I look at him. Look through him.
"I didn't fabricate anything."
"This inmate you interviewed—he's a convicted murderer, isn't he? A man who kills for money?"
"Yes."
"Isn't it possible he was lying to you? Making up stories to impress a pretty writer?"
"He wasn't trying to impress me. He was bragging. There's a difference."
"You've been in hiding for months, is that correct? Living in undisclosed locations under significant psychological stress?"
"Yes."
"Jumping at shadows. Unable to sleep. Afraid for your life."
"Yes."
"And during this time, you had no access to your notes. No way to review what you'd originally written down."
"That's correct."
"So what we have here is a woman who, by her own admission, has spent two months in a state of extreme psychological distress—" He pauses, lets it land. "—now asking this jury to trust her memory of a conversation that happened over a year ago."
Something cold slides down my spine.
"Isn't it possible, Ms. Cross, that your mind has... filled in gaps? Created details that feel true but aren't? That trauma has done what trauma does—distorted your perception of events?"
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against my thighs where no one can see.
What if he's right?
The thought comes from nowhere. Or maybe it's been waiting there all along, curled up in the dark.
What if you made it all up? What if you're as broken as they're saying you are?
The courtroom is too quiet. Everyone watching. The jury. Venetti with his cold eyes. Rodriguez, whose whole case rests on my word.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
You're broken. You're unreliable. You're—
And then I hear him.
Not the words he used to push me away. Not the lies he told to make me leave. The other thing. The true thing. The night I woke up screaming and he didn't flinch, didn't pull back, just held me until I could breathe again.
You're not broken, Eden. You're surviving. And surviving looks ugly as hell from the inside.
My spine straightens. My hands go still.
The defense attorney is waiting. Confident. He thinks he has me.
"Ms. Cross? Do you need me to repeat the question?"
"No." My voice comes out steady. Quiet. "I heard you."
I look at him.
