Rachel should have been fast asleep in her hotel room bed, given that she’d gone to sleep at midnight after working late in the recording studio. Instead, she woke before dawn and dressed in running shorts and a sleeveless Lycra top for a brief morning jog along the boardwalk to clear her head before spending the day in court. Kelly Moore was due to take the stand in what was expected to be an intense and emotional day of testimony.

Rachel finished her stretches and then shuffled into a jog, gradually speeding up until she was running down the boardwalk in long, smooth strides. As she ran, she veered away from her intended route and crossed the road, heading toward downtown Neapolis, a few blocks away. She passed a row of shuttered shops, pursued by the clatter of a garbage truck emptying Dumpsters behind her.

She ran past the cafe next to the library, where a waiter was opening yellow umbrellas at outdoor tables while a barista wearing a black cloth apron picked up a crate of milk cartons that had been left outside the cafe door. She ran across the road to the city park, where the hiss of sprinklers forced her off the grass and onto a bicycle path that led to the heritage section of Neapolis. Rachel passed the dark and silent courthouse and continued running through a maze of side streets until she reached the gloomy entrance of the cemetery.

It was only when she checked her watch as she approached the cast-iron cemetery gate that she admitted to herself that, deep down, she’d always intended to be at the cemetery that morning. Renata’s flower arrangement would be delivered to Jenny Stills’s grave by a special courier at 8:00 A.M. sharp. The delivery time was very specific. It made Rachel think that someone was turning up at the cemetery to place the bouquet on the grave. Rachel hoped that person would be the elusive Hannah, who hadn’t been in touch for days.

Rachel should have been getting dressed, reviewing notes, eating a filling breakfast to sustain her through the long day ahead. The last thing she should have been doing on the morning of the most important day of the trial was running to a cemetery to watch flowers being delivered to the grave of a girl who had died decades earlier, in the faint hope that Jenny’s grieving sister might appear.

The cemetery gate creaked sharply as Rachel pushed it open and walked past a row of ivy-covered gravestones. The air was cool and still as she moved through the labyrinth of crumbling tombstones down the sycamore tree–lined path that connected the old and the new sections of the cemetery.

When Rachel caught sight of Jenny’s grave, she stepped off the path and hid among the trees, watching and waiting as the rapid beat of her heart returned to normal.

A young man arrived at 8:00 A.M. sharp. Right on time. He held a black motorcycle helmet under his arm and carried an elaborate bouquet of flowers. He strode to Jenny’s grave, where he casually tossed the bouquet, and walked away, putting on his motorcycle helmet as he disappeared through a rear service gate.

Rachel heard the roar of a motorcycle as he drove off. She waited ten minutes. And then fifteen. It was twenty-five after eight in the morning and nobody had arrived. She couldn’t wait any longer. She had to return to the hotel to get ready for court or she’d never make it in time.

Suddenly, Rachel heard footsteps coming from the direction of the old cemetery. Someone was walking toward her. She slipped farther into the trees as the crunch of gravel became louder. She was so far inside the foliage that her view was blocked by thick-leafed branches. Rachel couldn’t move to a better vantage point without crackling leaves underfoot and forcing branches to sway. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, she waited in frozen silence, holding her breath as the footsteps briefly paused.

She detected a hint of hesitation before the steady pace passed her hiding spot. She didn’t move at all until the footsteps became more distant and she could tell the visitor was heading toward the new section of the cemetery. Toward Jenny’s grave. Rachel moved closer to the path so that she could see the visitor. She was surprised to see that it wasn’t Hannah at all. It was a dark-haired man in a navy suit.

Rachel didn’t need to see Mitch Alkins’s face to know it was him. His powerful build and towering height were dead giveaways. He reached the grave and bent down to pick up the flower arrangement the courier had tossed there. He placed the bouquet gently on the grave and stood for a moment with his head bowed in mourning before stepping back and whirling around.

Rachel quickly moved deeper into the shadows between the trees as he returned in her direction. He walked faster. For a frightening second, she wondered if he’d seen her and was coming to confront her. The cemetery was so silent that she was afraid he’d hear her heart pounding as he passed by.

As he came close, she saw his eyes were bloodshot. Rachel guessed he’d been up late preparing for court. She was relieved when he quickly disappeared the way he had come. The metal clang of the old cemetery gate banging shut confirmed he had left. She ran ahead and watched through the fence as Mitch Alkins drove away.

* * *

The line going through the metal detectors at the courthouse entrance was halfway down the stairs when Rachel arrived. She was frazzled from the mad rush to get ready for court.

She hadn’t had time to blow-dry her hair or put on any makeup. She’d dressed hastily, and her tight gray skirt and white shirt felt twisted and uncomfortable on her clammy skin. Deciding to take a taxi and avoid wasting time looking for a parking space, Rachel had used the brief journey to fix her hair and apply lip gloss in the back seat as the taxi took a shortcut to the courthouse, driving at breakneck speed before pulling to a stop by the plaza. Court was almost full when Rachel entered and took her seat in the front row of the media gallery.

Mitch Alkins was flicking through a notepad filled with tight, black writing at the prosecution’s table. He was wearing the same suit he’d worn at the cemetery. His face was inscrutable. His eyes were set in concentration. He appeared oblivious to the impatient murmurs across the courtroom and the squeaking of chairs as the clerks settled into their seats. He’d shifted mental gears from mourner to prosecutor in the space of an hour.

Why go to the cemetery on such an important day? The question troubled Rachel until she remembered what Kitty, Hannah’s adoptive mother, had told her. Today must be the anniversary of Jenny’s death, Rachel realized. That’s why Mitch Alkins had ordered the flowers and visited the grave before court. The card he’d ordered with the flowers had said simply: Forgive me. Rachel wondered what he had done to Jenny Stills that warranted a lifetime of forgiveness.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Sophia, the court sketch artist whose corner seat in the media box next to Rachel offered the best view of the courtroom and plenty of elbow room for sketching. Sophia placed a selection of pastel shades on the timber ledge in front of her as she prepared for a long session.

She was a veteran courtroom artist who’d sketched at over sixty trials. Since cameras were banned at the Blair trial, Sophia’s drawings were the only visual depictions of the trial that the outside world would see. Her sketches had run on TV news broadcasts every night since the trial began. Rachel had also connected her to Pete, who’d commissioned a series of black ink drawings of the trial for the podcast website. Each day, a drawing related to that day’s testimony was posted.

“You’ve seen more than a few trials in your time. What do you think, Sophia?” asked Rachel once Sophia had organized her drawing equipment. “Do you think the evidence the prosecution has presented so far is enough for a conviction?”

“Not likely,” Sophia answered. “Dale Quinn did a brilliant job at twisting the prosecution’s witnesses into knots and highlighting every conceivable inconsistency to make them look like liars. Plus he showed that several of the witnesses had an axe to grind against Scott Blair. I just can’t see the jury convicting based on what’s been presented so far.”

“What about the forensic evidence?” Rachel asked. “I thought Dr. North did a convincing job of analyzing the forensics from the rape kit to show that Kelly’s injuries strongly indicated that she didn’t consent.”

“Maybe,” sighed Sophia. “The problem is that I’ve seen Dale Quinn’s expert witness on the stand. He’s the best that money can buy. He’ll demolish Dr. North’s testimony.” She was going to say more but she was cut off by the bailiff’s call for everyone to rise for Judge Shaw. “I’m sorry to say that this case lives or dies on Kelly Moore’s testimony,” Sophia whispered furtively to Rachel as the judge entered the courtroom.

39

Rachel