Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Wright!”

Edgeworth exclaimed his name before even shoving his way into the room past the sliding door. His cravat rustled on his chest, echoing his own ragged breath.

But as soon as he stepped in, he stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded.

Phoenix Wright, to his great surprise, was deeply engrossed in his laptop, which was mounted on the tray table, when he turned his head to face his visitor.

Not what Edgeworth had expected to see at all.

The nurse at the reception desk had informed Edgeworth briefly of Wright’s state—the doctors ruled that his life was out of immediate danger and deemed him stable. With some persuasion and Wright’s personal permission, Edgeworth had been allowed to pay him a visit.

All good news, but people tend not to leap to work from the intensive care unit.

“Hey Miles,” Wright replied, the corners of his dry lips turning up just a little. “I thought you were in Germany.”

Edgeworth set his small travel bag on the floor, still gaping at Wright.

“Larry called. Told me you’re in the hospital, so I chartered a private jet to see if you . . .” Edgeworth trailed off. He didn’t lack the words, but he found them hard to voice, so he inhaled deeply and tried again, “I was under the impression that . . .”

And then the words abandoned him completely. He realized he’d been gripping his elbow.

Edgeworth darted his eyes away. “Nevermind.”

“Well, I, uh . . .” Wright scratched the back of his neck, flustered. “I’m okay. But thanks.”

Edgeworth beckoned his chin toward the chair by the bedside, stacked with folders. “May I?”

“Ah . . .” Wright glanced at Edgeworth and then at the piled chair. “Y— Yeah, sure!”

He hastily reached out to the chair, but Edgeworth, noticing his friend’s sluggish movements and silent grunting, approached instead and picked up the folders. He propped his leather briefcase on the bed’s metal legs and situated himself on the now free hospital chair made of chipped faux brown leather, holding the files on his lap.

On closer inspection, Wright did look like a man who’d fallen through the cursed bridge. His eyes, though still bright and sharp, were sunken behind dark bags. His skin, bronzed lightly by Californian sun, was tarnished by reddish frostbitten splotches, occasional bruises, and scratches. He wheezed each time he took a breath. The crook of his elbow was covered by a bandaid, hiding the place where the IV cannula went into his arm. The monitor hooked to him was beeping intermittently in heightened tonals.

Anything but a definition of, ‘I’m okay,’the prosecutor concluded bitterly. 

He wondered how Wright was able to function as normally as he was. Or even how he was alive, for that matter. But he chose not to challenge Wright’s asinine assessment of his own condition. Not audibly, at least.

Edgeworth shifted the folders up his lap, threw one leg over the other, and crossed his arms. 

“Pray tell me, Wright,” when he spoke, he made sure that his tone stayed contained, allowing only mild annoyance to surface. “How is it that every time I meet you, you manage to end up in situations worse than before?”

Wright’s hands halted, hovering above the keyboard. 

“I had no choice,” he rasped.

“Of course,” Edgeworth snorted, staring Wright down. “Having a choice implies having the wits to devise one to begin with.” 

“I had to!” Phoenix cut him off, louder, with a somewhat cleaner voice. He met Edgeworth’s piercing glare, but quickly, his own blue eyes mellowed. “I had to get to Maya . . . She’s still there . . .”

Another snarky remark died in Miles’s throat and left it dry. A quiet, stifled question arose from his lungs instead, “What the hell happened?”

“A lot,” Phoenix muttered. “Whole ton lot, Edgeworth. I . . . I really need to leave this place, I can’t afford to . . . Ngh . . .”

He groaned. His palm covered his forehead, which was glistening with sweat beads.

Fever? Concussion? Edgeworth cursed under his breath. All that man did was worry for everyone but himself. Always. Even after surviving certain death by a hair, his thoughts were with Maya Fey. 

Phoenix’s unwavering loyalty was something Miles knew not to argue with. Its current was too strong to try to paddle against.

But he could swim along and see where it led them both.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Edgeworth rebuked. “In your state, all you’re fit for is being a nuisance. But, if you talk to me, I might just find a way to help you.”

Wright seemed to stall. He threw back a couple of loose damp hair strands. The back of his head, usually fixed with hairspray, was now disheveled, even though some of the hair still stuck out like porcupine needles.

“Maya, Pearls, and I visited the Hazakura Temple yesterday,” he said quietly with a faint smile on his face and a distant look in his eyes. “Something something spiritual training, something something very far and very cold. Their usual medium stuff. It was fine at first. Fun even, sort of.” He chuckled meekly. “As long as you aren’t the one to get locked in the freezing Sacred Cavern, chanting spells while doused by cold water.”

“And then it wasn’t fine,” Edgeworth suggested warily.

“Yeah.” Wright’s head drooped low, and his smile faltered. “Pearls didn't turn up in the evening. Bells rang out. A scream. A visitor’s dead body. Someone had killed her. And Maya . . . She was in the Inner Temple on the other side of the bridge, training. I ran there to see if she was safe, and . . .” His voice trembled, and his eyes dulled, as if seeing horrors visible only to him. “The bridge, Miles. It was in flames! Leaving her . . . alone . . . with . . .”

Phoenix wheezed in, doubled over, and went into an uncontrollable cough fit.

With a potential murderer. It wasn’t hard to deduce the rest.

The story, even lacking details, still brought a dreadful mental image to Miles’s already disturbed, sleep-deprived mind.

Howling wind, snow sliding off the ridge. Embers rising to the sky. Smoke, prickling the eyes and filling the lungs, making it hard to breathe. Planks being eaten by a roaring fire. In the midst of it, a man, running across the bridge, paying no regard to the charred wood crushing under his feet and his clothing catching spurts of flame.

Then one of the suspension wires snapped.

Miles shuddered.

“So I ran . . .” Wright continued with a hoarse husk in his voice, forcing Edgeworth out of vivid pictures of Phoenix drowning in the mountain river. “Larry tried to pry me off . . . Yelled at me, said it was stupid and dangerous . . . Ugh.”

“Hmph.” Edgeworth scoffed.

Wright looked at him quizzically. “What?”

“Larry being sensible was not something I had anticipated happening. Ever. And more sensible than you, at that.”

“Wasn’t on my bingo card either.” Wright grimaced. He slid down in his hospital bed. “He’s Laurice Deauxnim now, a young, aspiring artist . . . or so he says. Have you heard?”

“He made sure to correct me when we spoke . . . Ludicrous.” Edgeworth splayed his arms wide with a leer, shrugging. “He can name himself however he wants or claim to have found a new calling, but he’s still the Butz.”

Wright laughed softly. “I told him the same, believe it or not. And . . . Yeah.” He sighed, the momentary glint of a jest in his eyes fading. “He’s still the Butz.”

Edgeworth sought to cling onto the levity of their banter longer, but all possible responses seemed flat and inappropriate. He hoped Wright would come up with something, but his friend was silent. 

Wright’s head was turned to the window, its upper half shaded by white polyester roller blinds. Edgeworth surmised he must’ve been looking at the two goldfinches who perched on the windowsill, preening each other, but as he glanced at the profile of Phoenix’s face, Miles noticed that his eyes were closed, and heard his breathing growing shallower.

So Edgeworth was left alone, with the singular fact that he had yet to find a remedy to Wright’s troubles.

Pearl and Maya Fey . . . The perpetrator, possibly still on the loose, lurking in the shadows.

The rescue operation must be ongoing, he reasoned. They had retrieved Wright from the river and transported him here. They surely were in the process of looking for Feys, too. Edgeworth wasn’t a firefighter or paramedic—he knew better than to obstruct specialists’ work . . . Unlike a certain defense attorney whose logic tended to fail under pressure.

But there was a murder. Edgeworth could contact the Prosecutor’s Office. Pull some strings. Take the case on. Get first-hand information on how the rescue operation was going, influence its effort if need be.

And do what he was most skilled at—find the criminal who caused Phoenix’s suffering, prevent them from committing any more atrocities, and make sure they paid for it dearly.

“You know what I noticed?”

“Gah!” Edgeworth sprung on his chair. The papers nearly fell off his lap.

It was Wright, awake now and gawking directly at his face.

“I think you’re starting to get wrinkles around your eyes,” he drawled. “You frown too much.”

Edgeworth gasped. He felt his cheeks turning uncomfortably warm. “With your antics, it’s hard not to!”

“Quite sure I did nothing worth calling an ‘antic’ in the past . . . what, twelve hours since I’ve been here?” Wright gave Edgeworth a wry smirk. “So what are you thinking about?”

Edgeworth huffed and drummed his fingers on his forearm. “You mentioned the murder happening on site shortly before . . . the incident. Can you tell me more?”

“Um . . . sure.” Wright scooted up groggily and rumpled his hair with his hand. “I dabbled in it, but haven’t learned much.”

Edgeworth glanced at case files lying on his lap. “Is all this related to the murder?” he asked, picking up a folder from the top of the small pile.

Wright looked down. His fingers scrunched the thin sheets. “Maybe. Don’t know yet.”

The prosecutor raised a brow.

He weighed the folder in his hands. It was a simple, pastel pink classification folder, with ‘W : April 11th, 2014’ written on its tab.

It all happened yesterday, and Wright had already pulled some paperwork—all while being in the ICU. What’s more, the documents were lying close to him: he must’ve been sifting through them at some point.

Were those case files? How did he get his hands on them? Were they from his law office’s case archive? But how, if the papers were dated almost five years ago, before Wright had even started his law career?

Did he ask someone to deliver them to him? Or were they already on his personage before the murder? If so, why on Earth did Wright take them to the temple?

Edgeworth harrumphed. The data in these files was certainly important—either to the case or to Wright personally. He just wasn’t willing to share that information with Edgeworth.

He put the folder back on his lap.

It was alright. He didn’t need Wright to spill it all. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to figure out a mystery himself.

“Tell me what you do know then,” he offered calmly.

Wright nodded and put his palms on the tray table, seemingly more relaxed. He tapped twice on the laptop’s touchpad, expanding the document, which was filled with haphazard notes, and scrolled through them. The brightness of the screen made him squint.

Hardly looked like dabbling in something.

“The victim is Elise Deauxnim, a fellow visitor of Hazakura Temple and a children's book author,” he said, his hushed voice sounding matter-of-fact. “And a popular one, I think—Pearls and Larry were both her fans. She told us she was sightseeing, gathering inspiration for her future works. Had no interest in spiritual training. Looked fiftyish.”

As Wright was talking, the prosecutor bent over to open his briefcase and take his organizer out of the front section. He placed the organizer on top of Wright’s folders, flicked open its pages to where his fountain pen was tucked in, took it, and started jotting down his thoughts in neat cursive:

• Check the late author’s official biography

• Run a background check (Aliases? Criminal records?)

• Ulterior motives for visiting the temple?

• Talk to Larry. Why did he adopt the victim’s surname? 

• Find out who the lead detective is

He prayed for it not to be Gumshoe for once. Wright told Edgeworth the temple was someplace ‘very far’ . . . Verily, that meant a different police station’s jurisdiction?

“When did you discover the body?”

Wright eyed Edgeworth’s organizer curiously. For a moment, Edgeworth started worrying that Wright might protest his notetaking, but even if Wright had any objections, he didn’t voice them and opted for just answering instead:

“Can’t tell exactly, but it was well after the bells rang out.”

“When did the bells ring?”

“Ten in the evening. And . . .” He stopped to cough in his fist. “I wasn’t the first who found Elise, actually. It was the head nun of Hazakura Temple. She asked that I call the police.”

Good. 

• Talk to the head nun—an eyewitness

“Did you call the police right away?”

“Um-m . . .” Wright scratched his nape with a goofy grin. “No. I’d forgotten my cell phone back at the office, and the public one was near Dusky Bridge . . . So it kind of stopped being my priority.” 

Edgeworth pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a migraine coming. He was just about done trying to comprehend Wright’s rationale behind his vexing behavior.

He sighed out, “Understood.”

Someone else must’ve called, since Wright had made it here alive. But who and when?

Edgeworth reached for his phone in his coat pocket. Reminding himself to switch the time on his phone and his wristwatch to the Pacific time, he opened the call history. He had to press the down button several times to skip outgoing calls to get to the last incoming one.

Larry had phoned Edgeworth at 8:28 AM, while he was still in Nuremberg, sleeping in after working all night on a particularly arduous case. On the West Coast, that would be 11:28 PM.

If Butz had at least two brain cells intact, he called the emergency services before waking Edgeworth up with his panicked screams. 

• Time of death: Feb 7th, 10PM—11:28PM

• Request 911 call logs to hopefully narrow the timeframe

As he finished writing, his gaze lingered on the screen phone. He could still see three calls above Larry’s. All to Wright, all redirected to voicemail. The addlepated stubbornness that kept him calling and leaving messages felt embarrassing now.

The screen blackened. Edgeworth blinked, folded his flip phone, and slipped it back in his pocket.

He cleared his throat. “Let’s wind back a little. Did you notice any visible injuries on the corpse?”

Wright scrolled down the document, rubbing his forehead. “She had a huge ceremonial sword—they call it Shichishito—sticking out of her back. A pool of blood on the snow under her . . .”

The document reached its end. Wright stared at the screen with the blank expression, then pushed the tray table aside and leaned on the pillows.

“Sorry,” he blurted. “Don’t remember if there was anything else. Barely looked at her.”

“Worry not.”

• Request an autopsy report

• Cause of death: blood loss due to a stab wound (?)

Edgeworth balanced his pen on his index finger. “How hard would it be to wield such a sword?”

“Haven’t held it in my hands, so hard to wager . . . But it was big!” Wright spread his arms wide, tugging at his IV; Edgeworth twitched back just in time for Wright to not accidentally backhand him. “Like two thirds of my height.”

“Hm-m . . .” the prosecutor hummed, gently pushing Wright’s hand out of his face.

He eyed Wright’s body, covered by a plain white bedsheet, to estimate the sword’s length. Two thirds . . . That was well above an average sword’s size. 

• Perp.: strong physique (?)

• Murder weapon (to be confirmed)—a ceremonial sword, Shichishito, ~4 ft

“Who else was present in the temple?”

“Only two nuns run the whole place . . .” Wright paused to cough in his elbow. “No guests except Elise, Larry, and us—” Another cough. “Sorry. Us three.”

Edgeworth shook his head and noted:

• People on site: nun #1 (the head nun?), nun #2, victim, Larry Butz, Phoenix, Maya and Pearl Fey

Edgeworth saw that Wright was running at his limit, however much he wanted to appear fine. He needed rest. So Edgeworth had to get to the point and put up with the fact he’d leave some questions unanswered.

“Passersby?” he asked, after Wright’s coughing had subsided.

Wright rubbed his chin. “Didn’t see anyone. The place is desolate.”

Perfect. If Wright’s account was accurate, he’d just shrunk the list of suspects drastically. 

Edgeworth tapped the pen’s nib on the paper. “Any idea who the culprit could be?”

Wright’s breath hitched abruptly. He turned away to the window as he fell silent, as if he’d suddenly lost interest in their conversation.

Edgeworth titled his head, confused. Wright must have known that this question was essential. 

“Well?”

“No,” Wright muttered, still avoiding Edgeworth’s gaze. “But I’ve heard Iris is in custody now.”

He’d heard that name from Larry. “Who’s Iris?”

“One of the nuns.” Wright’s shoulders slumped. “They think she did it.”

Edgeworth wrote the name of the nun above the present people note.

“I take it you disagree?” he inferred, watching Wright’s hunched posture warily.

Wright didn’t respond.

Edgeworth sighed. He closed his organizer, slid his fountain pen in the organizer’s spine, and hid them back in his briefcase. 

“Wright,” he murmured as he closed the latches on his briefcase, “by simple elimination, it’s one of the nuns. You testified that there was no one else.” 

“Yeah.”

“Unless you’re willing to include Larry or Maya Fey to the list of suspects. Or yourself.”

“No.”

“Could it be the other nun?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Who then?”

He was granted another portion of silence. Edgeworth wondered if Wright had slipped into unconsciousness again, but finally, he got a tentative, “Someone else.”

If it happened during the trial, Edgeworth would ruthlessly destroy any defense attorney for such a flimsy line of argument. However, he had no desire to do that to Wright right now. Usually, he’d be angry, and yet, the only thing he felt was his core aching for his friend.

“You do realize that you’ve just contradicted yourself?”

Edgeworth flinched—it sounded pathetically weak.

Wright turned back to Edgeworth. His eyelids were half-closed, but he wore that smile of his—a smile that said he was bluffing confidence, the one he usually wore before pulling out his most ridiculous assertions in court.

“I do . . .” he said. “You’re smart, Miles. The best attorney I’ve ever known. You’ll figure it out . . .” A cursed cough. Again. “You always do.”

Edgeworth’s lips tightened. “And what if I find out Iris did it?”

“You won’t.” Wright didn’t skip a beat.

“If you have anything to share with me to convince me it’s not her, now is the time, Wright!” Edgeworth insisted, the heel of his loafer clacking repeatedly against the floor.

“It’s just . . . She is not the sort of woman who would do it.”

“That’s it?!”

Wright simply nodded. His smile softened from sly to sanguine.

Edgeworth’s palm curled into a fist. Wright made no sense. Not a shred of sense.

Wright seemed to always pick his clients based solely on a hunch. It was only a matter of time when Wright’s deep, unearned faith would be betrayed and . . . destroyed.

“Do you even know her?” he asked—a plea more than a rebuttal.

And the smile vanished from Wright’s face. “I . . . Don’t know if I know her.” He winced. “I’m so . . .”

Edgeworth tensed. “‘So’ what?” he clarified, watching Wright's contorted features with concern.

Wright mumbled something unintelligible.

Tired? Confused? In pain?

Miles’s hand, now open, moved instinctively toward Phoenix. 

“Phoenix?” he called, his fingers brushing Phoenix’s shoulder.

The momentary touch made Phoenix shiver. He shook his head meekly and exhaled, “I’m so sorry. May I . . . ask you something?”

‘Sorry’ didn’t sound like what he’d mumbled. But Phoenix looked so tormented by something way beyond physical pain that Miles didn’t dare to force any more answers out of him.

“Stop with the pointless apologizing,” Edgeworth chided half-heartedly. He leaned in slightly to hear Wright’s muted, quavering voice better. “What is it?”

“My jacket should be . . .” He waved his arm aimlessly. “Somewhere here . . . Could you—”

Edgeworth held up his hand. “Sure.”

He rose on his feet and put the folders back on the hospital chair. He examined the room briskly and approached the slim white wardrobe. Indeed, his belongings were there, neatly organized by some kind nurse: a backpack, a coat, a pair of boots, his blue suit . . . and a white hood with elegantly embroidered magenta seams, fixed by a circular brooch in the middle.

The last piece looked out of place.

Edgeworth made a mental note of the peculiar hood, took the jacket off the hanger and brought it to the hospital bed.

“Here,” he said, carefully placing the garment close to Wright.

“Thanks.”

Wright’s hands felt for the inner pocket and took out a strange, slightly translucent rock. It also seemed like it was . . . radiating with emerald-green light?

Edgeworth blinked a few times, but the hazy shine around the rock didn’t disappear. Was he getting short-sighted? He’d have to get his eyes checked.

“You’ll need this,” Wright murmured. He handed the rock to Edgeworth. 

Edgeworth took the object timidly in his hands. It was warm, smooth, and yes, still glowing. His eyes weren’t deceiving him after all. 

“It’s a Magatama,” Wright explained. “A powerful charm . . . With its help, you’ll be able to look into people’s hearts . . .”

“What . . . ?” Edgeworth’s brows raised.

Look into people’s hearts? What utter nonsense. Since when did Wright get into occult stuff? Edgeworth couldn’t even imagine that Wright, however credulous he was, would fall victim to such obviously fraudulent methods.

He muttered under his breath, “You aren’t hallucinating right now, are you?”

Wright chuckled croakily. “I know how it sounds.”

Edgeworth scoffed, “You’d better.”

“You’ll have to trust me on this one.” Wright’s hands travelled up slowly along the lapel. “The moment someone tries to hide something from you . . . Psyche-Locks appear, and . . . Hm-m . . .” Phoenix pouted. “You’ll understand when you see it for yourself.”

Psycho . . . locks? Fabulous. A name fitting a charlatan’s little tale. Or Wright’s frenzied prattling. Where did he find it anyway?

Edgeworth decided not to even entertain this nonsensical conversation, so he only rolled his eyes at this and hid the Magatama in the pocket of his coat. Easier to accept a trinket than to try to argue with a man whose brain was halfway out.

Wright didn’t seem to mind the lack of response. His fingers, in the meantime, wrapped around his attorney’s badge, and he turned it blearily. When the stubborn metal gave in and fell off his jacket’s lapel, Wright lifted it on his palm.

He reached for Miles’s wrist and took it. His thumb finger traced Miles’s tendon and  turned his hand over. 

Miles was pretty sure his heart skipped a beat. He stood still, suddenly frightened to take a breath, watching as Phoenix placed his badge in his palm and closed it. 

Phoenix spoke softly, “Help Maya and Pearls, okay?” His tired but earnest eyes looked at Miles. “And . . . take care of Iris. Please.”

“I . . .” Miles swallowed.

Phoenix’s hands were running hot, contrasting with the tepid gold-plated silver badge.

What was the meaning of this gesture? What would he need Phoenix’s badge for? Another one of his fever dreams? And wasn’t he holding onto Miles’s palm for too long? 

Edgeworth yanked his hand away—a tad too quickly, he realized belatedly. But it was too late to mend it. 

So he inhaled deeply, steadying himself, and replied, “I’ll see to it that both Feys get rescued, and . . .” He gripped the defense attorney’s badge tighter in his hand and met Wright’s gaze with his intense, stern glare. “I’ll find the truth behind this case. That, I can promise.” 

He didn’t have the strength to lie, even for Wright’s sake. He still believed that Iris was rightfully the prime suspect, given all the current information.

“Good for me.” Wright smiled. “Thank you, Miles.”

Edgeworth bowed slightly in response. 

He placed Wright’s badge in the inner pocket of his burgundy jacket, with his own prosecutor’s badge, which he never wore but always carried for practical reasons. He’d have to take good care of it until Wright came to his senses and eventually asked for it back. 

“I suppose I should be going now, Wright,” he announced, picking up Wright’s suit to put it back in the wardrobe. “If things are going the way they usually do, I don’t have much time left for the investigation.”

“Sorry I piled so much on you,” Wright mumbled.

Edgeworth hung the jacket on the hanger and straightened it. “We’ve been through this,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve got you.” He closed the wardrobe’s doors. “And please, do me a favor and get some proper rest.”

Wright propped himself on the elbows. “Will you keep me updated?”

Edgeworth picked up his travel bag and briefcase. He scowled at the question. “I would, if you had your phone on you,” he quipped, and headed to the exit.

“Edgeworth,” Wright called exasperatedly.

Edgeworth hesitated, standing on the doorsill. He turned around. Wright was giving him a questioning look. 

“Fine,” Edgeworth relented. “I’ll check in with you.” He raised his hand in a goodbye gesture. “Take care.”

✦───────────༺ ♘ ༻───────────✦

“How is Mr. Wright?” the young brunette nurse asked Edgeworth at the reception desk, taking the visitor’s pass from him. The employee badge on her uniform read, ‘Ms. Cara Tecker — ICU RN.’ “I hope you didn’t disturb him much.”

“Oh, he’s perfectly capable of disturbing himself,” Edgeworth sneered, signing off in the visitor log, but, as he said that, the ballpen he’d been holding halted on the last stroke of his surname. He added in a lowered tone, dropping all pretense, “He’s agitated. Confused at times. It’s . . . worrisome.”

“He kept demanding discharge papers and threatening to take legal action the moment he came to, despite numerous doctors telling him it was not possible.” The nurse pursed her lips and shook her head. “Fever does that to people. I was afraid he’d try to escape with how insistent he was.”

It has very little to do with the fever, Edgeworth thought ruefully. Once he realized he’d never completed his signature, he finished the h’s curled tail rashly and put the pen back in its holder.

“The escape is not going to happen. I assured him it’s not the best course of action,” he said.

Or so he hoped . . . Wright had handed him his belongings and his trust for a reason, right?

He narrowed his eyes and gave the nurse a glare as he turned the journal back to her. “But will he be alright? He looked quite battered.”

“Hm . . .” Ms. Tecker tapped her index finger on her cheek, cocking her head. She ignored the journal, eyeing Edgeworth instead. “Suppose there’s no harm in me telling you if he’s okay.”

She peeked in the hall behind Edgeworth cautiously, and, as she confirmed there wasn’t anyone in the view, pushed off the desk and twirled on her chair to the filing cabinets, which stood against the wall. She located Wright’s file quickly and skimmed through it.

“Hah,” she exclaimed, her face brightening; her lips curled into a smile. “The last entry from Dr. Rasti says there are no traumatic brain injuries, substantial organ damage, or fractures. In fact, it looks like he has only pneumonia. Which is unpleasant, and he needs a couple more days to recover, but there’s nothing to worry about . . .” She whistled, amazed. “Fascinating. Eagle River’s victims’ survival rate is four percent, give or take, and he’ll walk out of it unscathed, like . . . he was blessed or something.”

Edgeworth’s stare softened. ‘Unscathed’ was definitely an overstatement, but he felt the knots in his stomach easing upon hearing her words.

If Wright wasn’t going to die, then it would be much easier to focus on fulfilling the vow Edgeworth had given to him.

“Hmph. This kind of miracle is very on brand for Wright,” Edgeworth jabbed with a smirk, shrugging nonchalantly. “Called ‘dumb luck.’”

“Dumb luck indeed . . .” She hummed, turning the admission paper page. As she glanced through it, her eyes widened a little. “Mr. Edgeworth?”

“Yes?”

“You seem to be the first visitor for Mr. Wright. He said you’re his good friend, correct?”

“I sure hope so.”

Ms. Tecker put the papers on the reception desk. She tapped her nail on the part of the document with some empty fields; Edgeworth couldn’t make out their labels. 

“See,” she said with her brows knitted, “he’s never stated anyone he’d like us to notify in case of an emergency. Given his prognosis, it’s unlikely, but . . . would you mind if I added you? After I confirm with him, of course.”

Edgeworth frowned. Didn’t Wright have any relatives to take care of him, or closer friends? Hell, Larry, for the lack of sane people? Was he really alone this whole time here?

This didn’t sit right with Edgeworth. Wright had never struck him as a lonesome person—quite the opposite, actually . . . Was he wrong?

He didn’t really have a choice then, did he? Besides, he certainly wanted to know if anything were to happen to Phoenix.

“I don’t see why not,” he agreed. 

“Great! Thank you!” The nurse gave him a tiny bow, tore the note off the sticky notes pack and handed one to Edgeworth. “I only need your phone number. I’ll copy the rest of your data from the visitor journal.”

Edgeworth nodded and quickly wrote down his American phone number from his memory.

He then bid goodbye to Ms. Tecker and trotted toward the exit, deep in thought.

He’d have to stop by the Gatewater Hotel and book a suite for himself. After that, he’d head for the Detention Center to meet the mysterious Iris who Wright was so worked up about, and, regrettably, Larry, who’d left multiple outrageous messages on his phone by now.

And, as he processed some of the information given by Wright, there were a lot of pieces which didn’t quite fit.

What happened to the bridge, for instance? The easiest explanation suggested that it was arson, designed by the killer to slow down the potential chase. But if so, and if Iris was the true culprit, how did she end up on the wrong side of the bridge?

Why would Iris want to kill Elise? What was her motive? 

And the Eagle River, mentioned by the nurse . . . It stirred something in his mind, something distant and painful. He knew that place, but from where? He struggled to find the memory it belonged to.

No matter what, he had to hear Iris’s side of the story first. If Wright’s instinct didn’t betray him and she was indeed innocent, then, in his quest to find the truth, Edgeworth would get her acquitted by extension. But, if Edgeworth’s deductions proved to be true . . . 

Well, Miles would have to be there for his heartbroken friend and help him live through this.

Chapter Text

Edgeworth held Wright’s attorney’s badge in his hand. His thumb traced the petals of the sunflower, occasionally bumping into scratches. It shined bleakly, reflecting the rays of the dusky sun filtered through the lightly dusted car window, making those crevices all the more noticeable.

Odd, for it to look so . . . aged. Edgeworth’s prosecutor’s badge was still in pristine condition, despite it going on its seventh year.

And . . . take care of Iris. Please.

Please, Edgey! At least listen to her . . . Listen to Iris’s side of the story!

Edgeworth scoffed. Unbelievable. How had he caved in to pressure from his capricious friends like this?

If Mr. Wright has so much faith in you, Mr. Edgeworth . . . Then I will gladly entrust my fate to your capable hands.

What was he thinking, committing to such an obligation, promising to defend someone on a momentary whim, on a hunch that Wright had intended it?

That wasn’t even what he’d planned to do. He was going to prosecute the case! Yet Edgeworth found his restless, overthinking mind reeling back to Wright handing him his badge, his whole identity over to Edgeworth . . . He could still feel the warmth of Phoenix’s touch.

Miles closed his palm around the badge. Did he even understand Phoenix correctly?

Phoenix’s wishes somehow overrode his own so easily, but why?

“Sir?”

Edgeworth jolted his head up. “Yes?”

The chauffeur, dressed in black attire typical for his profession, glanced at Edgeworth in the rearview mirror and saluted with his hat.

“Just a heads-up—there are a couple of sharp turns ahead.”

“That’s alright.”

“And the road might get bumpy . . .” The chauffeur’s trimmed gray beard trembled as he chuckled. “I bet no one’s fixed these damn potholes in a century. What are we paying taxes for?”

Edgeworth sighed—he should’ve picked a less talkative driver.

“So that I get paid,” he replied plainly. “Therefore, you get paid.”

The chauffeur shrugged. “I suppose.”

He smiled politely and turned his gaze back to the road, drumming in tune with some jazz melody playing on the radio.

Edgeworth, now free from the unwanted chatter, looked out of the window. They were moving up a serpentine road, which carved its path through the dense coniferous forest and hills. There was a ridge on the right, fenced off by crash barriers that were half-buried in snow.

Further below, he could see the lower part of the Eagle River, running swiftly between two steep banks, crashing on rocks and debris.

The scenery was breathtaking—in more ways than one. There was something inexplicably familiar about this place . . .

He leaned his elbow on the car door, propping his head on his hand. His eyes absently followed the crooked pines and the never-freezing river as a strange feeling of déjà vu sent him reminiscing.

Many winters ago, when his days were much, much simpler, he’d dreamed of following in his father’s steps. Becoming a renowned defense attorney, a protector of people who have no one else on their side. He’d absorbed court records he was given at the tender age of nine in place of lullabies, longed for the day he’d join Edgeworth & Co. Law Offices and assist his father in trials, lead his own cases, live up to Gregory’s name, or, who knows, even outpace it . . . 

Fate, with its sardonic sense of humor, led him in the complete opposite direction. And while he’d gotten comfortable with the role he’d taken on—individuals who were wronged needed someone to seek justice for them too—once in a blue moon he still entertained the idea of a universe where the earthquake had never hit the courthouse. Where Gregory Edgeworth had opted for the stairs instead. Where Manfred von Karma had never picked up that gun. 

But never in his life did Miles imagine he’d get a chance to play the defense attorney in this reality. Even for a short time. A baton, accepted unknowingly from . . . 

What is Mr. Wright to you? He remembered Iris asking.

He might’ve imagined things, but he heard suspicion in her question. Fright, perhaps.

He struggled to find the right words.

Dear and indispensable friend . . . There was no one he’d ever referred to like that.

Edgeworth’s fingers turned the badge blindly in his hand.

Was that it? The care stemmed from deep respect, powerful enough to drop everything and jump on a transatlantic flight, or, apparently, impersonate Phoenix and defend Larry’s newest crush? Carry out the will of two irredeemable idiots, who just happened to be his friends?

Edgeworth felt his lips cracking into a lopsided smile. He barely managed to dampen his urge to break and laugh madly, as it might prompt the driver to try to start a conversation again.

Insane. They were both insane! And worse . . . He felt he was going insane along with them.

He was a prosecutor. Not a defense attorney. And in this country, with its rigid rules, where lawyers on opposite sides of the courtroom are seen as rivals and not people pursuing the same truth , one could not switch benches without going through a reexamination first. And it simply wasn’t conceivable in one day.

Logically, Edgeworth should’ve turned down this borderline psychotic plan. He should’ve searched for qualified and, more importantly, licensed defense attorneys with reputable names, who could match Wright’s increasingly mighty legal prowess. He might’ve even supported them—shared what he could, helped build their defense strategy . . .

Yet they weren’t the ones Wright had entrusted this case to.

Edgeworth couldn’t legally stand behind the defense attorney’s bench. That much was true. But it wasn’t impossible either . . . Especially in a judicial system so flawed that a paper badge had been accepted as sufficient identification two months ago.

Had they enhanced the security measures since then, Edgeworth wondered? He would have to file his notice of appearance in the court tomorrow morning. Would passing an authentic badge—even if not his—work? Present himself as Miles Edgeworth, a criminal attorney at law, and hope that whatever clerk processed the application would neglect the protocols and skip license number confirmation? Only one way to find out.

There was also the problem that Edgeworth was quite recognizable—famous even, he dared say—in the legal world. The whole Prosecutor’s Office was acquainted with him. And the judges . . . He’d been attending courts for so long that he’d met every single one of them at least once.

That was before even starting with the paperwork trail, which would inevitably blow the ruse the moment the court transcript was published.

Edgeworth shook his head. No. That shouldn’t be his focus.

All that mattered was to hold on until the trial ended. And then . . . To hell with it. He’d think of something. Somehow. Embrace the fallout, if nothing else. He didn’t have time left to care about that.

Edgeworth lifted Wright’s badge. His eyes fell on scales in the centre of it.

He smirked to himself.

He slid the badge’s base through the buttonhole on the left side of his jacket’s lapel. His hands felt for the clutch on its back and turned it till the badge was secured in place.

His only path was forward, and he knew he’d better start moving.

For him to keep the game going long enough, it was paramount that the judge and the prosecution wouldn’t contest his presence as a defense attorney. He wagered he had enough influence to make necessary arrangements, call in some favors. So all Edgeworth needed to do was choose who to spar with.

With the judge, his best bet would be to just pick one he hadn’t interacted with in a while and pray for the best.

As for prosecution . . . Edgeworth could use an accomplice.

He took his phone out and flipped it open. The time on the screen, now switched to the local timezone, indicated it was just after 4 PM. 1 AM in Germany. 

Edgeworth breathed out a sigh of relief . . . If he acted fast, he could still acquire help from the person who he trusted most with a task like this. Hopefully, she wasn’t too busy with her own cases and could hop on a flight . . . He was sure that motivation wouldn’t be a problem, as this would feed into her obsessive desire to obliterate Edgeworth in court.

And he wanted it, wanted her to attack him with all she had. Because, even if this all technically counted as obstruction of justice, even if he banked everything on Wright’s intuition and Iris’s innocence . . . The truth was more important than his promise. He wouldn’t forgive himself if the murderer walked free. And Wright wouldn’t forgive him either. 

He didn’t waste another second pondering and pressed the speed dial button, preparing to apologize to Franziska for such a late call.

Chapter Text

Edgeworth leaned back in the hotel’s armchair, his eyes closed and his palm shielding them from the blinding light of the floor lamp. His jacket, as well as his cravat, were tossed onto the sofa. He couldn’t be bothered to properly hang them to keep them tidy for tomorrow’s trial.

Huh. Trial. What a joke.

In eight hours or so, he’d have to head out to the courthouse. Right now, he needed to be either sleeping or working on his arguments, yet neither felt even remotely within his reach. His mind was foggy and his head was throbbing, but the anxiety’s grip on his chest was so tight it wouldn’t let him drift off.

He had no case! The assumed murder weapon had Iris’s fingerprints all over its hilt. There was an eyewitness, Sister Bikini, who’d claimed to have seen the moment of the murder, and, on top of that, appeared sound-minded. She also said she’d seen Iris in the Inner Temple earlier, which directly contradicted the testimony given by Iris herself.

In the end, his only ‘proof’ of Iris’s innocence was Wright’s magical rock—Magatama, was it?—which took Iris’s words, that she wasn’t the one who took Elises’s life, for truth. 

Edgeworth’s gaze raked over the sheer chaos on the coffee table. A map of Eagle Mountain, pencil marks all over it, photos, copies of evidence forms, autopsy and weather reports, his organizer with notes written haphazardly outside of the lines . . . Iris’s hood and Butz’s illiterate letter, both hidden in ziplock bags.

These were scraps. He had no access to forensics, so he had no idea whether the police had gotten their hands on something even more damning. While Detective Gumshoe was definitely helpful with leaking some information, there was no denying that Edgeworth would be walking into the courtroom blind and deaf, with his hands tied behind his back . . . Truthfully, he wondered how Wright managed to not get a coronary after working like this for two years.

At least Franziska had less time to prepare, as she was currently mid-flight. But he knew better than to bet on that.

Edgeworth forced himself up on his feet and began pacing around, trying to kickstart his stalling brain, to shake the irritating sluggishness which enveloped his whole body.

Alas, it only reminded him of other problems he had no solutions to.

The Feys were nowhere to be found. The rescue team was operating on the assumption that Maya was in the Training Hall, but the helicopters couldn’t reach close enough to have a good look . . . They said it had something to do with avalanche risks. Edgeworth had spent the whole evening peering into the distance, seeking any sign of movement on the other side of the bridge, but there was none.

As for Pearl . . . she’d simply vanished. She wasn’t at home, or at Wright’s office, or on the temple’s grounds. Edgeworth was fairly sure she must be in the Training Hall too—where else?—but . . . 

He’d been so sure that the bridge fire was arson, too, until he’d gotten the weather report. Lightning. Of all things. Lightning.

Edgeworth remembered going to the hospital again, like he’d promised, sharing all of the information he’d learned with Wright, struggling to keep his gaze trained and his voice even. The insufferable image of horror and grief in Phoenix’s wide deep-blue eyes seared in Miles’s memory . . .

Miles stopped dead by the coffee table.

Could he even rely on his own judgment anymore? Had he considered all of the possibilities?

Was he failing Phoenix?

His eyes fixated on the hood. He picked it up and fidgeted with it, his thumb pressing the transparent bag to flatten the creases, revealing the floral embroidery.

“. . . e-ey!”

Initially, he hadn’t paid much attention to Wright’s strange choice of words. I don’t know if I know her, he said. But something—either a hunch or Iris’s apparent worry about Wright—nudged Edgeworth to ask Iris if she’d met Wright before.

It was five years ago . . . That’s when I . . . That’s when I deceived him.

He didn’t dare pry for more, while she was tearing up and clutching her chest, but he was absolutely convinced then, that these two had a history.

One Wright never saw fit to mention.

Edgeworth’s fingers scrunched the soft fabric through the bag. It wasn’t like Wright’s endeavors were Edgeworth’s business in any way, but it stung. Quite considerably, actually . . .

“. . . e-e-ey!”

Edgeworth blinked, the haze of heavy memories dissipating at once. 

What was that high-pitched pitiful whine? Had he been deprived of sleep for so long that he’d started hallucinating?

“Edge-e-ey!”

Edgeworth turned sharply to the windows, toward the source of the sound. He blindly put the garment back on the table. He didn’t like this, not one bit. Only one man in an entire world had a squeal that pathetic, and he was just about the last person Edgeworth wished to see right now.

Fighting his desire to pretend he didn’t hear it, Edgeworth creeped to the closest window and shifted the curtain. He peeked out cautiously, seeking to not give himself away just yet.

Blast it! As if this night couldn’t have gone any worse . . .

Here he was—Larry Butz. He stood in front of the hotel in the same hideous pink sweater with paint stains that he’d worn earlier, and his tacky felt beret was lying by his feet.

How did Butz learn where Edgeworth was staying? Had Edgeworth failed to notice when he was being followed?

The idiot threw his head back, put his hands to his mouth, and hollered yet again, somehow louder than before, “Edge-e-e-ey!”

He stopped to inhale deeply, hoarsely, with his cheeks puffing, and screamed, “Come on, man, you can’t be sleeping!”

And what if I were?! Edgeworth grunted. What were those windows made of?! It was as if they were specifically designed to let all the noises through! 

Edgeworth opened the sash window up, then poked his head out of it and leaned his hands on the windowsill.

“Damn you, Larry, will you shut up?!” he yelled in response. “It’s midnight!”

“Edge-e-e-ey!” Larry’s voice filled with glee and he even jumped, flailing his hands, but suddenly, not a minute after his apparent triumph, the buffoon started wailing. “Edgey, I’m so sorry! I was a jerk!”

Edgeworth’s fingers gripped the windowsill till his nails whitened. “Which part of my last sentence did you not understand?!” 

“Let me i-i-in! Please! I wanna talk! And I—” Larry picked up and swung some kind of a white-and-red box with a handle. “I, uh, brought you something!”

Gods . . . What was he being punished for? 

He had to do something with this man-child now, before he woke the whole neighborhood.

“Stop screaming and get inside!” he demanded, slashing his hand through the air. 

He then slammed the window shut, so hard that the glass trembled. Begrudgingly, he turned to the hotel phone to call the reception desk.

✦───────────༺ ♘ ༻───────────✦

Edgeworth waited for Larry, leaning on the door frame with his arms crossed. He watched his ridiculous friend waddling toward him, carrying that white box of his with what sounded like bottles rattling in it.

“Hi, Edgey!” Larry called cheerfully.

He was raising his hand as if to wave . . . Yet somehow, this sorry excuse for a human being managed to trip over his own feet.

Bloody . . . A startled Edgeworth twitched forward instinctively, losing his defensive composure, only to see Larry miraculously clutching his box with both hands and finding his balance at the last second before planting his face right in the hallway.

Edgeworth harrumphed and propped his shoulder on the doorframe. “You have thirty seconds,” he declared curtly, not even sparing Larry a ‘hello.’

“Wow, okay.” Larry stopped in his tracks, a little deflated. He put the box on the ground. “I just wanted to, like, say ‘sorry.’ I, um-m,” he rubbed his neck and looked away as he blurted sheepishly, “didn’t mean it when I said that I hope your plane crashes and you die.”

Edgeworth wrinkled his nose. If only that was Larry’s only shortcoming today. Or ever.

“Fifteen seconds.”

Larry’s eyes widened. “H-hey, dude!” he squawked, flinging his arms up. “That’s kinda rude!”

Edgeworth straightened out and rolled his shoulders. He pretentiously checked his wristwatch. “Well,” he said with a tut, “time’s up. Goodnight, Larry.”

He stepped back inside his room and put his hand on the door handle, ready to shut it in Larry’s face. Unfortunately for Edgeworth though, the latter had no plans to throw in the towel—he decided to jam the closing door with his palm.

“First of all! It’s Laurice!” Larry shoved his reddened face in the opening and spelled out, “L-A-U-R-I-C-E!”

“As if I care!” Edgeworth huffed and tugged at the door, but to no avail.

“Second,” Larry continued yammering, “no fair! I came all the way here from the temple to talk to you! So you’d better hear me out, or I’m going to scream in front of your stupid hotel until the morning!”

Edgeworth’s hand stilled on the doorknob. Larry’s bluntness and chronic inability to take the hint were not news . . . However, he’d usually given up much earlier than this.

A momentary hesitation was all it took for Larry to swing the door open and shove the box inside the room with his boot. Edgeworth staggered out of the box’s way.

Since Larry faced no more resistance, he let himself inside and promptly closed the door behind him.

“I brought beer!” he said proudly.

Edgeworth gaped at Larry. “Beer . . . ?” he muttered. 

“Duh!” Larry grinned ear to ear. He brazenly leaned back on the sofa and took two brown glass bottles out of the case.

“To take Edgey’s edge off!” he chirped, handing one to Edgeworth. 

“Are you dumb or drunk?” Edgeworth gasped, not believing what he’d just heard. “I have a trial tomorrow!”

“Aw, so what?” Larry nudged Edgeworth’s forearm with a bottle. “You don’t look too good, and what’s one pint? A little pick-me-up would only help, no?”

Edgeworth batted the bottle away; he felt his ears grow hot. “Absolutely not!” 

“Fine-fine. Guess I shoulda grabbed the wine instead.”

Larry’s voice sounded nonchalant, but his head was drooped. He opened the cap by wedging it against the other bottle’s cap, then set the other bottle back in the box. 

It almost amused Edgeworth how one could miss the point so entirely.

“But I’m serious,” Larry added. “About the ‘sorry.’ ”

Edgeworth scoffed. “Why does it matter anyway? All you do is apologize and immediately follow it up with another atrocity!”

“That’s why I don’t want to be that Butz guy anymore,” Larry grumbled in the beer’s bottleneck and took a sip.

“Do you not understand?” Edgeworth leered derisively. “Call yourself Larry or Laurice or— or Steel Samurai, you!” He pointed right at Larry’s chest. “You are still the same.” He flipped his pointing hand and started counting off, “Unreliable. Facetious. Egoistic. Ignorant—”

Larry choked on his beer. “S— Stop!” he stuttered, jumping on his feet. Some of the beverage spilled on the sofa. “I get it, okay?! But I’m trying!”

Edgeworth cocked his head and propped his hand on his hip. “Oh?”

“I—” Larry stalled, but then puffed out his chest. “Yeah!”

“Rubbish.” Edgeworth turned away to pace around the room. “This whole day, I’ve been doing my damnedest to save the Feys and protect a person Wright vouched for, while keeping him from lunging headfirst into the case despite his state. And what were you busy with in the meantime? Do tell.”

Larry’s jutted lip trembled. “I . . . I was—”

“Ordering me around,” Edgeworth cut in with a jeer. “Acting like a prat. Lying to me. Running away. Gushing over yet another woman. And, speaking of,” he motioned vaguely toward the coffee table, “blackmailing her.”

And now, Edgeworth lamented inwardly, he was wasting his precious time disciplining this moron, while he should be working on the case or sleeping, recuperating for the impending trial.

“I told you it was a love letter!” Larry’s eyes glistened with tears. “I— I screwed up, but I’m rooting for her and doing everything I can for her . . .”

Edgeworth stopped. “You are,” he conceded flatly.

“See? I—”

“I see everything very clearly, Butz! How about Wright?” Edgeworth’s eyes shot daggers at Larry’s whimpery face. “Do you even care about him, or are you more concerned about a girl you met yesterday?”

“Of course I care about Nick! What kind of a question is that?!” 

“Do you now?” Edgeworth smirked lopsidedly and struck Butz with questions he already had answers for, “Have you gone to see him in the hospital then? Inquired about him?”

Larry tsked and looked away. “I . . . I haven’t been there,” he relented with a childish grimace. “Just don’t see much sense in moping around there.”

“But you sure mope around the Detention Center a lot.” Edgeworth shrugged. “I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything more. After all, you did nothing to prevent the situation Wright got himself into.”

Larry’s cheeks flared. “Wait just one second!” he said, stepping toward Edgeworth and pointing his shaking finger at the prosecutor. “O-objection! That’s not true! I tried to drag him away from that freaking bridge, but he just pushed me! And I called for help right after that, the police and paramedics!” Larry took one step further and was now huffing at Edgeworth’s unmoving, disdainful face. “And— And I called you, didn’t I?!”

“Hmph.” Edgeworth’s hand clutched onto his shoulder. The next accusation came out bitterly, “You called me to just dump all this on me and bail, leaving me to untangle the mess you both created!”

“It’s not that!” Larry blustered, but choked under Edgeworth's staredown. 

Spooked, he backed away until he ran into the bedside table. He put the beer on it blearily and jerked his hands up in a defensive motion.

“Okay-okay, not only that! Maybe! I-it all looked really bad and I panicked and yes, I hoped you’d come and save the day somehow, but!” Suddenly, Larry stopped his chatter and inhaled sharply. His face turned woefully serious. “That was my first thought, that you should know. That if he happened to, you know, die . . .” Edgeworth flinched at the word. “That you’d want to be here.”

Edgeworth opened his mouth, wanting to come up with some kind of argument, but his mind offered him nothing except static. It sounded so mundane from Larry’s lips, yet the contents of what he said were so unnerving. Under all this pressure, he’d almost forgotten that less than a day ago, Wright not surviving it had still been a possibility. Even stale, this potential scenario prickled his core, making him short of breath.

His hands fumbled for the couch’s arm. He almost scrunched the jacket by sitting on it, but noticed it barely in time to whip it aside.

“Uh, you good? You got kinda pale,” Larry’s voice rang in his ears, along with a clunk. A bottle flicked in front of his eyes. “Beer?”

Edgeworth meekly waved the irritatingly shimmery bottle out of his sight.

“Got it. No beer.”

Another clang. The feeling of the couch sagging on the left. A repeated, muffled glugging.

Edgeworth propped his arms on his knees and pressed his fingers against his forehead. Strangely, his palms felt warmer than his face.

“It was scary, huh?” Larry asked. “The Wright almost dying thing.”

“He didn’t almost die,” Edgeworth rebutted hoarsely. “It’s just a bad cold.”

“Yeah. He lucked out. But it was a close call, don’t you think? I saw his body being carried away by that river and just froze, thinking that he kicked the freakin’—”

“Don’t!” Edgeworth barked, raising his hand. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

“But—”

“Please!” Edgeworth winced. “I . . . I don’t wish to talk about it.”

Larry sighed. “Sure, man.”

The resounding silence filled the room, occasionally interrupted by evidence of Butz’s continued presence—foot tap, drinking, scraping his nails on the sofa’s fabric, grunting. He just couldn’t sit still, it seemed. At least, he kept himself from further attempts to engage Edgeworth in unnecessary conversations, which ached more than they had any right to.

Edgeworth sank his fingers through his hair. He couldn’t make any sense of what was going on with him. He sat there, doubled over, unraveled, trying to slow his rapid, shallow breathing, fighting the staccato of racing thoughts: Wright, Wright, Wright, Wright, Wright.

Wright’s health. Wright’s badge. Wright’s people, Wright’s mission, Wright’s hands and his pleading eyes . . .

Edgeworth exhaled slowly and rubbed his temples. That defense attorney lived rent-free in his head lately, didn’t he?

He shouldn’t have let Larry in. Shouldn’t have prompted him to talk about Wright’s fall. But the damage was done.

“He would never shut up about you,” Larry broke the silence yet again. “Nick, I mean.”

Edgeworth shot up a tired glance at Larry through his burnt-ash bangs.

“Ack! Sorry!” Larry yelped, twitching back all the way to the other end of the sofa. “I’ll keep my trap closed.”

Edgeworth shook his head and shifted his gaze away, forced himself to focus on the disgusting mud-green flowery carpet in the center of his room. He could see Larry’s muddy footprints trodden into it.

“Wouldn’t shut up about what, exactly?” he asked, scrutinizing one particular red tulip on the decorative piece.

Edgeworth heard Larry scratching his stubble. “Throughout school and later, in college, he’d be like,” Larry coughed and pitched up his tone a notch, putting on a poor impression of Wright, “‘I wonder where Miles is right now,’ ‘Do you think he still remembers us?’ or ‘He’ll become an ace attorney, just like his father, and then it will be easy to find him’ . . .”

Edgeworth hummed. He never quite liked talking about the past—it always left him uneasy, inevitably reminded him of the life he could’ve had but was robbed of. This time was, frankly, no different, but there was also something else, new and curious, which drew him to keep listening despite his inner voice protesting.

“It was getting on my nerves sometimes,” Larry continued exasperatedly. “I didn’t even remember your looks anymore since elementary and didn’t understand why we should keep bringing up someone who’d left us nothing but an Irish goodbye . . . Uh, no offense. But he . . . He just couldn’t move on.”

“He . . . has that irrevocable relentlessness in him,” Edgeworth commented reluctantly.

“I know, right? Sets his mind on something and then choo-choo . . . like that damn locomotive. Unstoppable. So anyhow, now you’re back in the picture, and the trio is complete once again after what, fifteen years? Except . . . Eh. It’s not like it used to be.”

Edgeworth glanced at Larry, a little calmer and more in control. His friend was knitting his brows and pouted his lips. As Edgeworth shifted his gaze down, he noticed a beer bottle, finished, standing by the sofa, and a splotch of rumpled burgundy fabric under Larry’s unbothered rear.

There was no reaction coming from Edgeworth. He didn’t even comment on the jacket, didn’t have the fuel in him to get mad about it.

“It would be strange at best if our relationship was the same,” Edgeworth said. “We’re adults . . . Though, I’m doubting that when it comes to you.”

“Hey!” Larry’s pondering face broke into a scowl. “What gives?!”

Edgeworth raised a brow. “The fact that you yelled in front of my hotel in the middle of the night and barged into my room uninvited?”

Larry’s cheeks turned raspberry. “Th— That wasn’t my point!”

Edgeworth leaned his side on the sofa. “So there was a point to all this rambling?” he quipped, propping his elbow on the sofa’s back.

“Honestly, I enjoyed you more when you sat quietly,” Larry grumbled, crossing his arms and looking away, still flustered. “It’s just . . . There are different vibes between you and Nick which I don’t get, and I feel like I’m just third-wheeling, you know?”

Larry swallowed a sniffle.

Third-wheeling . . . ? Edgeworth was certain that for Larry, being a burden to anyone was among his last possible concerns, but what he was saying . . . It directly contradicted that assumption!

“Larry . . .” Edgeworth whispered, astonished.

“Look, Edgey,” Larry muttered; his arms tightened, shifting into a self-soothing motion. “I’m sorry I’m too stupid to fix it myself and I’m sorry you’re having such a hard time. But I’m not sorry for calling. Nick needed you. And you needed to be here.”

Edgeworth’s eyes softened. Larry was . . . a lot of things. His mouth ran loose before his brain had a chance to catch up, and his hands committed to actions before he knew why, but amidst all those infuriating traits, there was . . . sincerity. It wasn’t that Larry never lied—no, he lied all the time. But his face and voice would immediately betray him each time he tried. He always wore his heart right on his sleeve.

And after all Larry’s drivel was stripped and his obnoxiousness gone, that sincerity, surprisingly, offered a new insight, which Edgeworth had failed to see before.

You’d want to be here , Larry said earlier. And he was right. Edgeworth did fly across the ocean because he wanted to be here, driven by inexplicable terror that chilled his bones. He wanted to ensure Wright had his full support, even if it meant stepping into ill-fitting shoes and following directives he didn’t truly understand.

Miles was glad Larry made that call, he realized, and that Larry had been there for Phoenix when it counted the most, when Miles couldn’t. Larry might’ve lacked the skills, or the common sense, to be helpful, but he cared enough to seek help.

Larry’s care was different from Edgeworth’s, perhaps, but it was, undeniably, there.

He sat straight on the couch. “I must apologize as well,” he said, bowing his head. “I shouldn’t have taken out my frustration at you.”

Larry gaped at Edgeworth, sniveling. “Edgey? You got a stroke or something?”

The corner of Edgeworth’s mouth twitched, but he remained calm. Did Larry really have to start clowning now of all times?!

“I’m profoundly serious, Larry,” he responded evenly, keeping his head tilted forward. “There are . . . things I owe you proper credit for.”

“Wh-what? Are you, what do they call it? A double-ganga?” Larry poked his finger at Edgeworth’s cheek. “What the heck did you do to Edgey? Give him back!”

“H-how dare you?!” Edgeworth hissed and recoiled from Larry’s hands, as his face grew unbearably hot. “I’m trying to give you justice!”

“Nah. Real Edgey snarks and bites and broods. But can you say that last part again, on the record, so I can pretend it was real?”

“Ngh—” Edgeworth hid his face in his hands. “Forget it! I hate you, Butz!”

“See? That’s more like him! You’re learning, double-ganger!”

“It’s . . . a doppelganger,” Edgeworth sighed out, wishing he was the one to fall through the accursed bridge.

Larry cackled. “Yeah-yeah. But thanks. Appreciate it.” He patted Edgeworth on his curled back. “Heh. I don’t regret deciding to come to you on my way from the Detention Center.”

Edgeworth tensed. A familiar tingling sensation at the back of his mind was evoked as his ears caught the mention of the Detention Center. A contradiction.

“Hold it!” Edgeworth darted his narrowed eyes at Larry. “Didn’t you say you came all the way here from the Hazakura Temple to talk to me ?”

“Uh . . .” Larry gulped. “Yes?”

“You . . . you fiend!” Edgeworth growled. “You deceived me!”

“Whoops!” Larry giggled stupidly. “Did I?”

Edgeworth pointed his finger at Larry and exclaimed, “I contend that you had no intention of visiting me at all!”

“Lies!” Larry spat, aggressively, but he was sweating bullets. “Prove it!”

“Do you really want to play this game with me?” Edgeworth smirked and shrugged. “Very well. Where do I start? First, you let slip the fact that you stopped by the Detention Center before coming here. Meaning seeing Iris was your primary goal.”

“Okay, maybe so, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t—”

“Second,” Edgeworth raised his index finger, “the timing. You waltzed in here just past midnight, and the Detention Center is a twenty-minute walk from the hotel. It’s quite peculiar, considering visiting times are long over and can’t be extended without special permission.”

“S-so what?! What are you getting at?”

“I ascertain that you failed to visit Iris due to forgetting that simple rule. Ergo, you used me as a fallback, since you didn’t want your long trip from the temple to be in vain!”

“Jeez! Fine-fine!” Larry scoffed. “I planned to drop by and wish Iris good luck for tomorrow’s trial, but the guards just threw me out! B-but then I figured that you kinda need good luck too, so here I am! Happy?”

Fooled by a fool. It was almost as poetic as it was pathetic. Should Edgeworth even be surprised at this point?

“Pfft. I don’t need luck,” Edgeworth rebuked, rolling his eyes. “But I could use your testimony about what you really saw last night.”

“Gah!” Larry waved off the request with his arm. “I told you already! Get off my neck, will ya?!”

Well, that was worth a try. Edgeworth raised himself to his feet and adjusted his vest.

“Then go away. You might still make it to the last bus.”

Larry’s eyes began misting with tears again, and he opened his mouth, likely to object, but a single glower ceased the act at once.

“Okay,” he said, defeated, and got up. He took a few steps toward the door, his gait obviously lacking enthusiasm.

Edgeworth picked up the beer box and shoved it into Larry’s hands, then ushered him through the threshold.

Larry craned his neck to see Edgeworth. “Night, Edgey!” he yelped like he hadn’t been about to cry just a moment ago. Nor did he seem to care to keep his voice down to not wake up other hotel residents. “You’ll crush it in court! See you tomorrow!”

“Oh, I’ll see you alright,” Edgeworth said. On the witness stand, was left unsaid, but very much intended.

And with that, he slammed the door.

It was awfully quiet in the room, almost lonely. But Edgeworth had no time to dwell on that. Inspired by Larry’s presence, he purposefully strolled to the table and fetched his friend’s ‘blackmail letter’ to Iris. He glanced over its egregious text. Make sure you come, unless you want your ‘secret’ to be exposed . . . That alone was enough for Iris to feel inclined to stay inside her room, thus supporting her testimony. It was circumstantial at best . . . But it offered him room for debate on whose account was correct.

Furthermore, it wasn’t . . . impossible that both Iris and Sister Bikini were telling what they believed to be the truth, at least to some extent. Wright’s rock attested to as much. So he simply had to find out how their stories could coexist during tomorrow’s trial. He’d also keep an eye out for opportunities to link Larry to the whole ordeal and find a viable reason to subpoena him.

Edgeworth placed the blackmail letter back on the table and closed his eyes, a new wave of exhaustion washing over him.

Wright managed to wriggle out of situations much worse, didn’t he? All while flying by the seat of his pants, which Edgeworth used to mock him ruthlessly for. Now, he had no choice but to adopt the same strategy, or lack thereof—for both Wright’s and Iris’s sake.

And employing one’s critical thinking to make split-second decisions in a chaotic environment would be better while well-rested.

He turned around, intending to head to the bathroom for his bedtime routines. As he passed the sofa, his eyes fell on his jacket, crumpled beyond recognition by Larry, and his cravat, stuck between two sofa pillows.

Edgeworth changed his route and returned to the hotel phone instead, to call the laundry service.

It was unbecoming of an attorney to appear in a less than pristine suit, after all.

Chapter Text

February 9, 3:04 PM
Hazakura Temple
Main Gate

Edgeworth was leaning on the black sedan’s hood by the Hazakura Temple, rented from the same chauffeur service he’d used yesterday. The driver was watching out of the window lazily, possibly stealing a snooze or two as he waited.

There was nothing left for Edgeworth to do; in fact, he had to rush to the precinct’s Criminal Affairs Department and pull up his old court records. Yet, he was standing there, stalling: his arms crossed, his fingers drumming on his forearm, and his eyes following the faint trails of footsteps snaking down the hill.

Actually, my fever has gone down quite a bit. Only 102.2 degrees . . . Nothing to worry about!

Edgeworth huffed under his breath. Since when had Wright's recklessness become his problem?

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Franziska leaving the Hazakura Temple. She turned to the courtyard—the fake crime scene, as they’d learned some hours ago. Edgeworth raised his hand, beckoning her over.

“Franziska,” he called. “A word, please.”

Franziska turned around at the sound of his voice. She approached him, her heels leaving tiny, pointy marks in the snow.

“Little brother,” she replied with a shadow of a smirk. “I thought you’d left to gather information about our suspect—or should I say, your client now?”

“I’ve been meaning to,” Edgeworth conceded, letting the jab pass unanswered, “however, I have a favor to ask of you first.”

“And what would that be?”

Edgeworth sighed. “Wright,” he said, “I’m not trusting him to be well enough to conduct his investigation.”

“Miles Edgeworth!” An astonished gasp left Franziska’s lips. “I’m not helping my—” The crack of her whip hit close to his toes. “Our enemy! Have you gone mad?!”

“Gah!” Edgeworth yelped. He reflexively attempted to twitch back, but his proximity to the car didn’t let him do that. “I’m not asking you to assist him with building his case!”

“Hmpf.” Her grip on the whip loosened. “Then cease your feeble mumbling and speak clearly.”

Edgeworth looked away for a brief moment. “He’s still sick,” he elaborated, failing to hide the note of discontent in his voice, “however, he insisted on getting discharged and joining the investigative efforts.”

“So what? Isn’t this just a little cold? Surely he can push through this.”

Right. That’s what Edgeworth had been telling everyone. He’d told himself too. And then the hospital had actually let Wright go. It was to be expected, but he’d somehow imagined at least half-way healthy Wright returning, not a Wright with a pitiful chartreuse-tinted face and irritating coughing fits.

“It’s . . . complicated,” Edgeworth muttered. “He’s going to be alright, but at the moment, I’m afraid he values the case more than his wellbeing.”

Franziska raised a brow. “So you’re asking me to babysit him?”

Pretty much, yes. “Just make sure he doesn’t die doing something stupid.”

The daughter of his late mentor looked at him with an amused look. “Hm. I suppose I shouldn’t let him meet his demise before I take him down in court.” She gave a tiny, reserved curtsy. “Very well. Your wish shall be granted, even if it inconveniences me.”

Edgeworth returned the bow. “You have my thanks.”

It was surprising she agreed so quickly, and he wasn’t completely sure Wright was now safe, knowing Franziska’s rather fiery nature. But he had more faith in her mercy to Wright than Wright’s mercy to himself.

He meant to say something else, but a loud squeal interrupted his thoughts.

“Franzy-y-y!” Larry screamed as he ran from the temple. “Listen, you gotta listen to me! Be my model! Be my— Yeowch!”

Franziska didn’t waste time putting her whip to use. “Fool!” she spat and jerked her hand with the whip in the air. “You came into the sacred garden of law and corrupted it with your putrid foolishness!”

It caused Edgeworth to unexpectedly chortle. After all the trouble Larry had caused during the trial, he almost didn’t mind that dunce getting a whip or two.

“Until then, Franziska,” Edgeworth said, having no intention of stopping her from charging toward Larry, and opened the back door of the chauffeur service’s car.

✦───────────༺ ♘ ༻───────────✦

February 9, 4:49 PM
Police Department
Records Room

Rows and rows of shelves stretched out in front of Edgeworth, with all kinds of records of the worst days of people’s lives. The ongoing and freshly closed cases were locked in the glass cabinet. Tons of archived police-related data crowded the metal shelves. And cold cases, whose victims were likely to be left unvindicated for eternity, were laid in the back of the room, gathering dust.

The prosecutor headed toward that depressing corner and started sifting through folders. It didn’t take long for him to locate what he was looking for—he remembered the date of the trial well. He took the relatively slim paper folder in his hands. His fingers tugged at the elastic binder and pried it open. 

The pages flicked quickly in front of his eyes. The victim: Valerie Hawthorne. The defendant: Terry Fawles. The assigned detective: Richard Gumshoe. Prosecution: Miles Edgeworth. Defense: Mia Fey. All rookies, then. Witnesses . . .

His palm halted above the page, hesitating to turn it over. The air, musty and viscous, suddenly felt unbreathable.

There was Iris’s face. In that black-and-white photograph.

Miles slammed the folder shut and stormed out of the records room.

✦───────────༺ ♘ ༻───────────✦

February 9, 5:15 PM
Police Department
Meetings Room 208

The Valerie Hawthorne murder case. The first one Edgeworth had ever carried to the court, one he hadn’t technically lost, but it hadn’t felt like a win either. Far from that. Terry Fawles, the man whose culpability Edgeworth was supposed to establish, had committed suicide before his trial concluded.

Edgeworth’s former mentor, Manfred von Karma, wasn’t too pleased with that outcome. Anything short of definitive victory is unacceptable for von Karma disciples, he’d chided. Then, Edgeworth remembered his mentor looking at his rueful face and adding with a softer voice, There’s solace, though, in knowing that the verdict wasn’t reached.

So, for a time, Edgeworth’s perfect record remained unblemished. How misguided his ideals used to be . . .

For many months thereafter, the trial had stayed with the young prosecutor at night: Ms. Fey’s cries, his heartbeat throbbing in his ears, a death row escapee’s body, blood smearing the witness stand. A thought pounded in Edgeworth’s head those sleepless nights, a strange idea that Fawles’s death wasn’t just . . . Even though, ironically, Edgeworth’s goal had been to make sure that Fawles reached the gallows before his previously scheduled doom.

He’d revisited the case later, wondering if he could find anything he’d overlooked, something Ms. Fey saw at that trial and wasn’t able to prove, but he’d never found any new evidence to formally indict that witch, Dahlia Hawthorne, with something tangible. Thus, the case was never solved.

Edgeworth turned a page. He was looking at her disturbingly serene face in that photograph again, at those wide eyes and slight, dignified smile. Below, he saw a transcript of her first interrogation conducted at this very police station. He was the one to allow her to use her alias, Melissa Foster, during the trial. Why? He wished he’d known for sure. He wished he could, without a shadow of doubt, say he only sought to protect her from further suffering.

He’d scrutinized the arch of Dahlia’s brow, the words she’d used and notes he made himself, compared to what he’d committed to memory about his conversations with Iris yesterday. Iris didn’t smile much. Her questions and answers were centered around other people, despite her own situation. He couldn’t spot dishonesty in what Iris did or said, and, now that he read the transcript with the eyes of an experienced investigator, he saw plenty in Dahlia’s. Her worries were only about her involvement in the court proceedings. She chuckled shyly and apologized for mistakes, as if she wasn’t asked to recount a story of her own sister’s murder.

Iris seemed to be a completely different person, but how did she share Dahlia’s face? Were they related . . . ? Or was it just Edgeworth’s desperate desire to be on the right—Wright’s—side that skewed his judgment, clung to ridiculous theories in place of simpler, often truer ones? Could it be that she’d gotten better at her trickery and managed to beguile him yet again with another personality?

A knock. Edgeworth tore his eyes from the photograph and looked at the glass door.

A short, freckled woman in a brown houndstooth suit was standing behind the door with a hefty stack of documents and folders in her hands, nodding to herself with closed eyes. After the fourth nod, she pushed the door with her side and entered without waiting for permission.

“Archivist Brooke, sir! Reporting her findings, sir!” she exclaimed and, after promptly putting the stack on the round conference table, saluted Edgeworth.

Huh. That was quick. “Thank you, Ms. Brooke. I appreciate your help.”

Immediately losing interest in the archivist, Edgeworth took the first paper off the top of the heap. The printer ink on it was still fresh, giving off a slight ammonia scent.

“The Dahlia Hawthorne kidnapping-presumed-murder case, sir!” the archivist chirped.

It startled Edgeworth. “Why are you still here?!” he gasped.

“To walk you through the information, naturally,” Ms. Brooke responded proudly. Her hands fixed a large bow-tie on her neck.

“I haven’t—”

“See,” she cut him off and picked up the pace, “that’s the first time Ms. Hawthorne appeared in the system. As the victim. In two thousand eight, a man called—”

“Stop!” Edgeworth held up his hands. “Please.”

“Why? Do you have any particular questions?”

“Not about this case. Actually, I don’t—”

“Perfect!” Ms. Brooke clasped her hands. “Then let’s move to the next one! I noticed the Valerie Hawthorne murder case in your hands when you requested my assistance, so I assume you don’t need an introduction for that unfortunate ordeal . . .”

Ms. Brooke looked at him expectantly, keeping her palms together and rocking on her heels. Edgeworth dropped the papers on the table with a sigh. She wasn’t going to leave him alone, was she? At least she didn’t seem to be totally incompetent.

“You assume correctly,” he drawled, propping his cheek on his hand.

“Uh-huh . . .” Ms. Brooke hummed to herself with a jutted lip and sifted through the stack; she put away some of the colorful folders into a separate pile. “Then, if you’re already familiar with these two cases, you must know about the lawyer poisoning, too?”

Edgeworth shook his head. “What poisoning?”

She fished papers bound by a paperclip out of the stack and passed it to the prosecutor. “The incident described in this police report happened roughly a half a year after the tragic trial of Mr. Terry Fawles.”

Edgeworth took the papers with his free hand. The victim’s face smirked nonchalantly at him from the photo. Diego Armando . . . Another name which unpleasantly prodded his memory.

He straightened up to slide his first case folder open and flipped through a couple of pages. His eyes widened.

“It’s tangled all right,” Ms. Brooke said, following Edgeworth’s gaze. “Apparently the victim was a member of the defense team for Mr. Fawles.”

“And what does Dahlia Hawthorne have to do with this?” Edgeworth muttered to himself, leafing through the police report.

“Oh, she was a suspect, Mr. Edgeworth! If you allow me . . .” Ms. Brooke coughed sheepishly and bent over the desk to show Edgeworth the police search form by the tap of her fingernail. “Here.”

Edgeworth glanced at the form. Only blanks across the fields, save for her name and basic information.

Of course they’d found nothing. She was too smart for that.

“So, the case presented later by the prosecution argued that Terry Fawles’s former defense team was after Ms. Hawthorne, suspecting foul play,” the archivist explained. “And Mr. Armando was to meet Ms. Hawthorne in the courthouse cafeteria, to interview her about the kidnapping and her late sister’s passing, I believe.”

“Did you just say ‘prosecution’? Was she a defendant too?” Edgeworth looked blankly at the abundance of papers in front of him and rubbed his eyelids. “I’m getting confused.”

“Well, not immediately,” Ms. Brooke responded thoughtfully. “Nine months later, to be precise. But let me explain.”

She trotted to the worn out whiteboard and picked up a red marker from its holder.

“Two thousand eight,” she mused, writing down the date and ‘Dahlia Hawthorne, kidnapping ↔ Terry Fawles, guilty’ above it. She drew an arrow, then, at its end, she wrote, ‘February 2013,’ and ‘Valerie Hawthorne, murder ↔ Terry Fawles, defendant, ???’ above it.

Edgeworth drummed his fingers on the table, following Ms. Brooke’s hand. He considered whether to ask her to cut to the chase or just let her do her own thing and hope she’d eventually answer his question.

Another arrow was squiggled by the fading marker, leading to ‘August 2013,’ and ‘Diego Armando, poisoning ↔ Dahlia Hawthorne, suspect,’ above it. 

“As you can see in the report, the police searched Ms. Hawthorne on the spot. They found nothing on her, so they had to let her go. Bu-ut,” she drew another arrow, “eight months later, she appeared again.” Ms. Brooke snickered. “It looks like she couldn’t keep herself out of trouble.”

‘April 2014. Doug Swallow, murder ↔ Phoenix Wright, defendant.’ 

Edgeworth felt a jolt in his chest. The archivist closed the marker and knocked on Doug Swallow’s name with it. He saw her lips moving, but the noise in his mind immediately muted it out.

“Wright . . . ?” he whispered.

Ms. Brooke said something else cheerfully, turning her back on Edgeworth. She looped an arrow back to Diego Armando. “. . . represented Mr. Wright,” she resounded, “ . . . Ms. Fey acquired a vial . . . Ms. Hawthorne disposed of . . . unbeknownst to Mr. Wright.” She added ‘innocent’ next to Wright’s name. “And she got him an acquittal, yes . . . All while,” the archivist wrote ‘DAHLIA HAWTHORNE’ all in capital letters, and arrows flew from Dahlia’s name to Diego Armando and Doug Swallow, “factually proving Ms. Hawthorne’s guilt in these two crimes.”

Edgeworth must’ve looked completely dumbfounded, because finally, Ms. Brooke stopped yapping. Her brows knitted, and she put her marker back in the holder. For once, she stayed silent.

Miles stood up and approached the whiteboard, staring at Phoenix’s name. “How did she manage to hurt you, too, Wright?” he mumbled, touching the still-drying alcohol marker ink, staining his fingers red.

“Ms. Hawthorne pretended to fall in love with Mr. Wright,” Ms. Brooke’s solemn voice answered the question not addressed to her. “So that he carried the vial with the poison out of the courthouse for her. She tried to frame him for Mr. Swallow’s murder after Mr. Wright refused to return her . . . her gift.”

It was five years ago . . . That’s when I . . . That’s when I deceived him, Iris’s words pounded in his head.

Miles’s fingers smothered Phoenix’s name as they curled in a fist. 

Was this how you deceived him, Iris?! 

Why, why did Phoenix take over her defense then? Why didn’t he let Edgeworth prosecute her instead? Why did he worry about her so much?

I . . . Don’t know if I know her.

Was Wright trying to chase his own demons by staying involved in this case, even through his illness? Edgeworth knew Wright too well to assume the defense attorney was doing it with ill intent, but it made no sense at all! She’d already betrayed him—why did he extend his faith to her again?

Why did he shoulder all this pain alone, choosing not to confide in Miles? Did he confide in anyone?

Edgeworth’s phone hummed quietly with the Steel Samurai theme in his jacket pocket. His fisted hand hit the whiteboard.

“Bloody hell,” he hissed and marched out of the meeting room. Ms. Brooke shuddered from the sound of the slammed door.

Outside, he flipped the phone open and glanced at the number. Unknown.

He leaned on the glass wall with his side and pressed the green call button. “Edgeworth speaking.”

“Bitter, huh,” a man’s deep voice replied. “Moody. Burnt, maybe. Not everyone’s cup of coffee.”

“Are you calling on business?” Edgeworth inquired, bemused. “Who are you?”

“Godot,” the voice said. Edgeworth had heard this name the day before, but wasn’t able to find much about this peculiar newbie on the prosecution stage. “I’ve replaced your feral little sister on prosecutorial duty.”

“H— how dare you call Franziska feral?!”

“Thing is,” the voice continued, disregarding Edgeworth’s indignation, “the bridge was repaired, but there is a complication.”

The bridge! “Was Maya Fey found?!” Edgeworth exclaimed. 

“And there goes our complication.” Godot tutted. “She is not on this side of the bridge. That I can guarantee. We’ve searched everywhere . . .”  

Edgeworth’s breath hitched. “But that’s im—”

“Except one place. The Sacred Cavern.”

“Why wasn’t it searched yet?!”

“It’s shut with some sort of fancy lock. And before you ask: our specialists said it’s dangerous to try to knock it down with brute force. The cavern, as you might imagine, is lodged into the mountain—any reverberations might cause it to collapse.”

“Why can’t specialists pick that lock?”

“That’s why I’m calling you. I’ve been told you’re in the precinct. Bring the accused on site.”

“She isn’t a lockpicker, to my knowledge.”

“I have no patience for your pretentious intellectualism, Trite’s sidekick.” Godot spoke with a growling undertone now. “Sister Bikini says the accused is the only one who can open it, because she was to lock Maya in for the training! And do I have to spell out what two nights in a freezing cavern could do to a young lady like her?” 

Did Iris lock Maya in there? “I suppose not,” Edgeworth grunted.

“Then be a good prosecutor and bring Iris here. Stat.”

Short beeps. Edgeworth slapped the phone closed and shoved it back into his pocket.

When he entered the meeting room, Ms. Brooke was studying the corrugated patterns on the white walls.

“I must leave now,” Edgeworth said, gathering the papers. “Can I take these documents with me?”

“Uhm, actually—” 

Edgeworth gave her the glare. Ms. Brooke cleared her throat and jumped to the table to help Edgeworth stack the documents.

“I mean,” she corrected herself, “if you’re in a hurry, I think I can write a loan request on your behalf. None of them are of much use at the moment anyway.” 

“I am in a hurry.” Edgeworth made an effort to even out his voice. “What happened to Dahlia in the end? You said Ms. Fey was able to prove her guilt.” 

Did she evade her fate yet again by transforming into Iris?

“She’s dead, Mr. Edgeworth.” Ms. Brooke lowered her gaze. “I called the prison she was transferred to . . . Thought that perhaps you’d want to talk to her. But the warden confirmed that her sentence was carried out last month. I’m sorry.”

Edgeworth harrumphed. Not that he was in favor of capital punishment, but if anyone deserved it—he darted his eyes at the whiteboard—it was her.

“Escape attempts, strange behavior, suspicious visitors?”

“No, sir. I didn’t have enough time to get a more complete profile. But she was held in a maximum-security facility, so I’d say the likelihood of these things is not high.” The archivist rustled through the papers and gave Edgeworth a single sheet. “Here, that’s what the warden faxed me.”

The sheet was a copy of Dahlia Hawthorne’s inmate profile. Somehow, she managed to look unimpeachable even in the mugshot, in prison uniform. She still wore braids woven into her loose hair.

And indeed, the footnote claimed she was deceased now—hanged just short of five years after she was booked. No other notes, except a special permission for a mother-daughter visitation. 

“I see,” Edgeworth conceded, putting the printout on the top of the stack. He smiled slightly. “And thank you, Ms. Brooke. I mean that. That amount of work,” he patted the stack, “in such a short time is impressive. Perhaps you’ll make for a fine detective one day, if you ever decide to join the police force.” 

Ms. Brooke chuckled. “Ah, but I was kicked out of the police academy.” She blushed and looked away, scratching her cheek. “Twice. Clumsy, weak, easily disoriented. But see, my memory’s great—I need only a short glance to recall whatever I looked at in perfect detail . . . texts, too. So the Police Chief offered me a place.”

And yet they somehow let Gumshoe graduate, Edgeworth scoffed inwardly.

“Well, they missed out.” The prosecutor gave Ms. Brooke a bow. “I could give you my recommendation so you won’t be dismissed again.”

Ms. Brooke returned the bow. “I thank you dearly, but there’s no need. I’m happy with what I’ve got.”

“I understand.” Edgeworth picked up the pile. “The offer stands if you change your mind.”  

Ms. Brooke hurried forward to open the door for him. She was beaming. “I’ll make a note of that.”

✦───────────༺ ♘ ༻───────────✦

February 9, 5:42 PM
Police Department
Underground Parking Lot

“Keep your head down, miss,” the officer instructed, gently directing Iris into the police car, shielding her head with his palm.

Iris, her hands shackled, only nodded and followed the order. She sat in the back seat.

“Mr. Edgeworth, sir!” the officer called as he closed the door. “The defendant’s secured. We’re ready to head out!”

Edgeworth had just gotten off the phone with Detective Gumshoe. Now that he thought of it, he wasn’t sure why Godot demanded Edgeworth specifically to accompany Iris to the temple—he wasn’t trained to keep potential criminals in custody . . . Not that he minded. A two hour ride with Iris presented a perfect opportunity to get answers. Besides, Wright was on site, and Edgeworth had to get a hold of him as soon as possible. 

He walked to the car. The officer saluted Edgeworth and grabbed the handle of the front passenger door for him, when the prosecutor shook his head.

“I’ll sit in the back with the defendant,” he said.

The officer, a tall young man in a wrinkled light-blue shirt, blabbered hesitantly, “Are you sure, sir?”

Edgeworth looked at the car’s cage partition, separating front and back seats.

He nodded. “Yes. She is not dangerous.”

At least not while she was in the car and restrained. If she was who Edgeworth suspected, her tongue was much more devilish.

The officer ruffled his unkempt hair, knocking his police cap to the side, and sniffled. “As you say, sir.” 

With that, Edgeworth sat down next to Iris, putting his briefcase on his lap. The officer, who didn’t bother to introduce himself (and Edgeworth, frankly, didn’t bother to ask), climbed into the driver’s seat. 

The car pulled out of the parking lot and rolled toward the sloped exit, then entered the busy traffic one could expect on Saturday evening in downtown Los Angeles. Edgeworth could only hope Maya still had strength in her to hold on just a little while longer, and that the self-absorbed buffoon had at least the sense to order his men to try to pick the lock while Edgeworth and Iris were en route.

Iris was fidgeting with her thumbs. “How’s Mr. Wright?” she broke the silence at the fifth traffic light.

Edgeworth exhaled slowly. Despite the urge to snip, something in the way she asked made him settle for a measured response. “Quite alright,” he answered, crossing his hands. “Mr. Wright is back on his duty. He’ll replace me as your counselor tomorrow during the hearing.”

“Good to hear,” she said quietly, but there was no relief in her posture. 

The conversation was extinguished, and for a time, no one attempted to salvage it. Edgeworth watched the thin layer of snow being disturbed by the footsteps of the after-work crowd, the sodium street lights firing up and polluting the twilight sky, painting it orange. In this dreary weather, the city felt strangely lonely, even with people flooding the sidewalks and cars signaling to each other. 

“How did you deceive him, Iris?” Edgeworth finally asked.

“Huh?” Iris’s voice perked up but, as she seemed to register his question, she gulped. “I . . . I’m not sure if I should . . .” She trailed off.

Edgeworth pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Look,” he said wearily, “I was willing to let you and Wright figure it out yourselves, but now this goes beyond a personal matter. Today, I saw multiple cases, multiple murders. All committed by one woman.” He darted his narrowed eyes to Iris. “A woman who bore your face. And now, we have yet another murder, with plenty of damning evidence against you. So I ask again: how did you deceive Wright?”

Iris whimpered. “Dahlia . . .”

Edgeworth kept his unwavering stare fixed on Iris. “So you know her.”

A statement, not a question. He hadn’t mentioned Dahlia’s name anywhere in Iris’s presence before.

“She’s my twin sister, Mr. Edgeworth.” Iris wiped the corner of her eye with her sleeve. “Of course I do.”

“There was no mention of Dahlia Hawthorne having any siblings by blood. According to the records we have, she only had a step-sister.”

“Valerie, if I remember correctly.” Iris nodded. “I met her once.”

“And you still stand by the claim that you’ve been raised in the temple, Sister Iris?” Edgeworth couldn’t help but put a sarcastic emphasis on the word ‘sister.’

“Yes. Everything I’ve told you before was true. Our father left me at the temple when I was young. I’ve never had a chance to ask him why. Dahlia, on the other hand, loved saying all kinds of things. That he hated me. That he had too many mouths to feed. That she convinced him to leave me behind.” Iris drew a short breath. “I don’t think any of this bears truth.”

Too many mouths to feed sounded like the last excuse a jeweler and owner of a hefty collection of gemstones would use. But petty bickering of a mean twin? Sure, if that really happened.

Would Dahlia badmouth herself to avoid being suspected? Edgeworth thought that was not likely—Dahlia was too egotistic to do that with a straight face.

To add to Iris’s credibility, Sister Bikini trusted Iris’s good nature so highly that she was not willing to believe what she’d witnessed with her own eyes—Iris thrusting the sword into the victim’s body. And it took just one question to the head nun to confirm that Iris lived at Hazakura temple at all times. So there was no point in pursuing this line of questioning.

Edgeworth hummed, tapping his index finger on his temple. “You seemed to recognize Dahlia just from my sparse description of her crimes,” he mused. “Do you happen to know what they were?”

“I— I tried to beg her to stop,” Iris muttered. “She never listened. And when she did, once, when I promised her I’d help and get her what she needed without her committing more heinous sins, I . . . I failed. I failed her.”

She didn’t really answer his question, Edgeworth noticed. “All in all, that was her choice,” he offered. “Her deeds. You didn’t have a part in any of them, did you?”

Iris shook her head. “You don’t understand. I . . . The fact I didn’t might’ve made it worse.”

“Oh?”

“She didn’t trust me anymore. And when I asked for her trust again, and tried, truly tried, to help her to get to—” Her breath hitched as she cut herself off, and she bit her lower lip, turning away from Edgeworth's discerning gaze. “My apologies, Mr. Edgeworth.”

“Why didn’t she trust you?” Edgeworth insisted.

“She wanted me to help her with . . . one of her schemes. Dahlia wanted to steal from our father. Promised to share the wealth with me, said he deserved to lose it after what he did to us . . . I told her I would join, but then chickened out and didn’t show up. I was afraid that this crime would bring more sorrow than vindication, but I wasn’t brave enough to confront her.”

“You weren’t wrong about sorrow,” Edgeworth said somberly, a picture of Fawles flashing in his mind. “You did the right thing by not participating in the heist.”

“But she hated me then,” Iris argued meekly, her eyes watering. “She stole, she stabbed, she poisoned, she . . . She wanted to kill more, for reasons pettier and pettier. I was horrified when she said she planned to kill a man just for a pendant.”

The last word caused a slight shiver down Edgeworth’s nape.

“So I asked her, and pleaded with her to give me a chance. To resolve the matter without bloodshed. To try to get that pendant back.” Iris breathed out. “You asked me how I deceived Mr. Wright, Mr. Edgeworth.” 

“Actually,” Edgeworth interjected hastily, “it’s fine, Sister Iris. I learned what I needed.” 

“Ah . . . Are you sure?” Iris’s voice was surprised but a tad lighter.

“Yes. I apologize for bringing up something that wounded you.”

There was no need anymore to drag Iris back through the traumatic past that she clearly shared  with Wright. Edgeworth had to finish reading that file from April 2014 to understand the whole picture, but certain patterns were emerging already. Pendant. Wright. Iris’s ‘deceive’ and Dahlia’s outright betrayal. Wright’s confused statements about who he’d dated and who he’d seen in court.

Frankly, little of what Iris told him could be backed up. Watching his own defense survive by only a hair today had proved as much. No hard evidence to prove her innocence.

But oddly, he trusted now that she had no intention to hurt Wright.

“The times you knew Wright,” Miles asked softly, dropping the interrogative tone, “what was he like back then? I assume it was around the third year of his college, correct?”

“Yes-yes,” Iris brought her hands together, her shoulders relaxing, “I wouldn’t say he changed much . . .”

They kept talking—Edgeworth asking, and Iris responding—as the police vehicle finally left the city, and the images around them turned greener. The air, filtering through the air conditioning system, gained a fresh pine scent.