Nicole was on her feet in an instant.“Objection.Argumentative.”
“Sustained,” the judge said.
Tripp pivoted, unruffled.“Bianca didn’t come from wealth, did she?”
“No.”
“How was she paying for college?”
“Loans and scholarships.”
“And yet she lived in a house?”
“It was her grandmother’s.”
Tripp moved a step closer, voice firm.“Isn’t it true that Derrick paid the overdue property taxes on that house?”
Nicole shot up again.“Objection.Relevance.”
The judge considered, then waved a hand.“Overruled.The witness may answer.”
The young woman exhaled sharply.“Yes?—”
Tripp cut her off with a raised hand before she could elaborate.“Just yes or no.”
“Yes.”
He turned, facing the jury, making sure his voice was steady, commanding.“No further questions, Your Honor.”
He walked back to the defense table, every step deliberate.From the corner of his eye, he caught his mother leaning forward, her lips pressed tightly, her gaze flicking between him and Nicole.Judgment in her eyes.Judgment, and something else he couldn’t quite read.
And Nicole, she didn’t even glance at him.She just slid back into her seat, pen poised, expression carved from stone.
The air between them was thick with unfinished history.
When the jury was dismissed for the day and Judge Price gave his usual admonishment—“Ladies and gentlemen, remember: do not speak about the case with anyone, and do not consume any media coverage.”
Tripp was already shoving his files into his briefcase, praying he could slip out before…
“Darling.”
He closed his eyes for one beat too long.When he opened them, there she was at the edge of the bar.His mother.Standing tall, smiling like she’d just watched him win the Super Bowl.
“Mother,” he said evenly, tamping down the groan rising in his throat.“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see my brilliant son in action.”She leaned in, kissed his cheek, her perfume a heady mixture of roses and memory.“You haven’t taken a high-profile trial in ages.How could I resist?And what an exciting one.”
Of course.To her, murder trials were cocktail party fodder.
He studied her face, but as always, the armor was flawless.No cracks in the perfectly polished exterior.“You tracked down my schedule.”
“Of course, I did,” she said smoothly.“I’m your mother.”
“Meaning you called Lorraine at the office and bullied her into telling you.”
She fluttered her hand, dismissing the accusation like lint on her jacket.“Details, darling.You were magnificent, by the way.Calm.Measured.I’m proud of you.”
That word still stung.Proud.Always conditional.Contingent on obedience.
