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17.
Manfred von Karma died in prison. Alone, undignified, his reputation in shambles.
Franziska learned the news from her older sister, Freya, who’d been granted power of attorney over his assets. The irony wasn’t lost on her: Freya, the only von Karma who had never set foot in a courtroom, now held control over the legacy that Papa had left behind. Even in death, Papa let Freya take center stage.
“What do we do, ‘Ziska?” Freya asked her over the phone. Apparently, the death of their only remaining parent didn’t warrant an in-person visit.
“Bury him, obviously!” Franziska snapped into the receiver, winding her fingers so tightly around the phone cord’s ringlets that they began to turn blue. She’d barricaded herself in her office at the von Karma estate, hiding from the world since the scandal broke. The thought of returning to the Berlin Prosecutor’s Office made her sick. She could already feel the stares, the whispers, and the silent verdict in every colleague’s eyes screaming, “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”
But Freya didn’t need to know that. As far as her sister knew, Franziska was as cool and composed as ever.
“Yes, but,” Freya began quietly. Franziska imagined her sister wincing on the other end of the line. Freya had always been soft like that—why had Papa favored her so much again? “Should we… Should we hold a funeral for him?”
“Who would even show up besides us? It would be a complete waste of time and money.”
“Mr. Edgeworth might—”
Franziska snorted bitterly. “Don’t be foolish, Miles Edgeworth wants nothing to do with him! I know you followed that trial as obsessively as I did.” She hadn’t spoken to her little brother in years, but she knew, she knew that he would spit on Papa’s grave if given the chance. And a part of her couldn’t blame him. If her Papa was the one who was shot in an elevator and his murderer died in prison, she would do the same.
There was also the small matter of framing him for murder. That certainly didn’t help the situatuion.
Freya was quiet for a moment. “Should I get him a headstone?” She asked. “He already had a spot picked out in the family burial plot next to Mama.”
“I suppose that’s what one does,” Franziska grunted. She wondered how her mother would feel, sharing an eternal resting place next to a murderer. Would Papa have done what he did if Mama were still alive? Though Franziska barely remembered her mother, she vaguely recalled her Papa being much happier when Mama was around. Her sister insisted they had loved each other. Franziska wondered if their love would survive what Papa had done.
“Alright, I’ll contact a funeral home,” Freya sighed. “I’ll keep you informed of the developments.”
“Of course.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
As soon as she hung up the phone, Franziska spun around in her chair, faced the window that looked out into the back garden, and unleashed a guttural scream.
22.
On the 5th anniversary of Manfred’s passing, Franziska finally decided to visit his grave.
“Where are you going?” Miles Edgeworth asked as she passed by his office. He had been in Germany off and on for the past three years and had impressed the Berlin prosecutor’s office so much that they gave him a permanent office—three doors down from Franziska’s. Franziska always had to pass his door to leave, and of course, today, of all days, he wasn’t nose-deep in a document for once.
“Out,” Franziska replied curtly, not daring to look at him.
“For lunch?” Miles asked. She heard the scrape of his chair as he got up from his desk. Franziska wished she had telekinetic powers so she could force him to sit back down. Spirit channeling existed; why couldn’t psychic powers?
She heard Miles’ fingers curl around the doorframe, and silently cursed her lack of spontaneous telekinetic development. “No,” she replied measuredly. “I’m going out.”
“To investigate a crime scene?”
Franziska rolled her eyes, whipping her head around to glare at him. “Will you stop with your incessant prodding? I’m going out! You don’t need to know all the details of my life!”
“Relax,” Miles said, releasing the doorframe and raising his hands in surrender. “You’ve been rather on edge today. I figured that I would accompany you, wherever you’re going. I can tell you’re stressed.”
Franziska laughed. “I’m always stressed.” She turned away from him. “You won’t want to go where I’m going.”
“Oh? Try me.”
Franziska grit her teeth. Fool. Couldn’t he tell she was trying to protect him? Fine, if he was that eager to get hurt, then so be it. “I’m going to the cemetery.” Miles went silent, like she knew he would. Franziska seized her chance for the killing blow. “I’m going to see Papa.”
The silence in the corridor was so loud that Franziska could feel her ears ringing. She steeled herself and began walking down the hallway. “I’ll be back later.”
“Wait,” Miles called out as she neared the elevator. Franziska paused as she heard his office door shut and the steady clicks of his leather loafers on the tiled floor. “I’m coming with you.”
“Do you have cotton in your eardrums?” Franziska snapped, spinning to face him. “I told you, I’m visiting Papa. My father. Manfred von Karma.”
“Yes, I am quite aware of who he is,” Miles said, his jaw rigid. Franziska couldn’t decipher the expression on his face as he approached. “And I said I’m coming with you.”
“Why?”
“You need the support.”
“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“This is the first time you’re visiting his grave, correct?”
“Miles Edgeworth, go back to your office and leave me alone! I’m fine.”
“Take it from someone who’s had the experience of visiting their father’s grave before,” Miles said, finally catching up to her in the hallway. He laid a hand on her shoulder. “You need the support. Even if you don’t think you do.”
That shut Franziska up.
“Come along,” Miles said, releasing her shoulder and turning left, striding past the elevator toward the open stairwell.
“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Franziska said, her voice hoarse as she hit the elevator’s call button.
17.
I’m sitting in a dead man’s chair, Franziska thought as she sank into the leather desk chair in her father’s study. I’m sitting in a murderer’s chair.
She remembered when that chair had towered over her, back when she was a little girl waddling into Papa’s study, loudly demanding lessons about law. Half the time, he would snap his fingers and call for her nanny, but the rare times he didn’t, he’d beckon her over and pat his lap, saying, “Come here, mein liebchen.” And Franziska would hoist herself up, situating herself comfortably on his knees and pore over his books with him. He’d answer every question, pride shining in his eyes whenever she understood a subject. He didn’t act like a cold-blooded killer.
She brushed away a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen. Why was she putting herself through this? No one had forced her to come in here.
Her Papa’s study was coated in dust. The last person to set foot here had been him, months ago, frantically stuffing papers and books into a suitcase before storming into the hallway. He’d shouted to Franziska that he was off to America to “speak with her failure of a brother” and promised he’d return after Christmas.
Franziska still had his gift in her bedroom.
She shook her head as more tears formed at the memory. That was the last time she’d seen her Papa; she’d been too scared to visit him after his arrest. She was trying to muster up the courage to see him.
And now he was dead.
Franziska yanked open a desk drawer. She didn’t know what she was looking for. She didn’t know why she was doing this. She needed to distract herself, or the tears would keep flowing.
She rifled through his drawers, one by one. There was nothing particularly interesting in them; it was filled with the supplies one would expect to find in an office: old notes, memo pads, pens, annotated documents, and a tin of cigars. The last drawer on the bottom right was locked, but Franziska had found the desk key earlier, hidden between a stack of embarrassing drawings from her and her sister’s childhoods. She slid it into the lock, heard the click, and opened the drawer to reveal...a bottle of scotch. Oh Papa, she thought, shaking her head. That must have been how he unwound after work.
Behind the bottle was a small, unremarkable black binder. Curious, Franziska nudged the scotch aside and pulled the binder free. It must contain sensitive information if Papa had to lock it in a drawer. It was probably something boring, like tax documentation, but Franziska couldn’t resist. She set the binder on the desk and opened it.
Resting in a sheet protector was a yellowed newspaper clipping. The headline read: “Defense Attorney Slain in Courthouse Elevator.”
Franziska felt like she was about to throw up.
Despite her reaction, she couldn’t look away. She continued to read: “Gregory Edgeworth, age 35, was found with a bullet wound to the chest in the Los Angeles District Courthouse Elevator this afternoon. His son, Miles Edgeworth, age 9—”
Franziska had to stop reading. Her hands trembled so severely that she could barely hold the page, but she had to turn it. She couldn’t bear to look at that headline any longer.
The next page offered no relief. In the center, written in big, bold letters was the headline: “Bailiff Charged with Murder of Defense Attorney in Courthouse Elevator.” This time, there were pictures— headshots of Yanni Yogi and Gregory Edgeworth. Franziska’s breath hitched in her throat.
Miles looks like him.
She had never seen Gregory Edgeworth before, and now a sharp ache blossomed in her chest. She had to forcibly tear her gaze from his eyes. It felt like he was judging her.
Her father was a sick man, she decided. A sick, sick man. He’d hoarded newspaper headlines about Gregory Edgeworth’s murder, like some sort of deranged serial killer. The binder overflowed with clippings, each headline cataloguing the gruesome story of the DL-6 incident. The final headline, “Police Declare DL-6 Incident (The Courthouse Murder) a Cold Case,” was underlined and circled in red marker. The same red marker that Franziska had seen time and time again while reading her father’s annotations.
This time, Franziska did throw up. She was thankful there was a wastebasket under the desk.
When she finished, she wiped her lips and stared at the binder. She yanked open the middle-left-hand desk drawer, found the cigar tin, and pulled out its accompanying lighter. Then she emptied the clippings from the binder, crumpled them up, and burned them one by one.
22.
Franziska drove, partly because she knew where the family cemetery was and partly because she hated Miles’ driving. The two of them sat in silence the entire trip, and for that, Franziska was grateful. Her hands trembled on the steering wheel, betraying how close she was to her breaking point. Even the gentlest question from Miles would send her into a spiral. He probably noticed it; he always did. But for once, he kept his mouth shut.
Franziska guided the car into the cemetery, weaving through winding roads that seemed to branch off into endless paths. The von Karmas lay at the farthest edge, their legacy buried deep within the soil. When she finally reached the back, she eased onto the grass, killed the engine, and sat frozen in the driver’s seat, trying to will herself to open the door.
“Allow me,” Miles said after a moment. She heard him unbuckle his seatbelt and watched his hand reach for the passenger-side door handle in the rearview mirror.
“I’m fine,” Franziska said, her voice hoarser than before. She yanked off her seatbelt, flung open the driver’s-side door, then marched past the tombstones of previous von Karmas and headed towards the shade of a large weeping willow tree.
There, next to the headstone that read “Elise von Karma,” was the headstone “Manfred von Karma.”
Franziska felt herself rooted to the soil, sinking slowly as if the earth itself wanted to swallow her whole. Her mouth went dry, and every word she had rehearsed to herself that morning in the reflection of her office window died on her lips.
Mama’s tombstone was clean, adorned with fresh flowers and a small stuffed bear. Papa’s, by contrast, was unkempt and lonely, nearly forgotten if not for its place beside her Mama’s.
A prickling sensation on the back of her neck told her she was being watched. “You can come closer, you know,” she said, not even bothering to turn around. “He’s dead. His cane can’t reach you now.”
“I wanted to give you space,” Miles replied from behind. “I know how it feels.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m empathizing with you. But I can remain silent if you wish.”
“Empathizing with me,” Franziska snorted. “Please. You’re probably jumping for joy at the sight of his headstone.”
“Why would you assume something as appalling as that?”
“You’re joking, right?” Franziska asked, turning to face him. Miles was about 15 feet behind her. “After everything he did?”
Miles gripped his elbow and looked off to the side. Though she couldn’t see it, Franziska knew he was biting down on his lip. “He was my mentor.”
“He murdered your father!”
“Thank you for that pleasant reminder.”
“I’m…I’m sorry.” Franziska turned away so she didn’t have to meet his gaze, and see the sorrow that had haunted him since the day Papa had brought him home. “This is why I told you not to come.”
“I can go back to the car and let you grieve in peace if you wish,” Miles said. “That might be best for us both.”
“No,” Franziska said, wincing at the frailness of her own voice. The sound brought back memories of her crawling into Miles’ bed during stormy nights at the von Karma manor, desperately seeking comfort. “Can you stay with me? Please?”
Miles didn’t respond. Franziska crossed her arms and hunched over, her gaze locking onto her Papa’s headstone as hot tears stung her eyes. She wanted to claim that she had never felt more alone in her life, but that would have been a lie.
17.
She could hardly believe she was resorting to this, but there was no one left. Mama was gone, Freya was useless, and Papa was—
Her hands shook as she fumbled her cell phone, and she watched as it slipped into the depths of the couch.
Franziska swore; she’d just dialed Miles Edgeworth’s number when her mind began to wander. She hurriedly rushed to fish her phone out from the crevices of the couch. With her luck, he would answer, only to hear the muffled rustle of scratchy leather cushions. But when she pressed the phone to her ear, it was still ringing.
And ringing.
And ringing.
Then it went to voicemail. Again. Like the previous five times she’d attempted to call him.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid! She berated herself, angrily snapping her phone shut. Of course he didn’t want to talk to her! What had she expected?
Franziska threw her head back and groaned. From her new position, her eyes caught the glimmer of a medal on the wall, a prize from one of her many horse-riding competitions. Each victory had earned its place there, a shining testament to the von Karma legacy she was meant to uphold. Yet as she studied the wall of triumphs, she realized for the first time in her life that Miles Edgeworth’s name was nowhere to be found.
She closed her eyes.
Had Papa orchestrated this from the start? Was he biding his time, waiting for Miles to stumble, to reveal an imperfection and tarnish the von Karma name? Why bother hanging awards on the wall if he planned to rip them down and erase Miles from their family history forever?
She had to get out of this house, but she couldn’t move. Instead, she curled into herself, hugging her knees tight and tucking her head down until darkness swallowed her whole.
She was utterly alone. No family, no friends, no home. The very walls of the manor betrayed her, closing in like cold elevator doors, flooding her mind with twisted visions of death and the hot smell of gunpowder. In desperation, she pressed her hands over her ears, clutching her phone between her knees, hoping to feel a buzz if Miles decided to call.
But the phone never rang.
And Franziska, curled into a tight ball on the couch, had never felt more alone in her life.
22.
Miles stayed.
He hadn’t answered her plea, but he didn’t need to. He hovered behind Franziska like a loyal shadow, close enough to catch her if she fell, distant enough to let her breathe. He didn’t prod, didn’t hurry, didn’t mention the passing time. He simply stood guard, a quiet sentinel at her back.
Franziska inhaled, gazed at Papa’s headstone, and felt…nothing.
He’d been dead for five years, and in those five years, she’d struggled tremendously. Whenever she introduced herself, people hesitated, their eyes lingering a moment too long. High-ranking law officials would launch into stories about Papa, their admiration unmistakable. They insisted he was proud, that he bragged about her to anyone who would listen. Her Papa loved her.
But he was also a murderer, the one who hurt the person she cherished the most. No amount of love from Papa could ever erase the pain he inflicted on her brother.
“Papa,” She began. Her words trailed off, swept away by a sudden breeze that stirred through the cemetery. There was so much she wanted to say, so many questions that lingered on her tongue. She had pored over the transcripts of the Hammond Trial and the DL-6 retrial—she understood the reasons, at least on paper. But what she longed for was to look him in the eye and ask why he had chosen to shoot a man in the heart with his own son only five feet away. Were those truly the actions of a loving father?
She would never know why; she had made peace with that long ago. All that was left now were memories.
“Papa,” she tried again, her voice steadier. She heard the gravel crunch behind her, then felt the gentle touch of Miles’ hand upon her back. Her first instinct was to swat him away, but, for once, she allowed herself to accept his comfort.
“Thank you. Goodbye.”