𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗡 | 𝗡. 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗙𝗙

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𝐁𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧, 𝐆𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲

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Judy Warner was far out of her depth. 

She'd never wanted to be a murderer. 

Then again, she supposed that most people didn't plan to be murderers. 

How many deaths in the world were caused by accidents? How many were caused by a series of actions piled together in a butterfly effect, resulting in the irreversible, no blame to be dealt?

The death of Joseph Getty was not an accident. Judy knew this better than anyone. She still saw the gun in her hand, taken from one of her guards, the barrel aimed at the back of his head before she'd pulled the trigger without a second thought.

Judy was very familiar with this scene. It haunted her, kept her awake as it replayed the way Getty's body fell forward onto the floor, his blood pooling from his head, her guards urging her to move as a rain of gunfire sounded in the distance, as if her treacherous act had facilitated a wave of death in her name, a butterfly effect of death. 

Last night, Judy Warner had only killed one man, only to leave feeling as though she'd killed a dozen. 

And yet, she'd never wanted to be a murderer. 

It was jarring to think that a single moment could change a person so much. 

Judy Warner used to be a person with morals. She'd always defended the victim, always stood on the right side of the law, always judging those who took matters into their own hands as if the law wasn't enough. 

Only, the law wasn't enough. All her life, Judy Warner had followed the law, only for the law to take what she loved most in the world. 

Judy Warner's son died on a Sunday morning. The date was marked February twenty-first, and, after five days of laying unconscious in a hospital bed, Oliver Warner took his last breath. 

Judy Warner's only son had died right in front of her, and she could do nothing to stop it. It had reminded her of the night her husband had died twenty years ago. After all that she had given, the world only continued to take and take and take, and the additional sight of her six-year-old grandson attached to beeping machines as they fought to keep him alive had been her breaking point. 

She couldn't lose anyone else. And, if there was one thing she could do for Oliver after his passing, it was to keep his son alive. 

The only thing that could ensure that sat fifty feet away from her across the room in a sealed, glass observing box, flanked by two men in padded, Kevlar suits. The time was 8:53pm, the silent auction scheduled to close at 9pm sharp. 

Warner had one of two options: break the law, or obey it. 

Technically she'd already broken the law by committing murder, but, oddly enough, her persecutors had saved her from scrutiny when they had stormed the Virginian Estate, the media assuming the death of Joseph Getty to be an unfortunate collateral of the unspecified terrorist group.