The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the authors.

  Copyright © 2026 by Viola Davis and James Patterson

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  ISBN 9780316579834 (hc) / 9780316601696 (large print) / 9780316579841 (ebook)

  E3-20260122-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PART ONE Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  PART TWO Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  PART THREE Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Discover More

  About the Authors

  For Nancy Allen and the late Robert Barnett, brilliant lawyers who helped in so many ways with the research, story, and much-needed encouragement to get this right.

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  Tap here to learn more.

  PART

  ONE

  CHAPTER

  1

  Dr. Bria Gaines

  UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  Bria Gaines stood at the back door of the small brick office building she rented in Union Springs, Alabama, population 3,314. She pulled her phone from her pocket to check the time. Six minutes past midnight. They were late.

  Maybe they weren’t coming.

  Maybe she’d be spared.

  It was dark out, mostly quiet except for frogs, the spring peepers, singing in the narrow creek that wove through trees leafing out for the season.

  She heard the rattle of an approaching vehicle before the flash of its brights signaled the arrival of the old Toyota SUV.

  Pulling up onto the gravel space that served as a parking lot, the driver cut the engine, killed the headlights.

  Bria’s nerves were strung tight, heart pounding. She knew the risk when she’d agreed to do this thing. Nobody had forced her into it. Sometimes, she’d realized, a person has to take a stand.

  Bria tried hard not to let fear overcome her certainty. But when she flipped on the back door light, panic sent her pulse racing. Something was wrong already. Only two people emerged from the car. Bria had expected three.

  She recognized the driver. It was Cocheta Bass, the nurse practitioner who worked at Union Springs Middle School. The passenger was a female wearing a hoodie that left her face in shadow.

  Bria watched Cocheta pat the girl’s shoulder as they climbed the back steps together. She pushed the door wide, to let them in, then immediately flipped off the outdoor light. Pulled the door shut and turned the dead bolt. They needed to be locked up tight.

  Bria led them into her office waiting room, toward the table lamp that dimly lit the space around the reception desk. Checking to see that the blinds were shut, Bria flipped the overhead light on.

  The school nurse spoke in a whisper, as if fearful of being overheard. “Dr. Gaines, this is Nova.”

  The girl pulled the hood off her head and pushed her hair away from her face to reveal cheeks and a forehead glistening with sweat.

  Nova Jones was tall, standing five feet, eight inches, and her body had already matured. Bria recognized the frightened girl as the attentive big sister who chased around town after a brood of younger siblings.

  She smiled and said, “Hi, Nova. I’ve seen you at church, over at Victory Baptist. How old are you now?”

  Nova looked down at the floor and whispered, “Thirteen.”

  So. This was actually happening. A first for Bria Gaines, that was certain.

  She’d never committed a felony before.

  But a key person was missing. Bria couldn’t overlook that. She glanced from Nova to the school nurse. “So where’s Ms. Jones, Nova’s mom?”

  Nova’s breath caught. She took a step backward, like she might bolt. “No! No, ma’am, Mama can’t know. Never!”

  Bria spoke gently to the girl. “You need your mother’s support. She’ll need to care for you, help you through this.”

  Nova’s voice shook as she said, “She’ll be so mad. She’ll think I’m a bad girl. That I was out there being fast.” The girl’s chest heaved, like her distress was combusting, getting ready to explode.

  Bria had the uneasy feeling that she was walking straight into a predicament—a precarious situation even more out of control than she’d been led to believe.

  Bria didn’t let her agitation show as she walked over to a supply cupboard. She pulled a clean hospital gown from a stack of linens and handed it to Nova. “The exam room is right over here,” she said, opening another door and flipping the interior light switch. “You can change in there. Take everything off, okay? Even your bra and panties. Let me know when you’re done.”

  She used her doctor voice—encouraging, brisk, professional. The girl wiped her wet eyes with her sleeve as she stepped into the examination room, shutting the door behind her.

  Cocheta pressed her hand against her chest. “How you doing, Doctor? I’m so nervous, it’s making me lightheaded. I was afraid I’d keel over, just from walking up those stairs.”

  Bria turned to the nurse, taking care to keep her voice low. “You said her mother would be here with her.”

  Cocheta heaved a deep breath. “I tried, I did! Nova won’t tell her mother about it. Absolutely won’t budge on that. She’s scared to death about what her mother will do if she finds out.”

  “Cocheta, I’d feel a lot better about this if she had family support.”

  The nurse darted a look at the exam room door before she responded. “That girl got her first period when she was nine years old. You know what her mother did? Gave her a pad and told her if she ever brought any babies home, she’d kick her ass out.”

  “Oh, my God.” It was a tragic situation, but it also scared her. She turned away from the nurse, wishing she had time to think it through.

  The nurse said in an urgent whisper,
“If you don’t fix this tonight, I can’t guarantee what the outcome’s gonna be. That poor child actually threatened to try a coat hanger. Lord! I swear, I thought those days were history.”

  The suggestion terrified Bria. She rubbed her eyes, taking a moment to compose herself. There was only one reasonable solution. The stakes, though, were enormous. “Who got her pregnant, who’s the father? Did you get her to open up about that?”

  Sounding rueful, Cocheta said, “I asked. She still won’t say. So legally, I’m supposed to call the Division of Human Resources, or the police. As you know.”

  Bria did know. “Mandated reporter statute.”

  “Yeah, we’re mandated reporters under Alabama law. But I grew up on the Creek reservation in Poarch. So I never really felt like state law governed me, because my tribe had a treaty with the feds. Does that make sense?”

  “No.” The discussion made Bria’s head hurt. Cocheta’s interpretation of her legal liability was flat wrong. “We’re both mandated reporters in Alabama. Both subject to Alabama state law.”

  “Okay, right. But if we call the police or DHR, you know what’s going to happen, what they’ll force her to do. She’s just thirteen, Dr. Gaines. Barely thirteen.”

  Bria knew what the child’s fate would be. She also knew that the assistance that Nova Jones and Cocheta Bass wanted her to provide could end her medical practice and send her to prison.

  Alabama had the toughest anti-abortion law in the country, and it placed criminal liability squarely on the backs of doctors. Under the Alabama Human Life Protection Act, intentionally performing an abortion was a Class A felony.

  Maybe Cocheta could read her mind. She said, “Doctor, I know the spot I’m putting you in. Good Lord! We’re both putting our lives on the line for this girl. I threw up twice today, just from nerves. Thought about backing out. But I couldn’t live with myself if I did that.” Her voice cracked when she added, “If she ends up trying to kill herself or butcher herself—”

  Cocheta didn’t finish the sentence, because the door to the examination room opened. Nova stepped out with bare feet, clutching the loose ends of the blue hospital gown behind her back. Nova’s toes curled up on the tile. But it wasn’t the cold from the air-conditioning that made the girl tremble.

  Nova’s voice was shaking when she said, “Please, Doctor. Help me.”

  Bria caught her breath. Everything fell into place inside her head. She smiled as she reached out and wiped away the tears under Nova’s eyes. “I’m going to take care of you, sweetheart. Gonna do what’s right. Everything will be okay, don’t you worry.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  Judge Mary Stone

  STONE FAMILY FARM BULLOCK COUNTY, ALABAMA

  One day, I’m going to strangle that goddamn rooster. Maybe I’ll strangle him today.

  That was my first thought after being rudely—no, savagely—awakened on a Monday morning in late March.

  The night before, I’d spent the wee hours staring up at the farmhouse ceiling. I grew up on this farm in rural Alabama. So I never developed a habit for sleeping in because farm life is too hard to afford that luxury. My daddy used to say he couldn’t take a vacation day until the livestock agreed to take one, too.

  It’s not so different for judges. Pending cases take up residence in the mind.

  I’d been agonizing over a decision I’d be called on to make. It was no exaggeration to say I’d been dreading this cursed day for weeks. Counting down the hours until I had to choose between life and death. And trying to determine the wisest course.

  I rolled out of bed, pulling a long-sleeved T-shirt over my head and fastening the suspenders of my overalls. Didn’t bother to glance at my reflection in the mirror while I brushed my teeth. At that hour, it didn’t much matter how I looked.

  Inside the mudroom door, I stepped into a pair of rubber chore boots. Stuffed my pant legs into the boots to discourage ticks from latching onto me. Then I exited the farmhouse just as the sky overhead was lightening from black to indigo blue.

  I crossed the hard, bare ground of the side yard, heading to the weathered barn my great-grandfather had built with his own hands. The rooster followed along, scolding me. I was not having it.

  “Don’t mess with me, Foghorn Leghorn. I’m in no mood,” I said. When he continued to squawk, I resorted to threats. “I’ll chop you into pieces and fry you up in a pan. You hear?”

  My quarter horse, Tornado, trotted up to meet me. She was my pride, a cross-rein-trained mare that was a joy to ride. But not these days. Tornado was swelling with a new foal. I wasn’t about to mount the pregnant mare to ride the rounds. She wasn’t livestock. She was dear to me.

  Inside the barn, I climbed onto the John Deere tractor and drove it to the east pasture, where I keep bales of hay stored under a plastic tarp. Used the pallet fork on the tractor to carry hay to the spot where my cattle grazed. I had twenty head of Charolais, including a bull that I rented out for stud. My cows were high-breed beef cattle, some of the best in the region.

  As I drove the tractor across the field, the cattle looked up, eager to eat. I called out to them, just like my mama and daddy used to do.

  The cattle lowed in response as they ambled toward me. I fed them the hay, mixed with barley and oats from a burlap sack. While I scattered the feed, one of the cows brushed up against me. I stroked her neck behind the ears before climbing back on the tractor.

  As I drove back, the sun had risen high enough to turn the sky pink, casting a rosy glow on my land. The sight of that early light generally gave me pleasure. On that morning, though, it served as a reminder. Nothing could stop this day from coming.

  Just contemplating the terrible task ahead sent a zing into my lower back. I ignored it. I had no time for back trouble. I needed to muck out my horse’s stall before I got into the shower.

  After twenty minutes of shoveling shit, replacing it with fresh wood shavings, and setting out food and water for my mare, I left the barn and headed back to the house. Foghorn scuttled up to squawk at me again as I crossed the yard. He hushed up when I tossed a handful of seed for him to peck.

  I quickly showered and dressed. Chugged a cup of coffee while I stared at my reflection in the mirror, just thinking. I almost shoved the cosmetic bag out of my way, tempted to forgo that process. But at fifty, a woman can’t rely on the glow of youth. So I did the bare minimum. Rubbed in some moisturizer, applied foundation. A lick of blush and a swipe of lipstick.

  I was aware that I might be facing an audience. The press.

  Before I left through the front door, I picked up my briefcase and pulled the black judicial robe off the coatrack, draped it over my arm.

  CHAPTER

  3

  BULLOCK COUNTY COURTHOUSE UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  I pulled into my designated spot in the Bullock County Courthouse parking lot. One of the sweetest perks of my elected position was that nine-foot-by-twenty-foot slice of asphalt directly under the window of my chambers on the second floor. Marked by two white stripes and a small sign that clearly stated: RESERVED FOR CIRCUIT JUDGE MARY STONE.

  I left that beautiful sight for a familiar one.

  Aurora Freeman, a member of the custodial staff, was smoking a cigarette by the back door. As I passed by, toting my bright red leather briefcase and black robe, she blew out a cloud of smoke and said, “Morning, Judge Mary.”

  “Morning, Aurora.” I pulled the door open, pausing to say, “How’s your hip? Seems like you should be home with your feet up.”

  She waved off the suggestion with a flip of her hand, sending ashes flying. “Don’t you worry about me, honey, I’m good. You run along now.”

  Aurora is well over seventy, old enough to be my mother. Back when I was a student at Union Springs Elementary School, Aurora was as influential as any teacher. She worked in the lunchroom and she ruled that cafeteria with an iron hand. Aurora regularly threatened to whoop our butts, and it was not an empty threat.

  Now I spend a fair amount of my life in the confines of this courthouse, a three-story brick structure topped by two towers. The National Register of Historic Places recognizes it as one of the finest courthouses in the state of Alabama, and the only one built in the Empire style. I’m a circuit judge, not a student of architecture, so I’m not sure what all that entails. But it’s a pretty building, the centerpiece of the historic district in our small town.