“I’ve spent more than ten months seeing Kelly as a patient. I have found her account of what happened and her emotional responses to be consistent throughout. I have absolutely no reason to doubt her word on what she says happened that night. No reason at all.”

Dale Quinn bounded out of his seat to cross-examine Dr. Lawrence. He happily dragged out his questioning for as long as possible, knowing that the longer she was on the stand, the less the jury liked her, and by extension, the less they’d believe anything she said. He effectively gave her enough rope to hang herself as a witness, thought Rachel. When Quinn was ready, in his softest, folksiest voice he reeled her in for the kill.

“Dr. Lawrence, did you work for an organization called the Women’s Rape Network after college?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I’ve been told that the Women’s Rape Network’s philosophy is that women who say they are the victims of a sexual assault should be believed no matter what. Is that accurate?” Quinn asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Isn’t it true that your testimony today is based on that same view, that your role is to support Kelly and not question whether she is telling the truth?”

“I have no reason to doubt Kelly.”

“You weren’t there that night, were you?” Dale Quinn asked.

“No, I wasn’t.”

“And you didn’t see any of it happen. Did you?”

“No.”

When Dr. Lawrence left the stand, Judge Shaw announced they’d take a lunch break. It was already running late enough for Rachel’s stomach to rumble.

Rachel hung back until most of the court had cleared out, except for the lawyers. Mitch Alkins and a young female lawyer on his team were talking and packing files into their briefcases.

“Mr. Alkins,” Rachel called out. He paused from packing his briefcase and gave Rachel a hard stare that told her to back off. “Mr. Alkins, I’m a reporter. My name is Rachel Krall; I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”

“She’s the one from the podcast I was telling you about,” the other attorney whispered to Alkins in a voice loud enough for Rachel to hear.

“Ah, the reporter who believes in crowdsourcing justice. Why not get rid of the jury system altogether and decide on innocence and guilt with an online poll,” he muttered.

“Mr. Alkins, I need to ask you something. In private,” Rachel said, ignoring his comments. She had more important things to discuss than the ethics of crime podcasts.

“We’re not allowed to talk to reporters until after the case. Judge’s orders,” he said.

“It’s not about the trial,” said Rachel. “It’s about something else. Mr. Alkins, did you once know a girl by the name of Jenny Stills?”

Alkins froze for the briefest moment. It was so quick that Rachel wondered if she’d imagined it. He put another file in his briefcase, pulled the lid down tightly, and snapped the latches shut. When he was done, he walked right past her without a word and left the courtroom.

35

Rachel

Rachel shielded her eyes with her hand as she moved from the courthouse into the bright sunshine of the afternoon. The roar of passing traffic was deafening after hours spent in the hushed confines of the courtroom.

Dan Moore was heading down the stairs in front of her. He looked as if he’d aged a decade since the trial began. Being in court every day listening to deeply upsetting testimony about his daughter’s sexual assault was taking a heavy toll on him.

“How’s Kelly doing?” Rachel asked when she caught up to him in the plaza.

“She’s understandably nervous about testifying, but she absolutely insists that she wants to do it,” he said. “Her therapist says it will give her closure and help her move on with her life.”

Once they parted ways, Rachel headed over to a pretty street of cafes and specialty stores a few blocks from the courthouse. In Rachel’s computer bag was the faded bouquet ribbon she’d found at Jenny Stills’s grave. Rachel had shown the ribbon to two florists at downtown stores. They both said they’d never used that type of ribbon. It was a high-quality two-toned ribbon made from real fabric. One of the florists suggested that Rachel check at a shop called Antique Flowers, a high-end florist store that specialized in expensive, classical arrangements.

The store had been closed every time Rachel drove past, but that morning while driving to court she’d seen the “Closed” sign had been removed from the door. She’d been running late and didn’t have time to go into the store. But now, since court was done for the day, Rachel rushed over to the florist shop so she could ask about the ribbon before the store shut for the day.

Antique Flowers was a corner shop in a heritage building with large bay windows. The store exterior was painted a crisp shade of white. Its name was written in delicate matching white calligraphy on the windows. The brass bell tinkled as Rachel opened the door. She was immediately hit by the unusual combination of furniture polish mixed with a delicate scent of fresh flowers.

“Can I be of assistance?” A diminutive woman walked in from a back room with an armful of pale roses, which she placed on floristry paper laid out on an antique table. “Are you looking for furniture, or flowers? Or both?” the woman asked. She wore a natural linen apron with the store logo and a matching badge with her name, “Renata.”

“I’m just doing the tourist thing and window-shopping,” answered Rachel. “I’ve never seen a store that sells flowers and antiques together, and such beautiful ones at that!”

“The antique store is my dad’s business. My mom is a florist. A few years ago they combined the businesses. That way Mom could run the store while Dad went on antique-buying trips,” said the woman, as she clipped the stems of the roses.

Rachel was about to introduce herself when the store phone rang. Renata smiled apologetically as she took the call. Rachel used the time to wander around the store. The antiques for sale ranged from the elaborate to the simple. Rachel admired an old farmhouse table with knife marks indented into the timber and a distressed oak pantry cupboard with old-fashioned blue ceramic jars on its shelves.

“Are you enjoying your time here?” Renata asked conversationally when she’d finished the call, and began selecting a combination of cream and light pink roses from the florist’s table.

“I am. It’s a lovely town,” Rachel responded. “You’re very lucky to live here.”

“Oh, I don’t live here anymore. I only come back to see my parents or help run the store when they’re on vacation. To tell you the truth, I stay for as short a time as possible and I’m extremely relieved when I go home. But that’s just me. Most people love it here.”

“Why don’t you like it here?” Rachel asked.

“When I grew up, it was an insular town. People got stuck with labels. It was hard for them to, I guess, reinvent themselves,” Renata said as she arranged the roses and wrapped it all in floristry paper. She took out a spool and cut a long piece of ribbon, which she expertly tied around the bouquet. Rachel was disappointed to see that the ribbon didn’t at all match the ribbon that she’d found at Jenny’s grave. She sighed to herself. It was another dead end.

Rachel was about to leave when she decided that she’d show Renata the ribbon anyway in case she knew other stores where Rachel could ask. She was removing the ribbon from her purse when the brass doorbell chimed. A man stepped inside to collect the bouquet that Renata had just finished. Rachel waited as Renata packaged the order in a paper bag with the store’s logo and swiped the man’s credit card.

“His wife is one lucky lady. That is a stunning bouquet,” Rachel said, as the door shut after the man left carrying his wife’s anniversary present.

“I was worried that I might be out of practice. The lady who was supposed to have run the store while my parents are on their cruise broke her leg. I couldn’t get here until last night, so the store has been closed for the past week,” Renata said. “I’m still catching up on orders.”

“I’ll leave you to your work then. Just one quick question before I go,” said Rachel, holding up a plastic bag with the ribbon from the cemetery. “Do you know which florist uses this particular ribbon?”

Renata took one look and immediately opened a drawer under the flower-wrapping table from which she removed an oversized spool containing an expensive two-toned ribbon that was almost an exact match to the ribbon Rachel was holding.

“Dad brings it back from Europe when he visits on antique-buying trips. The ribbon is very expensive, so Mom saves it only for her premium bouquets,” Renata explained, leaning forward to examine the one Rachel held. “It’s badly faded. Where did you find it?”

“At a grave at the cemetery,” said Rachel. “I’m trying to find out who might have left it. Given that it’s your ribbon, the flower arrangement must have been from here. Do you keep records for all your orders?”