The last thing my sister-in-law said before she hit me was, “You can make more babies.”

Branch 4 of the Milwaukee County Circuit Courthouse was small, paneled in dark, scratch-resistant faux walnut, and smelled of industrial floor wax and wet wool overcoats.

Because the charges involved high-profile local business owners and an attempted murder of unborn twins, the small gallery was packed to capacity. Local reporters from three network affiliates sat in the front row with their digital voice recorders resting on their knees, while half a dozen members of Oak Creek’s suburban business association whispered nervously in the back pews.

I wasn't in the courtroom.

Under Dr. Aris’s strict orders, I remained in the high-dependency maternity recovery ward, watching the closed-circuit digital feed Marcus Vance had routed directly to my iPad.

Ryan sat in the front row of the gallery, flanked by two armed investigators from Vance’s firm. He wore a dark navy suit he had bought three years ago for our courthouse wedding, his broad shoulders filling the tailored wool, his face completely expressionless. He didn't look at the press. He didn't look at the courtroom bailiff.

He kept his eyes locked on the double steel doors leading from the underground prisoner holding cells.

At 9:15 AM, the door clicked open.

Brianna Miller was led into the courtroom first.

The glamorous, ring-light-filtered influencer from the Facebook post was gone. She wore a bright orange, two-piece county jail jumpsuit with MCJ stamped across the back in black stenciled letters. Her wrists were secured in front of her waist by a heavy steel transport chain, linked to ankle shackles that forced her to shuffle across the linoleum with tiny, four-inch steps.

Her dark ponytail was greasy, unwashed, and pulled into an untidy knot. Her makeup was gone, revealing pale, blotchy skin, dark circles beneath her hollow eyes, and a raw, bitten lower lip.

The moment she stepped past the wooden bar of the court, her eyes frantically scanned the gallery.

She saw her brother.

“Ryan!” she cried out, her voice cracking into that high-pitched, childish whine she had used on him since they were eight years old. “Ryan, please! Look at me! It was an accident! She lunged at me, Ryan! Tell them to take these chains off!”

The bailiff placed a heavy, gloved hand on her shoulder, pushing her down into the defense chair. “Quiet in the court.”

Ryan didn't flinch. He didn't blink. His pupils remained fixed on the middle of her forehead, his eyes as cold, dead, and empty as two chunks of granite on an arctic beach.

A second later, Evelyn Miller was brought in through the same door.

She hadn't been given an orange jumpsuit; she had been processed through the federal intake hold and wore a faded blue canvas smock over dark polyester detention pants. Her expensive blonde hair was flattened on one side from sleeping on a vinyl-covered cot. She looked twenty years older than the woman who had marched into my hospital room twenty-four hours earlier.

Her designer Birkin was gone. Her diamond anniversary band had been cataloged into an evidence envelope at the county jail. She looked small, withered, and terrified.

“All rise!” the bailiff barked.

Judge Catherine Ramos swept onto the elevated bench, her black robes rustling, her silver-framed glasses perched low on her nose. She didn't look at the gallery. She flipped through a three-inch-thick stack of charging documents with crisp, rhythmic snaps of paper.

“State of Wisconsin versus Brianna Lynn Miller and Evelyn Marie Miller,” Judge Ramos announced, her voice dry, sharp, and totally devoid of warmth. “Case numbers 26-CF-1104 and 1105. We are here for initial appearance and bail determination.”

The assistant district attorney, a sharp-featured woman named Karen Vance (no relation to Marcus, but possessing the same predatory legal instinct), stepped to the podium.

“Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, “the State is requesting a complete remand without bail for both defendants.”

Brianna’s defense attorney, a sweating public defender named Miller (no relation), jumped to his feet. “Your Honor! My client has no prior violent felony record! She is a small business owner in this community! An unsecured bond of fifty thousand dollars with electronic monitoring is more than sufficient—"

“Mr. Miller, sit down,” Judge Ramos said, not even looking up from the medical report.

The courtroom went dead silent.

“I have reviewed the high-definition security footage recovered from the victim’s kitchen,” Judge Ramos said, her voice dropping into a register that made the court reporter stop typing for two seconds. “I have reviewed the color-calibrated photographic evidence of the victim’s abdominal trauma, taken thirty minutes prior to an emergency dual cesarean section at thirty-two weeks gestation.”

She looked over the top of her glasses, her gaze impaling Brianna where she sat trembling in her orange smock.

“In my twenty-two years on this bench, I have rarely witnessed an act of such cold, calculated, and depraved indifference to human life. The defendant struck a visibly pregnant woman, watched her enter acute medical distress, wiped down the victim’s telephone to obstruct emergency response, and abandoned her on a kitchen floor while demanding access to bank routing codes.”

Judge Ramos leaned forward, her elbows resting on the elevated mahogany bench.

“As to Brianna Lynn Miller: On Counts One and Two, attempted intentional homicide of an unborn child, bail is denied. You will be remanded to the custody of the sheriff pending preliminary examination on Tuesday.”

Brianna let out a high, ragged shriek, her cuffed hands flying to her face as she slumped forward against the defense table, her forehead hitting the wood with a dull thud.

Judge Ramos turned her gaze to Evelyn.

“As to Evelyn Marie Miller: The defendant stands charged with conspiracy to commit grand larceny, witness intimidation, and accessory after the fact. The court has reviewed the audio recording secured inside the hospital room of the victim.”

Evelyn began to shake, her thin shoulders convulsing beneath the blue canvas smock. “Your Honor, please... I’m a grandmother... my heart condition—"

“Your heart condition did not prevent you from entering a post-operative surgical room and demanding bank tokens from a woman who had just delivered two premature infants under emergency anesthesia,” Judge Ramos cut in, her voice slicing through the air like a razor blade.

She raised her heavy walnut gavel.

“Bail for Evelyn Miller is set at two million dollars, cash only. No surety bonds. In addition, the court issues a comprehensive, permanent Chapter 813 restraining order prohibiting both defendants from having any direct or third-party contact with Emma Miller, Ryan Miller, or the minor children Sophie and Lucas Miller. If you send a birthday card, Mrs. Miller, you will serve twelve months for criminal contempt.”

Crack.

The sound of the gavel echoed through the room like a rifle shot.

“Court is adjourned.”

As the bailiffs hauled Brianna toward the iron transport door, her shackles rattling loudly against the floor, she twisted her torso violently, her wild, tear-streaked eyes locking onto Ryan in the gallery.

“Ryan!” she screamed, her voice echoing down the corridor as the heavy steel door closed behind her. “Ryan, tell Mom to pay the bail! Ryan, don’t leave me in here!”

Ryan stood up from the wooden pew.

He didn't say a word. He didn't make a gesture.