on his lips to encourage. “State your name and grade, Arthur.”

Arthur blinked. “Hey!” He pointed at Edgeworth. “You just said it!”

“Did I?” Edgeworth tapped his chin and glanced toward the ceiling, not allowing the smirk to full leave his mouth. “Hmm. Slip of the tongue, I suppose.”

Arthur became slightly more comfortable at that, and he stood up a little straighter and managed a loud, clear, “I’m Arthur Coleman, and I’m in the third grade.”

Edgeworth frowned. “Third?”

“Mmhmm. Because of my birthday.”

“Ahh, that makes sense.” Edgeworth was pleased by the speed and clarity at which Arthur elaborated on his statement. “Excellent explanation, Arthur. I’ll have you testify in just a moment, but first…” he shifted his gaze to Luke Stevenson, steel gray boring into sage green relentlessly, “…I have something to say to the defense: you will not badger this witness. You will get the necessary information, and then you will immediately desist. This is not a request.”

Stevenson glared, but Edgeworth sent the sharp heat right back across the courtroom, pinning his opponent for a few seconds before he put his attention back on the stand. “Arthur Coleman, please testify to the court regarding what you experienced on the night of your father’s death.” He winced inwardly. That probably could have been worded a bit better.

Arthur swallowed and took a deep breath. “Daddy came home acting funny, and… well, Mom told him not to do that anymore. She said, um, she said to hide under the bed, and then she told him he had to go away.” He wrung his hands, struggling to stay calm. “She said if he didn’t, she was going to call the police. Then… it got really noisy… and there was a lot of shouting, and, um… and Mom screamed, and there was a bang… and then everything got really, really quiet. And that’s… that’s all that happened.”

The judge nodded gravely. “You experienced something awful, didn’t you?”

Arthur didn’t have an answer, simply staring at his feet in silence.

Edgeworth scowled, tilting his head as he looked over his papers. This isn’t right. He leafed through the pages, eyes flickering from picture to picture as he reconstructed the house in his mind. Something is missing.

“Did… did I do something wrong?”

Edgeworth glanced up and arched a quizzical brow. “No, not at all. It seems the defense has simply forgotten their purpose here.”

Stevenson tisked and shook his head with a grin. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. I simply can’t decide where to start.”

“Mm. Well, perhaps you could hurry it up?” Edgeworth crossed his arms, tapping his bicep with more than a little irritation on his face. “Some of us don’t enjoy wasting time.” Though I suppose that’s not necessarily true. I’m the one who needs to drag this out. He spared a glance at Arthur and offered a fleeting smile when he saw the nervous, expectant look on the boy’s face.

“Would the witness please expand on their first statement?”

Arthur spoke slowly, his words uncertain. “I don’t remember… exactly what I said…”

Edgeworth picked up the transcript and, after clearing his throat, read it aloud. “‘Daddy came home acting funny, and… well, Mom told him not to do that anymore.’”

“Oh!” Arthur perked up, gaining some confidence. “So, I just say more about that?”

Stevenson nodded sharply. “I’d like you to explain what you mean by ‘funny.’”

Arthur went to the tried-and-true self-soothing of gnawing on his lip, and Edgeworth inwardly cringed when the skin began to break. “I… don’t know what you mean…”

Stevenson smiled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk in a casual manner. “Well, you said he was ‘acting funny.’ Was he acting funny like a clown does, making faces and telling jokes? Was he acting funny in an unusual way, like falling over or stumbling? Was it something else?”

Edgeworth stared the opposition down, keeping his façade of cold indifference, while inside he frowned in confusion. His demeanor changed. When Stevenson started speaking to Arthur, his body language and tone changed. But his eyes didn’t. They’re still snake eyes. He might have kept his frown inside, but his finger started tapping a little faster.

“Um… it was kind of like the second one.”

“Good job, Arthur. Now—”

“Objection!” Edgeworth slammed his hand on his desk, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized he startled Arthur. “You’re leading the witness, Stevenson. Arthur, now that you have an example of what words you can use to describe your father’s behavior, I want you to tell us how he was acting in your own terms.”

Arthur lifted a hand to his mouth and started scratching, his teeth apparently losing the ability to ease his anxiety. “I… I did, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did.” Stevenson rolled his eyes. “Mr. Edgeworth is simply being difficult.”

“That’s Prosecutor Edgeworth to you, Mr. Stevenson.” He all but snarled the words, sending a glare across the room before turning his attention back to his witness. “You were given a list of options, and you chose one, which was fine. But now I would like you to describe what you saw without choosing a pre-determined description worded by someone else.”

Arthur seemed to grow more fearful with every passing second, nervous eyes darting from person to person as he struggle to figure out who to listen to, who to obey, who wanted what was best for him, who—

“Can you describe this room to me?” Edgeworth asked, deciding to try something else.

Arthur looked around and stammered out his reply. “It’s… um, it’s big, and the—the ceilings are really high, and… there’s a lot of—lot of light… everybody echoes when they talk.”

Edgeworth smiled to encourage the account of their surroundings. “I agree. But I didn’t give you any of those words, did I? Because I would use words like spacious and resonant. But you used your own words based on what you were looking at, and I would like you to do the same with your answers. Think back to that night and use your words to describe what you saw.”

Nervousness dropping off slightly, Arthur shifted and bounced on his toes a bit. It seemed knowing what was expected of him inspired confidence despite his overall fear. “I can do that. I can—yeah, I can do that.” He stopped, chewed again, and continued. “He was really loud. He does that sometimes. Not in a mean way, just… laughs louder, talks louder… and he walks with big, booming footsteps. He sometimes has… um, had a hard time standing up straight. And he talked funny, like everything was a tongue twister.”

Edgeworth nodded—he felt like he was doing that a lot, but he didn’t know how else to offer praise in this setting—and scribbled a note on the legal pad to his left. “Thank you, Arthur. That was perfect. Satisfied, Mr. Stevenson?”

“Very.” Stevenson wasn’t the least bit perturbed. “Arthur, let’s talk about your third statement.” He lifted a paper from his desk and read aloud. “‘She said if he didn’t, she was going to call the police. Then… it got really noisy… and there was a lot of shouting, and, um… and Mom screamed, and there was a bang… and then everything got really, really quiet.’” He looked up. “Can you describe the sounds you heard?”

“The sounds?” Arthur echoed cautiously.

“You said it got really noisy,” Stevenson explained. “What was the noisy part?”

Arthur tensed, the reaction not going unnoticed by Edgeworth, and he started to fiddle with his hands. “Well, I… um, there were stomping footsteps… a lot. Um, Mom told him to go away… she shouted a lot—”

“Hold it!”

Arthur jumped, and Edgeworth shot Stevenson an accusatory glare.

“We already know your mother was shouting. I want to know about the other noises you heard. You were hiding under your bed, there were footsteps, and there was shouting, but there was more going on than that.”

Edgeworth prickled. You’re pushing it, Stevenson.

“You probably heard some sounds like someone being hit or sho—”

“Objection!” Edgeworth slammed his hands down. “Your Honor, the defense is clearly leading the witness.”

The old man nodded, eyes wide, as though some shocking secret had just been revealed. “Oh! Yes, yes, clearly. Mr. Stevenson, please refrain from leading the witness.”

Stevenson glowered at the prosecutor standing across from him. “Yes, Your Honor.”

Edgeworth allowed himself the pettiness of a smirk and looked to his witness once more. “Arthur, what do you mean by noisy?”

Arthur was scratching at his mouth again, green eyes glassy. “I—I don’t know. It just was. There was… I think the TV was on… or the radio, maybe? Someone was talking, like… like a DJ or the news people. It was turned up loud… I couldn’t tell what Mom and Daddy were saying, but that was loud, too. I… I really don’t know. I didn’t hear anything else.”

Stevenson perked up at that. “The defense requests the witness append this statement to their testimony.”

Edgeworth arched a brow. “Are you sure you want to do this, Mr. Stevenson?”

“Absolutely.” Stevenson flashed a predatory grin.

“I…” Arthur seemed so small behind the large, wooden stand. “How do I append something? What’s that mean?”

“It means to add it to your testimony.” Edgeworth briefly let himself look away from his opponent. “We use that word quite a bit. Just remember that append means add.”

Arthur blinked. “Okay… I can do that.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t hear anything else.”

“Objection!”

Edgeworth saw Arthur jump despite all attempts to hide it, and he began compiling a mental list of things he would do to Stevenson when the trial was over. But Stevenson couldn’t hear his thoughts, and thus, paid him no mind. Instead, he set his eyes on Arthur, going after the contradiction like a shark after blood.

“There is a huge contradiction in your testimony, Arthur.”

“Th-there is?” the little blonde stammered, his anxiety spiking again.

“Yes, there is. Investigators found quite a mess at the crime scene. There was a lot of jewelry and a broken mirror on the floor. You didn’t hear the glass shatter? There was also an overturned bookshelf. You didn’t hear any thumps too loud to be a footstep?”

“I—” Arthur froze like a deer in the headlights. “I—I didn’t—”

Edgeworth laughed. He laughed out loud, the sound resonating in the court, and he had half a mind to be embarrassed about it, but he just couldn’t help himself. “Oh, Mr. Stevenson.”

Stevenson stared back at him, lingering somewhere between angry and cautious.

“You’ve dug your own grave.” Edgeworth shook his head, still smiling to himself, and gestured toward the center of the courtroom. “By all means, please continue your line of questioning. But understand, once you go down this road, you cannot go back.”

Stevenson glared silently, but the determination in his eyes only grew.

“What’s going on?” Arthur spoke cautiously, eyes wary.

“It’s just part of the trial,” Edgeworth assured. “Be patient.”

Stevenson squared his shoulders. “Arthur, did you hear any glass shattering?”

“No, I… I don’t remember that.”

“Did you hear a loud thump, like a something heavy falling over?”

Arthur blinked, confused, looking between the prosecution and the defense multiple times before his eyes finally landed on Edgeworth, begging for help.

Edgeworth only offered him a small smile, knowing he couldn’t steer the boy any particular way but hating how distraught he was. He doesn’t understand at all. Because if he did, he would have been lying through his teeth. He doesn’t realize he’s taking away the only witness backing his mother’s story.

“Arthur,” Stevenson pressed. “Did you hear something heavy falling over?”

He’s trying to get Arthur to say he heard sounds of a struggle. Shouting is not enough to warrant deadly force, even in a Stand Your Ground state, and both of their names were on the lease, so Castle Doctrine is out the door. It’s impossible for him to trespass on his own property, and without a restraining order…

“No… I don’t remember that. I heard footsteps, and shouting, and…” Arthur bit down hard, a few tears escaping the corners of his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s alright, Arthur. You haven’t done anything wrong. You told the truth.” Edgeworth looked across the room at Stevenson. “It just so happens the truth is not what the defense would like to hear, because it proves one of two things. Either Arthur wasn’t present and conscious at the time of the murder, and thus, he is not a valid witness. Or,” and this was the one he was betting on, “there was no life-threatening struggle.”

“Objection!” Stevenson’s voice echoed in the courtroom. “It’s entirely possible he didn’t hear those specific sounds amongst all the other noise.”

“Objection!” Edgeworth slammed a hand down on the table. “Shattering glass, maybe, but he said he could hear a television or radio in the next room. There is no reason why he wouldn’t hear a heavy bookshelf falling over in a room just as close on the opposite side.”

“Objection! He also said he couldn’t make out what his parents were saying. Clearly his ability to hear what was going on in that room was diminished.”

“Objection!”

“Objection!”

Edgeworth slammed his hands down on his desk and leaned forward, snarling a vicious, “I didn’t even say anything!”

Stevenson slammed his desk, too. “You didn’t have to!”

“Order! Order!” The gavel pounded relentlessly onto the block.

 Silence blanketed the courtroom while Edgeworth and Stevenson continued to send mental chaos across the board, both of them steaming.

The judge cleared his throat. “The prosecution and defense are lacking either the evidence to prove their points or the mental clarity to present it properly.”

Edgeworth continued to hold Stevenson’s gaze. “The police department had very short notice on this case. I’m afraid even the autopsy report hasn’t made it to us yet.”

“I call for a twenty-minute recess. Try to get more results during this time and be prepared for the reconvening.”

Edgeworth sighed in frustration, shoving his case files into his briefcase as court was let out. That should be enough time to grab a coffee and contact Gumshoe. I need to be prepared for Stevenson to turn this on its head. If he goes with the idea of no witnesses, there’s nothing but physical evidence, and I don’t that is sufficient to convince the judge of Murder Two. On the other hand, if Arthur re—

Edgeworth stopped dead in his tracks. “Arthur?” He looked at the witness stand, but it was empty. He looked at the gallery, but he got the same amount of nothing. “Arthur?” He turned in a circle, rapidly scanning the room before bolting to the doors. He slid out and looked around, but all three corridors were void of children, and there was no crowd to hide Arthur, only stragglers. “Arthur!” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Arthur!”

No response. No little footsteps. No sound effects.

I’ve got to pick a direction. I’ve got to pick—left, we came from the left. That direction would be familiar to him. It wasn’t much, but it was all Edgeworth had to go on, so he took off running. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized he must have looked ridiculous—a grown man in a three-piece suit running down the halls of a courtroom—but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Because while that thought was in the back of his mind, the front of his mind was overwhelmed with one thought and one thought only.

Find Arthur.

Until that happened, nothing else mattered.

Chapter Text

Sneakers squeaked against the tile floor, high-pitched echoes bouncing off the courthouse walls as Arthur pushed down the burning in his legs and ran faster. He pumped his arms, panting too much to chew on his lip like he wanted, the muted colors of the walls and floor blurring together past the tears in his eyes. He rounded a corner, nearly falling in the process, and then he was off again, heart pounding and lungs aching. But he couldn’t stop. He had to find a quiet place away from everything where he could curl up, cover his head, and just be alone.

Mr. Edgeworth knows I lied! He knows now, and he’s gonna be so mad at me. I don’t want him to be mad at me! I don’t want him to yell at me. I don’t want him to hit me. I like him. I don’t—I just wanna go home!

Arthur slowed in the middle of an intersection, looking around and trying to figure out where he was. He turned in a circle, looking down each corridor and wiping his face on his sleeves. I wanna go home… I wanna go home… I want Daddy… Thinking about his dad had him sobbing all over again, and without letting himself think, he bolted down the hall to his left.

“Arthur!”

Arthur screeched to a halt, realizing with horror that he had gone in a giant circle and wound up running back toward the courtroom he had just left. Mr. Edgeworth had come after him, but he must have gone the opposite way and wound up in front of Arthur instead of behind him.

“Oh! There you are. You—”

Arthur pivoted and ran back to the intersection, flying around the corner to his left.

“Arthur, wait! Get back here!”

Ducking his head, Arthur kept going as fast as his feet would take him. He grit his teeth and choked back another sob, egged on by the sound of Mr. Edgeworth running behind him.

“Arthur, just stop running for a moment and talk to me!”

Arthur covered his ears, torn between screwing his eyes shut and trying to see where he was going. Mr. Edgeworth didn’t call for him again, but his footsteps were getting closer, and Arthur knew he couldn’t outrun someone with significantly longer legs. He just barely got to the next corner before his arm was seized in a vice-like grip, the hand whirling him around and leaving him staring up at Mr. Edgeworth in pure, unadulterated terror.

“Don’t ever run off like that again.” Mr. Edgeworth was bent over and panting, bracing one hand against his knee. “First you disappear, and I can’t find you, and then I find you, and you run the other way!” He shook his head with a hard, heavy exhaled. “You scared me half to death!”

Arthur trembled and tried to find his voice, tugging his arm in an attempt to get free. “I… I just wanted to be alone,” he whimpered. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Mr. Edgeworth took another second to catch his breath and then straightened up to continue the lecture. “This is not the place to be alone, and you should never, ever wander off without permission no matter where you are.”

Arthur pulled on his arm again, trying to back up, tears rolling down his cheeks as he tried again to apologize. “I’m sorry…”

“What if someone had grabbed you and run off?” It was as if Mr. Edgeworth hadn’t even heard him. “They could have done any number of horrible things to you. I might have never seen you again.”

Arthur sobbed, hiding his face behind his free hand. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

For a second, there was nothing, and then Mr. Edgeworth slowly sank into a crouch with a sigh. “I know you’re sorry, Arthur, I just… I want you to understand the danger you just put yourself in. I’m not angry with you, you just…” He took a deep breath. “You scared me, that’s all. But it’s in the past, and obviously, nothing bad happened to you, and here we are.”

Arthur kept his face hidden, and when Mr. Edgeworth pulled his hand away, he glued his eyes to the floor. His shoulders shuddered, saline splashing to the marble tiles as his lungs continued to heave with sobs.

“Come now, Arthur. You aren’t going to cry because of a scolding, are you?”

“You hate me, don’t you?” Arthur hiccupped, keeping his head down, shame heating his neck and face. “I—lied to you, and then—I ran away, and now—”

“Arthur,” Mr. Edgeworth started.

Arthur stepped back and pulled on his arms, ducking his head in a desperate attempt to cover his face as he started wailing louder. He felt Mr. Edgeworth’s hands move to his shoulder, but the firm hold did little to comfort him. If anything, it sent a twinge of fear down his spine.

“Arthur, I don’t hate you. I… yes, you did lie to me, and yes, lying is wrong, but… this is a very complicated… situation with… circumstances that…” Mr. Edgeworth let out a sigh, and when Arthur looked up, he was shaking his head. He looked lost, like he didn’t know what to say, which was silly, because grown-ups always knew what to say.

“I really am sorry, Mr. Edgeworth…” Arthur sniffed a few times.

“I know, and I forgive you.” Mr. Edgeworth reached up and gently tugged Arthur’s lip from between his teeth. “You’re biting again. You mustn’t do that. Look, you’re all cut open and bleeding.”

Arthur stopped biting, but he couldn’t have cared less about his bloody, torn skin. His chest was aching, his eyes were raw, his throat was sore, his head was pounding—he was miserable.

“Hold me?” Arthur hesitantly raised his arms, unable to look Mr. Edgeworth in the eye.

“Ah, well, I… you see, I, um… I’ve never… I’m not really sure how to…”

“Please?” Arthur voice cracked, and he almost bit his lip but managed to stop himself, hoping obedience would make Mr. Edgeworth want to pick him up.

“I…” Mr. Edgeworth didn’t say anything for a moment, though Arthur could hear his clothes rustling, and then his hands slid under Arthur’s arms. Clearing his throat, Mr. Edgeworth lifted Arthur from the ground and fumbled for a few seconds before situating the boy on his hip. “How’s that?”

Arthur wrapped his arms around Mr. Edgeworth’s neck, holding on tight. “S’good. Thanks.”

“Certainly.” Mr. Edgeworth cleared his throat and started walking back to the courtroom, and while the arm underneath Arthur didn’t move, the one wound around his middle struggled to find its place. “Certainly…”

Arthur lowered his head to Mr. Edgeworth’s shoulder, but he jumped back up when his nose rubbed against the white, ruffled thing the prosecutor always wore. “Oh! Mr. Edgeworth, I—” He bit his lip. “I accidentally wiped my nose on your… thingy. I’m really sorry.”

Surprisingly, Mr. Edgeworth simply chuckled. “Don’t worry. It wouldn’t be the first time my cravat has been used as a handkerchief. I have a spare with my briefcase, so it’s not a problem.” He gave Arthur a pointed look. “You biting, however, is a problem, and you’re doing it again.”

Arthur gasped and immediately stopped. “S-sorry.”

Mr. Edgeworth sighed. “What am I going to do with you? Hmm?”

Arthur sniffed, lifting his shoulders in a faint shrug. “I dunno.”

“I put your chapstick in my briefcase as well, so I’ll grab that when I get my cravat.” Mr. Edgeworth lifted Arthur a little higher. “Hopefully, recess will last long enough for me to do everything I need to…”

Arthur leaned against Mr. Edgeworth and dropped his chin to the shoulder of the wine-colored suit, exhausted from the day and getting colder with every moment he wasn’t moving. “I didn’t know there was recess.” He sniffed. “Do we get to play?”

“Uh, no. Well, I suppose you could, but I can’t. Recess is for the lawyers to look at their evidence and think about the case they want to make.” Mr. Edgeworth let go long enough to pull something from his pocket, and then he grabbed on again.

“Mr. Edgeworth…” Arthur sniffed again, half-lidded eyes staring at the sparsely occupied corridors behind them. “Do you believe I saw what happened?”

Mr. Edgeworth sighed softly, and that was really all the answer Arthur needed, but Mr. Edgeworth used some words anyway. “I want to believe you, Arthur, but I have to follow the evidence. And the evidence says you haven’t told me the complete truth.”

Arthur leaned in a little closer, hooking one leg around Mr. Edgeworth’s hip so he didn’t slide down. “You talk to the evidence?”

Mr. Edgeworth gave a sideways nod, his hair brushing against Arthur’s temple. “In a manner of speaking… I suppose I do. I look at pictures and fingerprints and forensics, and I use it all to figure out what really happened. That’s my job.” He came to a stop and shifted Arthur until they were looking at each other, a poignant sadness going into his eyes. “You understand, don’t you? I have to do my job. I don’t want to hurt you or your mother, but I can’t lie.”

Arthur nodded, trying to blink away his tears. “I know.”

It didn’t look like his answer made Mr. Edgeworth feel any better, but Arthur found himself unable to speak as they continued down the hall to the lobby outside the courtroom. I’m sorry, Mr. Edgeworth. I’m really, really sorry…

That, at least, was the complete truth.

It was difficult for Edgeworth to pull his attention away from Arthur and focus on the trial, but constantly reminding himself Arthur was with Wright helped to curb the separation anxiety. He’s fine. He’s safe. He’s with a reliable guardian—relatively speaking—getting lunch up the road from the courthouse. I’ve been to that noodle shop. It’s safe. Everything’s fine.

“Has the prosecution made any changes to their opening statement?”

“There is nothing to change, Your Honor.” Edgeworth chuckled and shook his head, allowing himself a bit of bumptiousness when addressing the case at hand. “Lack of a witness, in this particular case, means lack of a testimony that can corroborate the defendant’s claims. The State is still charging Alyssa Coleman with murder in the second degree.”

“Very well.” The judge nodded. “Has the defense made any changes to their plea?”

“No, Your Honor.” Stevenson lifted a brow, staring Edgeworth down from the other side of the courtroom. “The defense is still pleading not guilty under the pretense of justifiable homicide.”

“I see,” the judge offered his, as always, enlightening perspective. “Well, Prosecutor Edgeworth, do you have a witness to call?”

Edgeworth nodded. “Seeing as the case has come down to physical evidence, the prosecution calls Detective Dick Gumshoe back to the stand to reiterate the physical findings in the Coleman apartment.”

Gumshoe, who apparently hadn’t realized that was the next logical move to make, startled loudly and clambered his way up to the witness stand.

“Detective,” Edgeworth started, silently counting backward from ten to give himself a pinch of patience. “Please testify regarding the physical evidence of the case.”

Gumshoe nodded enthusiastically. “Right, pal! I mean, Prosecutor Edgeworth!”

Oh, sweet mercy. Edgeworth started counting down again. Heaven help me.

“After we detained the defendant and got a medic with the kid, I started lookin’ around the scene. Mr. Coleman’s body was in the bedroom, propped up against the bed like he is in that picture I showed you.”

Edgeworth handed a copy up to the judge to head off any unnecessary questions.

“There was a bookshelf and a broken mirror and a bunch of jewelry—a real big mess in the bedroom. The rest of the house was cluttered, but I didn’t see signs of a struggle. We got the hunting rifle from the closet, sent the body with the coroner, and waited for forensics to finish up. There wasn’t nothin’ special about the forensics on scene, and ballistics came back showing the bullet was from the rifle we found.”

Edgeworth somehow made it through the testimony without having a coronary or demanding a recess or both. Wasn’t… nothin’… He said… Edgeworth cleared his throat. “Thank you, Detective. Um… if the defense would like to… cross-examine.”

Stevenson nodded, his expression torn between annoyance and bewilderment. If nothing else, he at least shared Edgeworth’s sentiments on Gumshoe’s lack of professionalism and… mindfulness in general.

“Uh…” Stevenson shook his head. “Detective, I’d like to press your first statement. You said you detained the defendant at the scene. Why?”

Gumshoe tilted his head to the side and scratched his neck, confused. “Huh?”

Stevenson also tilted his head, though in a very different way, and tried again. “You can’t detain someone unless you have a reason to believe the homicide wasn’t justified. What reason did you have for detaining the defendant, if any?”

“Oh!” Gumshoe grinned, apparently understanding what was being asked. “Well, to be honest, there wasn’t any hard evidence for the arrest, but I did have reason to believe somethin’ was off-color. See, you lawyers deal with murder trials all the time, but there’s more to trials than murder, and lotsa cases don’t make it this far, especially when it comes to battered women. They don’t wanna testify against the abuser, and that’s sometimes still true even when the abuser is dead. They get so psychologically beaten down, see, and they don’t think it’s worth defending themselves, or they think nobody’ll believe’em.” He nodded to Alyssa. “She didn’t look or act like a battered wife. No bruises, no blood, no scars, no bloodshot eyes—heck, she wasn’t even crying when I got there.” He rubbed the back of his neck again. “Now, could be shock or personality, but I volunteer at a shelter on weekends, and I’m pretty used to interacting with abused women—and men, really. But this defendant just… wasn’t acting how a typical battered woman would have acted. Not toward her kid, not toward us, not toward the medics—” He cut himself off, made a face, and then shook his head. “Might’a just been a fluke, but it was weird enough that I thought somethin’ was fishy.”

Edgeworth blinked, surprised for multiple reasons. First, Gumshoe had drawn conclusions from observation and inference rather than plain-as-day, in-your-face, factual evidence. Second, he had no idea Gumshoe spent his free time helping battered women and… whoever else went to a shelter for help—it wasn’t as if Edgeworth knew—and despite his disparaging opinion of the detective’s IQ, he had to admire the all-consuming desire to help others.

“So, what you’re saying is, you arrested the defendant on a gut feeling?”

Edgeworth glared at Stevenson, fully prepared to knock him on his backside, but Gumshoe beat him to it with a round of foot-stomping and a shout.

“Hey, pal! Nothing is more accurate than a detective’s gut!”

Edgeworth rolled his eyes. “I believe what the good detective is trying to say is that his experience led him to believe something was amiss at the scene of the crime.”

“That’s not good enough,” was Stevenson’s level response. “You need probable cause.”

Edgeworth chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. “In a murder trial, the defense attempts to place reasonable doubt of guilt within the mind of the judge. Detective Gumshoe had reasonable doubt of innocent. That’s reason enough.”

“It’s innocent until proven guilty, not the other way around. You’re comparing apples and oranges, Mr. Edgeworth, and so is your detective.” Stevenson extended a finger to point at Gumshoe, eyes blazing. “Detective, did you or did you not have probable cause to arrest this woman?”

Gumshoe’s brow scrunched up, and he looked between Edgeworth and Stevenson as if they were both crazy. “Uh, weren’t you listening?”

Stevenson frowned. “What?”

“No bruises, no blood, no scars. You can’t shoot someone for yellin’ at you, pal, or a lot more people would be dead.” Gumshoe laughed at his own joke, the chortle tapering off into a sigh of satisfaction. “I told you about my gut feeling ‘cause it plays a big part in making sense of what I see, but all the same, she was in perfect condition for a lady who said she was fearing for her life less than twenty minutes before.”

Edgeworth smirked across the room, making a mental note to raise the detective’s pay in the near future. “Satisfied?”

Stevenson glared and turned back to Gumshoe, pursuing another statement. “Detective, you said you didn’t see signs of a struggle in the rest of the apartment. Did you see anything odd or out of place at all?”

Gumshoe rubbed his chin and looked up at the ceiling, humming loudly as he thought over the question. “Hmm… well… let me uh… hmm…”

Edgeworth pinched the bridge of his nose. Perhaps a raise is a bit much. I shouldn’t get carried away. Still, he made no attempt to cut off Gumshoe’s lengthy rumination.

“Can’t think of anything, pal. I remember the kitchen was awful messy. I went looking for something the kid could snack on—you know, trying to calm him down—and the fridge was pretty empty. I did find some candies, but he didn’t want those, which I thought was weird because they tasted great…”

Stevenson massaged his temple with two fingers. “Let me guess. You had a gut feeling about the kitchen, too?”

Gumshoe nodded slowly, almost absently, like he hadn’t realized he had a gut feeling about the kitchen until that moment. “Yeah, I guess I kinda did. It didn’t fit, just like the defendant. Battered women usually keep a real clean house because they don’t want to tick off their man. But this kitchen was a downright mess, and the kid didn’t want to go anywhere near it. Oh! And there was lots of beer in the fridge.”

Stevenson motioned for more information. “And…?”

“Oh, that’s it.” Gumshoe shrugged. “It’s just—yanno, the kid said his mom was yellin’ at his dad for drinking. I figured if she didn’t want him drinking, she wouldn’t have kept a twenty-four pack in the fridge. Or she would at least have kept some juice or tea or something else in there he could drink instead. But nope. Just beer. Thought it was kinda wonky.” He shrugged his broad shoulders once again and laughed in that dopey way he often did.

Edgeworth frowned at his notes, gaze narrowing. That does sound a bit strange. Even if the beer was for her, it’s as Gumshoe said: would she have kept something else for Bruce to drink? Something other than the tap? He twisted his lips. Perhaps I should return to the crime scene and do a little more investigating of my own.

“Mr. Stevenson, does this line of questioning hold any relevance?” the judge asked.

Stevenson shook his head with an irritated sigh. “No, Your Honor, it would appear not.”

“Objection!” Edgeworth threw his finger out and, wearing his signature smirk, wagged it condescendingly. “Not so. Detective Gumshoe presented multiple oddities in the house that require more thorough investigation. Why doesn’t the house match up with the typical home of an abusive male-on-female dynamic? Why didn’t Arthur want to go into his own kitchen, when the only thing on his mind should have been the horror he had just witnessed? Or, if not witnessed, made aware of after the fact? Furthermore, we need to reevaluate the clutter and fallen furniture in the master bedroom to determine whether the evidence of a fight was real or fabricated. I think it would be rather foolish to continue the trial before we know these pertinent details.”

The judge nodded deeply while Stevenson sent a sneer across the room. Edgeworth simply smiled and waited, glancing up at the judge’s stand when the old man began to speak.

“Yes, yes, I can see the logic in this.”

Stevenson rolled his eyes. “He’s buying time.”

“Hmm?” the judge looked at the defense, his ear inclined toward the desk.

“Nothing, Your Honor. I think your ears were tricking you.” Stevenson smiled sweetly.

The judge nodded. “Oh, yes, yes. That makes sense. Of course.” He cleared his throat and picked up his gavel. “We will reconvene tomorrow at 8:00 AM. You have until then to gather more evidence and speak at length with any potential witnesses. Adjourned!”

The gavel came down, and Edgeworth held Stevenson’s stare just long enough to intimidate, and then he grabbed his case files and made for the exit, snagging Gumshoe’s arm as he passed. “Come on. I managed to buy some time, but it isn’t much, and we have a lot to investigate.”

“Yes, sir, Prosecutor Edgeworth, sir!”

Edgeworth had more than the investigation to worry about, too. He had to get clothing for Arthur, look into the name Wright had given him before the trial, go over the updated case files, talk to people, perhaps make a trip to the coroner or the lab, and somewhere in all that mess, he had to keep Arthur happy, fed, occupied, clean—oh, goodness, clean, Arthur needed a bath—and he had less than twenty-four hours to do it all.

It’s fine. I still have everything under control. He ran a hand through his hair, bangs falling back into place after his fingers trailed through. I have everything under control.

Chapter Text

“I don’t want that one.”

Edgeworth shut his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the air out in a slow, steady stream before he tried to put words on his tongue. “Arthur, you need a suit. You have turned down twenty-two thus far, and if you don’t pick one soon, I’m going to pick one for you.”

“It’s not my fault.” Arthur pouted and crossed his arms over his chest, seeming genuinely distraught at his inability to find a suit he liked. “None of them are right.”

Edgeworth raised a brow. “What constitutes a ‘right’ suit?”

“Oh, I know that one!” Arthur cleared his throat and stood up straighter. “We the people, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, ensure domes—”

“No, that’s—” Edgeworth couldn’t keep from laughing, though he did try to suppress it, knowing how he himself hated the embarrassment of misunderstanding things. “That’s the Constitution. I asked what constitutes a right suit. As in, what does it need to have in order to be considered a right suit? What makes it right? What are we looking for?”

Arthur puckered his scabbed lips, brow scrunching as he considered the question. “Um, it needs…” He moved his hands vaguely, struggling to find the right word. “It has to be…”

Edgeworth tapped his foot, waiting less-than-patiently while Arthur turned in a circle and examined every rack he saw. Edgeworth was opening his mouth to start counting down when Arthur took off running.

“Ooh!”

“What—Arthur!” Edgeworth darted after him, grateful there was no one else in the vicinity to see him behaving so foolishly. “Where are you going?”

Arthur grabbed a suit from a rack and whirled around, holding out the hanging jacket and slacks with a beaming smile.

Edgeworth blinked, caught off guard, but his lips pulled into an instinctive smile before he could even process what he was seeing. “Burgundy, huh?”

Arthur nodded, still grinning. “Just like yours.”

“Just like… mine, yes. Just like mine.” Swallowing, Edgeworth tried to figure out if he felt flattered or nervous or… and when he couldn’t give the feeling a name, he simply maintained his smile and pressed on. “You’ll have to try it on, and once we’re certain it fits, we’ll need to go get the pajamas and casual clothes.”

“Why don’t you wear casual clothes?” Arthur asked, his train of thought jumping to a completely new track with Phoenix Wright levels of spontaneity. “Like, you wear suits at home. But suits aren’t comfy. So why would you do that?”

Mouth moving disjointedly, Edgeworth floundered as he tried to think of an answer. “I… don’t really know, I…” He exhaled. “I had to wear them all the time when I was young, so… I supposed I just… got to a point where I enjoyed it.”

“What?” Arthur gasped, looking scandalized. “How did you play tag? And hide n’ seek? And jump in leaf piles? And—”

“I didn’t do those things.” Not after his father died, anyway. “Let’s try on the suit, shall we? It’s already two o’ clock, and we aren’t even done shopping.” He gestured toward the fitting room with a blank expression, not knowing what face he could wear when he felt so… unsettled. Melancholic. Lypophrenic.

Thankfully, Arthur only stared at him for a few seconds and then accepted the answer—or lack thereof. He turned around to face the fitting room and started hopping toward them, arms pressed to his sides and feet together. Befuddled, Edgeworth trailed behind as the boy navigated the numerous racks in the bounciest way he could. It seemed odd—not that Edgeworth really knew what typical children did or didn’t do—but it was amusing in its own way.

Arthur came to a stop outside one of the stalls and whirled back around, holding out his hands expectantly. “Suit, please!”

“You can manage on your own?”

“Yup!” Arthur chirped enthusiastically.

Edgeworth was unsure if he believed that, but he relinquished the outfit, and Arthur happily wrapped both arms around it before disappearing into the stall. Edgeworth hesitated and then took a seat on one of two nearby chairs, trying to plan the rest of his day. We should be able to buy regular clothes and pajamas by size; no need to try anything on. I have to investigate the crime scene again, but I also have to arrange dinner for Arthur and myself… and really, I should find a way to investigate the scene without Arthur there… perhaps Wright could watch him, just for an hour or so. Speaking of Wright… He reached into his pocket and grabbed the scrap his friend had given him before the trial. Tasha Clarke. Nothing but a name and a phone number, but perhaps it would be helpful.

“It fits!”

Edgeworth glanced up, tucking the note away. “Step out and show me, please.” Not that he didn’t trust Arthur to judge a properly fitted suit, but he didn’t trust Arthur to judge a properly fitted suit.

“Um… but it fits.”

Edgeworth creased his brow. “I heard you. I want to see it anyway.”

There was a brief pause. “I… I don’t have a shirt to go with it.” Arthur cleared his throat. “I don’t wanna come out without a shirt on.”

“Oh. Well, that’s understandable.” Edgeworth slid to his feet. “I’ll just come in and—”

“No!” Arthur objected almost frantically. “I don’t want you to see, either.”

Edgeworth didn’t like the sound of that. “Is there… any particular reason why?”

Arthur paused again, a bit longer than before. “I just… don’t like it.”

Edgeworth took a moment to wrestle with himself, trying to figure out what he wanted to do. He had already determined Arthur said he didn’t like things that scared him, and Edgeworth didn’t want to force anything, but at the same time, he was acutely aware of the fact he only had two days left to uncover the truth about what happened inside Arthur’s home. What do I do? Fighting the urge to sigh, Edgeworth approached the door and lowered his voice. “Arthur. Why are you afraid?”

“M’not afraid…” It was a weak objection; Arthur couldn’t even be bothered to enunciate.

“I think you are.” Edgeworth touched the door handle. “I need to come in and make sure the suit fits you properly.”

“It does,” Arthur whined.

Edgeworth didn’t fight the sigh that time. “Arthur. Which one of us is a bunch of fancy words in charge?”

Silence, then a feeble laugh that melted into a sigh, and then a sliding lock.

“Thank you.” Edgeworth slipped inside and closed the door quickly to preserve Arthur’s privacy, kneeling down. “Stretch your arms toward me.”

Arthur did as he was told, and Edgeworth confirmed the sleeves fit. Not perfectly, of course, but as much as a non-tailored suit could.

“Now out to the sides.”

Arthur buffered, tears welling up in his eyes as he reluctantly followed the instructions.

Don’t react, is what Edgeworth told himself before the jacket opened with the movement, and he was glad he prepared himself, because he certainly would have reacted had he not. “Arthur,” he started, cautiously pulling on the lapels to further reveal the layered bruises, “what happened to your stomach?”

Arthur sniffed, staring at the wall and refusing to answer.

“Does it hurt?” Edgeworth brushed his fingers against the edge of the yellowest mark, silently reminding himself it was at least good the bruises were healing. “Does it hurt to breathe or talk? Does it hurt when I pick you up?”

Arthur shook his head, still staring to his left. “No. It’s fine. I fell.”

Edgeworth wet his lips, wording himself as carefully as he could. “It isn’t fine to be hurt, Arthur, and you should always tell someone when you are.” He forced a smile to relay some kind of warmth or comfort. “Tell me how you fell to hurt yourself this way.”

Arthur flexed his hands and starting chewing.

“Lip.” Edgeworth pulled the skin until it was free. “Tell me how you fell.”

“Tripped down the stairs.” Arthur rubbed his face but wouldn’t quite wipe his eyes.

I don’t believe that for a second. “You fell down the steps and hurt your stomach this way?”

Arthur, apparently unaware his story was highly improbable, nodded seriously.

“Who was with you when you fell?” Edgeworth inspected the length of Arthur’s pantlegs, feigning a continuation of the suit examination.

“Mom was with me.” Arthur sniffed and cleared his throat. “Does it fit?”

If you keep pressing, he’s going to stop answering altogether. Like an uncooperative witness. I’ll have to leave it alone for now. “Your jacket is a bit big,” Edgeworth put his hands on the floor and pushed himself up, “but I’m hardly going to have it tailored for a two-day event.”

Arthur looked at himself in the mirror, some of his sadness melting away. “I like it.” He adjusted the collar, a bright smile painted on his lips. “I really, really like it.” He turned the smile to Edgeworth. “I need a shirt and a vest like you have.”

Edgeworth smiled lightly. “We can find a shirt, but we’re running out of time for more suit pieces to be hunted down. Perhaps we’ll get the vest tomorrow, and you can wear it the third day of trial.” He sincerely hoped Arthur forgot all about that idea the second they left the store. “Come on. We have a busy day, and tomorrow isn’t going to wait for us to catch up.

“Okay!” Arthur bounded out of the fitting room, Edgeworth on his heels.

Someone had to have inflicted those bruises. Now I just need to figure out if it was his mother, his father, some bullies at school… Edgeworth rubbed his forehead. A busy day, indeed.

Edgeworth let out a heavy sigh. It was an exasperated, exhausted, two-hours-of-investigation-with-no-leads sigh, and he didn’t really let it out so much as he hurled it out of his mouth with the force of a solid punch. Let’s start from square one.

He walked to the front door and turned around, pretending to enter the apartment. Directly in front of him, there was a wall with a coatrack, and the living room was to his left. I’m Bruce Coleman. I’m intoxicated, and I just walked in my door. He moved into the living room and stopped, noting the hall to the left that led to the bedrooms but focusing on the archway opposite to it. If I cross the room and enter the kitchen, where Alyssa claims she was, I should be stabbed, not shot. He frowned. Maybe I was just on my way to the kitchen, and I hadn’t actually arrived yet? He took a step but stopped immediately. No, because if I’m anywhere in the living room, I can intercept her before she gets to the closet with the gun. She still would have grabbed the knife first.

Edgeworth backed up a bit and, after a second of thought, turned and went down the hall. He passed an open door on his right—Arthur’s room—and then he was faced with a decision between the bathroom in front of him and the master bedroom to his right. I’m intoxicated, so maybe I need the facilities. He scowled. But if Alyssa is waiting for me when I come out, the argument takes place in the hall. I wouldn’t walk away if I’m the aggressor, so there’s no way for me to end up in the bedroom unless she were to go in there first… but why would she corner herself? He entered the room in question and looked around. Somehow, I end up in the bedroom first. Alyssa comes in, and we start to argue. Ergo, she initiated the conflict.

That wouldn’t matter in some places, but they were in a state where initiation played a significant role in the determination of both guilt and sentencing. It was also a state where one had to reach the area of last retreat before using deadly force. That’s not good for her. If I’m right, not only was she the initiator, but she clearly had a chance to get away. Bruce is the one trapped, because she’s between him and exit. He went back into the hall, switching roles. I’m Alyssa. I’m fed up with my husband’s drinking, and I’m going to tell him, but I’m afraid. I bring a weapon with me to ensure my own safety. Why don’t I run when he gets violent? He looked down the hall. Arthur. Maybe I don’t think I can get us both out in time, so I have to stand my ground here. I’ve got more than just myself to protect.

Steadily dumbfounded and increasingly frustrated with his dumbfoundedness, Edgeworth walked back into the room. If Bruce runs at me, and I shoot him, he’ll likely fall forward. Even if he doesn’t, he’ll end up flat on his back, not propped up against the bed. So where is the threat to me? What triggers the fear of death or great bodily harm so such an extent I feel the need to pull the trigger in order to save myself and my child? His scowl deepened with every thought in the ongoing sequence. Nothing about this scenario makes sense. Alyssa told Arthur to hide under his bed. Why? He would be closer to the conflict, closer to the danger, and able to hear everything through the walls. Why not send him to the kitchen, or better yet, out of the apartment altogether? Why not ask him to call 911 or run to a neighbor for help? He thought of Tasha Clarke, wondering if she was one such neighbor, and wondering if that had anything to do with why Wright wanted him to question her.

Shaking his head, Edgeworth tucked the thought away for later and got back to work, his earlier frustration returning. Arthur was found in his room, utterly hysterical. It’s possible he ran there after the murder, but his testimony is likely accurate: he was told to hide under his bed, so he did. He squinted at the room and then made a beeline for the kitchen and dining area. Arthur is afraid of the kitchen. Gumshoe has suspicions about the kitchen. Alyssa didn’t send Arthur out here.

Edgeworth combed the dining area, but nothing was particularly eye-catching, so he moved to the more kitchen-esque half of the room and began to snoop.

Investigate. He began to investigate.

Dishes sat in the sink, a foul odor rising from the pile, and there was old pizza on the stove. Sugar, creamers, and a coffee machine were shoved in a corner by the fridge with some equally cluttered shelves up above. Nothing notable. He slowly turned, slipping on a pair of latex gloves as he observed the various messes. He opened the cabinets one after the other, finding pots and pans and anything else one would expect to find in a kitchen cabinet. He was forced onto his tiptoes by the ones above the fridge, but he managed to reach the knobs. Napkins, plastic cutlery, paper pl—wait. Eureka!

Abandoning his previous search entirely, Edgeworth dropped to his hands and knees. I can’t look at this from an adult perspective. Arthur is closer to the ground, so whatever Alyssa didn’t want him to see is low, not high. He sat back on his haunches, scanning the kitchen. I’m a terrified child, and I need somewhere to hide. Somewhere small, where I can curl up and feel safe. Gray eyes scanned the room, drifting from tea towels to bottles until finally falling on the pantry. Lots of toilet paper in front of the door, but that’s easy to move. He pulled the bulky packages out and crawled under the lowest shelf, looking around. I’m hiding. I have a nervous tick for lip biting. I fiddle with things. He tapped along the wall and floors with his gloved hands. My parents are shouting at each other. Maybe I want to feel safer, so I build up the wall outside my hiding place. Edgeworth grabbed the paper towels that had been stored next to the toilet paper. I stack them on top of each other. I have a little more space now… He tapped the walls and floor again, and the second his knuckle struck the floorboard, he heard it.

It's hollow. There wasn’t much light in the pantry, but feeling his way around was enough. He found a hole too small for his finger, but not for Arthur’s. Reaching into his breast pocket, he grabbed his pen and stuck one in the hole, lifting the board with ease and looking down into the compartment with a satisfied smirk.

That’s check, Alyssa Coleman. He grabbed a tray of little, glass bottles and a mason jar full of… candies, it looked like? Confused, but still pleased with the discovery, he got back on his feet and carried the items to the counter. He grabbed one bottle and held it up to the light with a squint that quickly melted into something more devious. I stand corrected. Edgeworth reached for his phone. This is, in fact, checkmate.