Not once.
“All rise.”
They stood.
Sat.
Judge Harlan glanced toward the State’s table.
“Mr. Calloway, you may call your next witness.”
Reid straightened.
“The State calls Katie Martin, Your Honor.”
Her stomach dipped.
Of course, it would be Katie next. As if the morning hadn’t drawn enough blood.
A murmur flickered through the gallery.
Beside Eleanor, David Mercer sat up a little straighter.
The back door opened.
Katie Martin walked down the center aisle, each step stiff with effort. Late twenties, dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail, blouse too light for the air conditioning. She kept her eyes straight ahead as she approached the witness stand.
“Raise your right hand, please,” the clerk said.
Katie did.
“Do you solemnly swear or affirm that the testimony you give in this matter will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I do.”
She sat.
Reid walked to the lectern, yellow pad in hand. When he spoke, his voice was steady—no trace of the alley argument, no hint of photographs or podcast headlines.
“Ms. Martin,” he said, “would you please state your name for the record?”
“Katie Martin.”
“Ms. Martin, you used to live here in Jackson County, correct?”
“Yes. About three years.”
“And you live in Asheville now?”
“Yes.”
Reid nodded once, as if ticking off a box in his mind.
“Ms. Martin, did you have a relationship with the defendant?”
“Yes.”
“During that relationship, did you argue about Caroline Simms and their son?”
