Before I stepped out of the intimate little nook hidden between the shelves, I hesitated. I glanced back at him one last time. Hishands were back in his pockets, his head tilted slightly to one side.
Those blue eyes watched me—steady and unreadable.
“I always do,” I said.
Then I walked away.
2
Graham
Thecountycourthouseloomedahead of me, looking exactly like the kind of place built to intimidate—all solid stone and flawless symmetry. Every crisp line screamed order and judgment. It was beautiful in the way old things built to stand the test of time were.
A rush of warmth washed over me as I stepped inside the copper-gilded doors from the frigid afternoon air. It was already ungodly cold for the first days of November.
The security guard nodded in greeting as I slipped through the metal detectors. I’d been here countless times before, but as I strode up the white marble steps toward the courtrooms on the fourth level, my heart rate kicked up.
I shouldn’t have been nervous. This was like any other pretrial evidentiary hearing. I would take the stand, do my best to answer everything honestly, and await the ruling by the judge.
Except this wasn’t like every other time, no matter how much I pretended that it was.
I forced my lips to break a smile as I walked up to Tom Gealding, the prosecutor, standing outside courtroom two.
“Graham,” he said in greeting, holding out his hand. “How are you?”
I shook hands with him. “Ready to get this over with.”
He smoothed down the lapels of his jacket. “It shouldn’t take long.” He glanced at his watch. “This is something we expected, as you know. We don’t necessarily need your initial reports, but it would save us time and money if we could keep that in evidence. If it’s inadmissible, we can still get backup experts to provide them.”
I nodded. I knew all of this already. When the infamous serial killer known as Shadow Stalker was arrested and charged with a plethora of crimes—some decades old—I was the one the prosecution asked to do the psychological profile and behavioral analysis in a personal interview. I was one of the main forensic psychologists the state used in situations like these, because I was local. It wasn’t a big problem until my brother married one of the killer’s intended victims.
Now, we were fighting to keep that profile and my report on the defendant in evidence.
I nodded again, as the prosecutor gave me a small, tired smile. I wasn’t sure why I felt some guilt as he looked at me. Tom and I had been friendly for years now, considering we often worked together. He wouldn’t put any blame on me if we didn’t win this.
Still, some semblance of pressure bore down on me as he turned and disappeared inside the courtroom.
The cold of the marble bench seeped through my clothes and into my skin when I sat down. I grabbed my book from my briefcase and tried to read, but none of the words absorbed into my brain.
I lost track of time before the bailiff stuck his head out from a crack in the courtroom doors. His voice carried through the hallway.
“The defense calls Dr. Graham Ramsey.”
The old courtroom unfolded around me as I walked inside. The ceilings were impossibly tall. Every sound echoed around me, bouncing off the walls paneled in gleaming oak. The pew-like benches creaked as people shifted to look at me, their necks craning. There weren’t many in the gallery, a few reporters and family members of known victims. I tried not to make eye contact with the ones I recognized. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone if this didn’t go the prosecution’s way.
And I wasn’t sure whether it was expected to.
My heart skittered against my ribs. An irritating reminder that I wasn’t as calm as I wanted to be.
My gaze swept the room out of habit, bouncing from the prosecution table to the defense almost against my will. I caught the back of the defendant’s head—the man who had brought a nightmare to this town.
So much pain had started with him.
I looked away, not wanting or needing to dwell on his crimes. On the innocent women he’d taken from this world. My gaze slid to the person beside him, mostly out of habit.
Amos Anderson—most notably known as the Shadow Stalker serial killer—was a wealthy man. He’d hired some of the best lawyers in the state, who’d been working tirelessly for almost two years to give him any possible break they could.
The woman seated beside the defendant had long dark-brown hair spilling past her shoulders. Recognition prickled at the back of my skull.
