The bailiff called the court to order. Judge Markham looked up from his documents and nodded to Rosalind.
“The prosecution may call its next witness,” he said.
Rosalind stood, smoothing her skirt. “The prosecution calls Denise Robbins.”
As the bailiff went to fetch the witness, I felt something click into place. Denise Robbins. A client. Someone who’d been in our salon, made small talk, listened to me flirt with every man who sat in my chair. Someone who could be coached to remember every tense moment, every jealous comment, every time I mentioned Alan.
Tony had known this was coming. Denise Robbin’s name had been on Rosalind’s witness list since discovery. He’d reviewed it with me, pointing out exactly who would testify and why. A salon client. Someone the jury could relate to. Someone who would claim to have observed my “instability” firsthand.
I felt Tony’s hand brush against mine under the table. It was just for a moment, just long enough for me to feel the warmth of his skin, the reassurance of his presence.
Then he pulled away, and we were back to being lawyer and client, back to the performance that had to happen in this room.
But I carried that touch with me as Denise took the stand, as Rosalind began her questioning, as the trial moved forward exactly the way Tony said it would. Methodically, strategically, with witness after witness who would eviscerate my character the way Tony anticipated.
The prosecution was playing their hand, and Tony had seen every card before they’d even been dealt. He’d said we couldwin this. And sitting there in that courtroom, watching him work, I believed him.
I had to believe him.
Because the alternative was unthinkable.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Matlock
I was getting addicted to waking up with Simon.
That was the thought that hit me as I stood in the courthouse hallway, watching the crowd filter back in after lunch. The last few days had been a blur of strategy sessions, witness prep, and late nights reviewing evidence. But the mornings... fuck, the mornings were something else entirely.
Waking up with Simon’s body pressed against mine, his breath warm on my neck, his hand curled against my chest. The way he’d stretch and groan when the alarm went off, the sleepy smile he’d give me before reality crashed back in and reminded us both what we were facing. The sex had been fucking incredible. Desperate and raw and honest in a way we’d never quite managed before. Like we were both trying to memorize each other, to hold on to something real before the trial could take it all away.
I’d gotten used to the ritual of it. Coffee in his kitchen. Eggs that he’d burn because I’d distracted him with my mouth on his neck, his skin... his cock. The way he’d lean against the counter and watch me with those eyes that saw too much, that made me want to confess things I had no business confessing.
But then we’d get in the SUV and drive to the courthouse, and the walls would go back up. Lawyer and client. Professional distance. The performance we both had to maintain.
The trial was exhausting. Three days of testimony, cross-examinations, objections, and legal maneuvering that left me drained by the time we got home each night. The jury was still a question mark, some of them clearly sympathetic to Simon, but others looked at him with suspicion, with judgment, withthe kind of small-town prejudice that made my blood boil.
The prosecution had rested yesterday afternoon. Rosalind had built her case methodically, calling witness after witness to paint Simon as unhinged. But she’d done something far more insidious than simply argue motive. She’d weaponized his sexuality. She’d stood in front of that jury and connected Simon’s identity as a gay man to his alleged capacity for murder. Rosalind suggested that his possessiveness over Sadie stemmed from his own sexual dysfunction, his own inability to accept himself. She’d exploited every prejudice in that courtroom, every small-town assumption about what it meant to be gay, and she’d used that shit against my client. Against me.
But she’d failed.
Because she hadn’t done her homework. Simon wasn’t ashamed of who he was. He wasn’t like me. He grew up in a time when homosexuality was accepted, and in some families, even celebrated. Simon’s confidence, his pride in his family, his community and his lifestyle made my job easy.
I dismantled her witnesses one by one, exposing their bias. But more than that, I’d dismantled her narrative. The hateful, calculated narrative that framed Simon’s sexuality as a character flaw, as evidence of instability, as proof of his capacity for murder. I’d made them admit that Simon had never threatened Alan, never tried to keep Sadie from seeing him, never done anything more than express concern for his sister’s well-being. And I’d made them confront the prejudice they carried, the assumptions they’d made about a gay man in a small Nebraska town.
Now it was my turn.
I’d already called several witnesses who could speak to Simon’s character, his kindness, his reputation in the community. Rosalind had tried to tear them down on cross-examination, but she hadn’t landed any significant blows. The momentum was shifting, and I could feel it.
Today was about driving that momentum home.
I thought back to a conversation I’d had with Simon, backwhen we were still mapping out the defense strategy. He’d mentioned Beatrice Allen, the town gossip, someone who knew everyone in town and wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.
Simon was already in bed when I came into the bedroom that night, the sheets pulled up to his chest, his dark hair still damp from a shower. He looked small against the pillows, vulnerable in a way he never allowed himself to be in public. I undressed quickly and slid in beside him, and he immediately turned toward me, his head finding the hollow of my shoulder as if it belonged there.
“Beatrice Allen told me she wants to be a witness.” He pulled back slightly to look up at me, his expression thoughtful. “An expert witness, specifically.”
I stilled. “An expert on what?”
