I Can Read Your Mind,” Said the Girl—The Judge laughed, Until She Revealed His Darkest Secret

“I can read your mind,” said the girl.

The judge laughed—until she revealed his darkest secret.

The courtroom buzzed with uneasy murmurs. At the center stood a little Black girl, no more than eight years old. Her hair, in loose braids, framed a dirt-smudged face. Her blue jacket hung loosely over her frail shoulders, the sleeves frayed at the edges. Her bare feet made no sound as she stepped closer to the towering figure of Judge Randall.

The judge cleared his throat, gripping his gavel.

“Who brought this child here?”

“She asked for you,” the bailiff said nervously. “Sir, she wouldn’t speak to anyone else.”

Randall raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

The little girl lifted her chin and locked her big brown eyes on him.

“Because I can read your mind,” she said softly.

The courtroom fell silent.

Then laughter echoed from the rows of spectators. The judge let out a sharp chuckle and leaned back in his leather chair.

“You can read my mind? That’s cute, little one, but this isn’t a stage for childish games.”

But the girl didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

“You don’t believe me,” she whispered. “Just like the others—until I tell you what you’ve been hiding all these years.”

The laughter stopped.

Two days earlier, Amara had been found wandering the streets barefoot and alone, muttering things that sent grown men running.

“Your wife knows what you did last summer,” she said to one man in a suit.

“You stole money from your best friend’s wallet,” she muttered to a shopkeeper.

“You’re planning to run away with her sister,” she told another, her voice eerily calm.

Each time, their faces turned pale. One man screamed, “How do you know that?” before shoving her away and sprinting off.

Police were called.

“Where’s your family?” an officer asked gently.

Amara’s voice was barely a whisper. “They’re gone.”

“And how do you know all these things?”

The girl’s big eyes blinked slowly. “I can see them in people’s minds. I feel their secrets.”

“She’s delusional,” one cop muttered.

But when Amara turned to him and said, “You’re still wearing her perfume, aren’t you? The woman you see every Thursday.”

The officer’s face went pale.

“This kid is unnatural,” his partner said. “What do we do with her?”

“She keeps asking for Judge Randall,” said another. “Let’s take her to the courthouse. Maybe he’ll know what to do.”

Now, standing in the center of the courtroom, Amara took another step closer.

“You’ve hidden it for years,” she said softly, her voice steady. “The thing you did? The one that still makes you wake up at night in sweat.”

Randall’s smirk faltered for just a second.

“You’re lying,” he said sharply. “You’re just a scared little girl trying to get attention.”

Amara raised her small hand and gently placed it on the crown of his head.

Gasps rippled through the courtroom.

“Don’t touch the judge!” a lawyer hissed.

But Amara didn’t move her hand. Her eyes fluttered shut, as if she were listening to something deep inside him.

“You didn’t mean to do it, did you?” she whispered.

The judge’s heart began to race.

“You pushed her. You didn’t think the fall would kill her, but it did.”

Randall’s face turned ashen. The room grew eerily quiet.

“You buried her near the river,” Amara murmured. “You thought no one would ever find out. You became a lawyer, then a judge, and told yourself you’d been forgiven.”

Randall shot out of his chair.

“Enough!” he roared, slamming his gavel so hard it cracked. “This is nonsense! She’s making it up!”

But the girl didn’t flinch.

“Then why are you shaking?” she asked softly, her hand still on his head.

The crowd erupted in whispers.

“Is it true?”

“What is she talking about?”

Randall’s breaths came faster. His eyes darted to the bailiff.

“Take her away—now!”

But Amara spoke again, her voice louder this time.

“You see her every night in your dreams. The woman you buried. The one screaming in your mind even now.”

Randall staggered backward, his face pale as chalk.

“How could you know that?” he whispered hoarsely.

Amara opened her eyes and stared straight into his.

“Because she’s still screaming,” the girl said. “And I can hear her.”

The courtroom erupted into chaos.

Reporters scrambled for their cameras. Lawyers shouted over one another. The judge’s gavel slammed repeatedly, but the sound barely cut through the growing storm of voices.

“Order!” Randall bellowed, his voice cracking. “Order in this court!”

But his hands were trembling.

Amara stood still, her small hand pressed lightly to his head.

“You hear her too, don’t you?” she whispered, her voice eerily calm. “Her voice. Her cries. The way she begged you to stop.”

“Lies!” Randall roared, his face flushed red as sweat dripped down his temple. “This child is manipulating you all! I’ve never hurt anyone!”

Amara tilted her head, her braids brushing her shoulders.

“Then why can I see her?”

The judge froze.

“You buried her near the riverbank,” Amara continued, her eyes narrowing. “You thought the current would take her body, but the soil was thick. You covered her with rocks.”

Randall’s legs wobbled. He gripped the edge of his bench, his knuckles white.

“Stop,” he hissed.

“You kept her bracelet,” Amara said, louder now, her voice carrying over the gasps of the crowd. “You put it in a box. It’s still under the floorboards in your study, isn’t it?”

Randall’s head jerked up. No one could know about the bracelet. No one.

The room fell deadly silent.

A woman in the back row stood. “What is she talking about? What bracelet?”

Amara’s voice grew sharper.

“The one he ripped off her wrist when she scratched his face.”

The crowd erupted into frantic murmurs.

“I want her removed now!” Randall screamed, his voice breaking. “This is slander! This is—”

“She told me her name,” Amara said, cutting through his tirade like a blade. “Her name was Clare. She was 24. And you promised to drive her home that night.”

Randall’s mouth fell open.

“She trusted you,” Amara said softly. “But when she said no, you lost control. You pushed her. And when she stopped breathing, you panicked. You thought no one would ever find out.”

Suddenly, Amara gasped and staggered back, clutching her head.

“She’s screaming again,” the girl cried. “Her voice—it’s louder now. She says she won’t stop until the truth comes out.”

The judge backed into his chair, his hands trembling violently.

“I… I didn’t mean to,” he choked out. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. It was an accident!”

The room went silent.

Every eye in the courtroom turned to Randall as he fell to his knees.

“Clare was my sister!” a young man in the audience shouted, tears streaming down his face. “You told us she ran away! You… you monster!”

Reporters shoved forward with microphones. Lawyers scrambled to hold them back.

Amara slowly lowered her hand.

“Her voice is gone now,” she said quietly. “She says she can rest.”

Within minutes, officers surrounded the judge.

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Clare Donovan,” one of them announced.

Randall’s face crumpled.

“I didn’t mean to,” he cried as they dragged him from the bench. “It was supposed to be a secret. No one was supposed to know!”

Amara’s eyes followed him coldly as he passed.

“She always knew,” the little girl whispered. “She just needed someone to listen.”

As the gavel fell for the last time, Amara stepped down from the stand.

A reporter approached cautiously. “H-how did you know all that?”

Amara’s lips curved faintly.

“I don’t just hear thoughts,” she said softly. “I hear the voices of the ones you’ve tried to silence.”

And with that, she walked barefoot out of the courtroom—leaving stunned silence in her wake.