Eleanor didn’t look away from the closed door.
“I was exactly as hard as the state will be soft,” she said. “If they decide she’s their star witness, they’ll sand down every rough edge and sell that story like gospel.”
Scout watched her a moment.
“You believe her?” he asked.
Eleanor’s fingers tightened slightly on her pen.
“I believe,” she said slowly, “that David Mercer is capable of saying that to hurt someone. I don’t know if I believe it means what she thinks it means.”
Scout nodded once.
“And if Burke starts digging Riverbend?”
Eleanor finally looked at him.
“Then,” she said, “we stop arguing about hypotheticals and start dealing with whatever the ground gives us.”
Something flickered at the edge of her memory?—
a detail from Mercer’s file she hadn’t paid much attention to at the time.
A brief gap in the Riverbend construction timeline.
Two weeks where work had stopped completely. There was a line item for additional fill dirt. Far more than the site plans called for.
No weather reports to justify it. No permit delays. No recorded incident.
She’d assumed it was a clerical oversight.
Now she wasn’t so sure.
She closed the file gently, as if that might keep everything inside from spilling onto the town.
“It always comes back to the evidence, Deputy,” she added. “Not the stories people tell when they’re mad.”
Scout’s mouth tipped in a grim half-smile.
For a second, Eleanor almost smiled back.
“Story of my life,” she said.
“Now go tell your boss I’m not letting him railroad my client on the strength of one angry ex and a bunch of strangers with microphones.”
38
Jackson County Courthouse — Mid Morning
Eleanor Harper had barely slept.
Between a surprise weekend visit from her parents and Declan O’Rourke’s sudden trip back to Charleston, Sylva’s usual rhythm had been anything but quiet.
The courtroom, however, was exactly what she needed.
Order. Rules. Predictable arguments.
The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of papers when Eleanor Harper stood from counsel table.
