Only her first chair knew that Tripp had sent over new evidence.Evidence that drew suspicion to another person.
Soon the others drifted off to bed, and Nicole slipped out onto the deck, her glass still half-full.The boards creaked under her bare feet, the night air warm and salt-sweet.Out beyond the railing, the ocean stretched into darkness, its rhythm steady, endless, indifferent.
She tipped her glass, watching the moonlight ripple across the wine, and let out a long breath.
Paige’s words clung like sea spray on her skin:Not whether you and Tripp still love each other.But whether you could survive the people who don’t want you together.
Nicole closed her eyes, her throat thick.She’d spent years burying it, denying it, convincing herself she had moved on.But here, under the sweep of stars and the roar of the tide, there was no hiding.
She still loved him.
The truth sat in her chest, heavy and certain, terrifying in its simplicity.
She lifted the glass to her lips, drained the last swallow, and stared into the dark horizon.On Monday, she’d be the prosecutor again, sharp, steady, unshakable.
But tonight, alone with the sea, she let herself admit it.God, she still loved Tripp Masterson.Now, the question that remained was whether she could accept his mother.And would her family accept Tripp?Or did he and she move somewhere no one knew them and start fresh?
Chapter15
Nicole rose from her chair, smoothing her jacket with practiced precision.She could feel the press of a hundred eyes on her, the jury box waiting, the gallery buzzing faintly with anticipation.Even Judge Price shifted forward on the bench, sensing this testimony would matter.
Her pulse drummed beneath her ribs, but her voice came steady, measured.She had to keep it that way.No matter what storm raged inside, the jury could never see her falter.
The lead investigator had testified days ago, laying out the facts as he saw them.But this man was different.He wasn’t here to recap the scene—he was a weapons expert, and Nicole knew his testimony carried a weight that could tip the scales of the entire trial.The jury would hang on his words.And so would she.
As he walked to the stand, Nicole’s pulse quickened.Her fingers tightened around the pen in her hand until it bit into her skin, grounding her.She forced her shoulders back, spine straight, though tension coiled in her stomach like a live wire.
This moment mattered.The wrong question, the wrong tone, could unravel everything she’d built.
When he raised his hand to take the oath, Nicole exhaled slowly, as though releasing every doubt with that breath.Stay steady.Stay sharp.This is the turning point.
“Mr.Daniels,” she began, “please remind the jury of your credentials.”
The weapons specialist sat tall, a man used to being listened to.“I’m a forensic firearms examiner with the state crime lab.I’ve been working in ballistics for twenty-two years.I’ve testified in over a hundred cases.”
“Thank you.”Nicole angled her body toward the jury, her hands loose at her sides, every movement designed to project calm authority.“You examined the firearm recovered in this case?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tell us what you found.”
Daniels adjusted his glasses, opened his folder, and launched into his report.“The weapon was a .38 caliber revolver.Classic design.Well-maintained.Recently fired.The fatal bullet recovered from the victim’s body was conclusively matched to this revolver.There’s no doubt it’s the murder weapon.”
A murmur rolled through the gallery.Nicole let the silence stretch, then tilted her head, her voice smooth.“Mr.Daniels, when a firearm is logged into evidence, ownership records are traced, are they not?”
“Yes.”
“And did you trace this weapon?”
“I did.”
Nicole paused.She could feel the moment building like a storm cell gathering in the humid summer sky.She glanced at the jury, letting her gaze move slowly from face to face.She wanted them leaning in before she asked.
“And to whom was this firearm registered?”
Daniels checked his notes, though he didn’t need to.His voice was crisp, certain.“Mrs.Evelyn Reddick.”
The gallery erupted.Whispers, gasps, the scrape of chairs shifting.
