"—and when they ask about the timeline, you need to be specific. Dates. Times. Don't estimate if you can help it. The defense will use any vagueness to—"
I blink. Carver is still talking. I have no idea how long I've been gone.
"There is no we."
His voice in my head. The flatness of it. The way he watched every word land while he dismantled everything we'd built.
"—suggest that your memory is unreliable. They're going to push on the gaps, the inconsistencies. You need to be—"
"What we had here was real. But it can't survive outside these walls."
The look on his face when he said it. He was convincing himself as much as me.
"Eden."
Carver is looking at me. So is Rodriguez—already impatient, already judging. Maya sits in the corner, the only person in this room who isn't asking me to perform.
The hotel room is beige. Everything is beige—the walls, the carpet, the bedspread I'm sitting on with my hands folded in my lap. The overhead lights are too bright, institutional fluorescent that makes everyone look sick. Someone's coffee has gone cold on the nightstand. Papers spread across every surface—timelines, witness statements, photographs I can't look at without my stomach turning.
"Sorry. I'm listening."
"Are you?" Rodriguez's voice is clipped. She uncrosses her legs, leans forward. "Because you've been somewhere else for the last ten minutes, and I need to know if that's going to be a problem tomorrow."
"It won't be a problem."
"This isn't a rehearsal." She stands, starts pacing. The room feels smaller with her moving through it. "Tomorrow is the culmination of a year-long investigation. Anthony Venetti has been running drugs and murdering witnesses in this city for ten years. We finally have him, and you're the linchpin. Your testimony puts him at three murders he thought he'd gotten away with."
"I know."
"He has the best lawyers money can buy. They're going to come at you hard—your credibility, your mental state, why you've been quote-unquote 'in hiding' for two months. They're going to suggest you're unstable. That you're making things up for your next book. That you were traumatized into false memories."
"I know all of this."
"Then act like it." Her voice sharpens. "I've seen defense teams tear apart stronger witnesses than you think you are.If you're not sharp tomorrow, Venetti walks. And I don't lose cases."
I want to snap at her. Want to tell her I've spent two months running for my life, I nearly died twice, I just had my choices stripped away by someone who claimed it was for my own good. I want to ask her how present she'd be under those circumstances.
I don't say any of that. The words stay locked behind my teeth.
"I'll be ready."
"You need to be more than ready. You need to be bulletproof." She pulls a photograph from the stack on the bed and slides it toward me. "This is what we're fighting for. This is who you're putting away."
I don't look at the photo. I've seen it before. Venetti's face—cold eyes, expensive suit, that smile.
"I know who he is."
"Do you? Because right now, you're acting like this is an inconvenience instead of the most important thing you'll ever do."
"Rodriguez." Carver's voice drops. "Ease up."
"We don't have time to ease up. The trial starts in fourteen hours. If she's not ready—"
"She'll be ready."
"Will she?" Rodriguez turns to me. "Will you?"
I meet her eyes. Hold them.
