Tripp’s pulse steadied, a dangerous kind of calm washing over him.It was a gamble.A huge one.But it might also be the only way to show the jury she wasn’t the shooter or, if she slipped, to expose the truth once and for all.
He let the silence stretch before speaking.“If you want the jury to see you as blameless, Mrs.Reddick, then you’ll have to tell them yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed.“You mean testify?”
“Yes.”His voice was measured, but inside, something twisted.“You take the stand.You explain why the gun was in Derrick’s possession, and you do it calmly, credibly, so the jury sees this for what it is, a red herring.”
Evelyn’s lips pressed into a thin line.For a flicker of a moment, her composure cracked.“I do not belong on that witness stand.”
“Then we let the jury imagine what you’re hiding and believe that your son fired the weapon.”
She bristled, then glanced away, her gaze sweeping over the polished floor as if she could find another path.When she looked back, her mask was in place again.“If that’s what it takes to protect my son, then I’ll do it.”
Tripp gave a single nod, though his gut twisted harder.Putting her on the stand could either save Derrick…or destroy him.
He turned back toward the courtroom doors, his thoughts a storm.Nicole would shred Evelyn on cross if she sensed blood in the water.And God help him, he wasn’t entirely sure Evelyn wouldn’t bleed.
As he reached for the door handle, Derrick walked up beside him, his voice desperate and shaky: “She didn’t do it, Tripp.Tell me you don’t think my mom could do this.”
Tripp closed his eyes for a beat, jaw tight.She reminds me of my own mother,he thought grimly.And I know exactly what women like that are capable of.
When his eyes opened again, he let out a slow breath.The gamble was set.
“Derrick, get some rest.Tomorrow could be a rough day.”
The prosecution should rest tomorrow.Then he would tell Derrick the plan.
They were calling Evelyn Reddick to the stand.
Chapter17
The night was still except for the chorus of cicadas and the slow slap of water against the pilings.Nicole sat curled in the deck chair, the summer breeze cooling her and protecting her from mosquitoes.A lightweight throw rested on her shoulders.A single lamp glowed behind her in the kitchen, spilling a sliver of light across the wooden planks, but beyond that, everything was swallowed in moonlight and shadow.
The tide rolled in and out like a heartbeat, steady and unyielding, a sharp contrast to the storm inside her.
All her life, her parents’ house had clung to the edge of the ocean, her father’s boat tied faithfully to the pilings out back.That boat had been part of the view, part of the rhythm of her childhood, but now it was gone.Some days, she wondered why they still lived here at all.And yet, she couldn’t deny she loved the sound of the surf, the steady hush of waves brushing against the shore, comforting, almost like a heartbeat.
Except when storms rolled in.Then the water rose angry and wild, slamming against the wood, shaking the house with every crash.On those nights, fear sat heavy in her chest, the same fear curling through her now.Her case felt like it was slipping through her fingers, its foundation washing out from under her.For the first time, she doubted the story she’d built, doubted that Derrick Reddick had pulled the trigger that killed Bianca.
The trial replayed in her mind like a film she couldn’t turn off.The jurors’ shifting eyes, the way Evelyn Reddick had sat in the gallery with her chin high, the weight of the evidence balanced on the edge of a knife.
What unsettled her most wasn’t just the woman herself, but how closely she resembled Tripp’s mother, the same poise, the same calculating eyes, the same chill that could cut straight through you.
Tomorrow, the state would rest.Nicole would have to rise, thank the jury for their patience, and yield the floor to Tripp.Then it would be his turn, to dismantle her case and convince the jury his client was innocent.
The thought made her stomach twist.She knew how good he was.She’d watched him in court enough to recognize the precision of his cross-examinations, the way he built a narrative until it seemed inevitable.And this time, he’d be wielding his skill like a blade aimed at her.
Staring into the dark horizon, she analyzed each piece of evidence.Did they have the right person on trial?No matter how much she tried to keep the lines clean, prosecutor, defense counsel, adversaries, she couldn’t.Not with Tripp.Not when every word they spoke seemed to stir embers she’d spent half a lifetime trying to smother.
And seeing him every day reawakened every hidden ache in her body parts of her that still longed for him, still wanted him, still needed him like air.
The screen door creaked.Nicole glanced back as her mother stepped out, moving slowly, a mug of tea in her hand.She wore her robe and slippers, her sweater draped around her shoulders like a shawl.
“You’re still awake,” her mother said softly.
Nicole forced a smile.“Couldn’t sleep.”
Her mother settled into the chair beside her, setting the mug carefully on the armrest.For a long while, they sat together, listening to the hum of insects and the whisper of waves.
