Brooke stood in the doorway of her grandfather’s bedroom, her nose prickling as memories came flooding back. Her breath came in unevenly as she recalled all the times she had visited him, practically hearing Granddad Charles’ booming chuckle resounding through the corridors.

“I can’t believe he’s truly gone,” she whispered, running her hand along the old oak dresser.

The room reeked of ancient books and a slight aroma of Granddad’s preferred pipe smoke and Aqua Velva aftershave.

Months later, a trial was scheduled, resulting in a media circus. Every day, reporters and demonstrators jammed the courthouse steps.

Brooke sat stoically in a frigid courtroom, watching Mr. Johnson face justice.

The prosecution presented a compelling case, supported by the evidence obtained by her grandfather. Brooke testified on the emotional and financial hardships her little family faced following her parents’ passing, clearly detailing the anguish and loss they felt.

However, Brooke expressed her own sentiments, and the judge permitted her to speak. “My grandfather never stopped searching for the truth,” she told me. “He felt something was wrong, and he wouldn’t let it go. “I am here to finish what he started.”

As the trial came to a close, the Johnsons contacted the District Attorney’s office in the hopes of reaching a settlement. The prosecutors consulted Brooke, but she declined any monetary offer.

“Money was always how the Johnsons solved things,” she thought. “Not anymore!”

The case progressed, and on the final day, Mr. Johnson rose and gazed at Brooke. “I’m sorry,” he replied quietly. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but I truly am sorry.”