“Do not move,” she said quietly.
Something in her tone reached him.
David stood there shaking.
Across the aisle, Reid finally found his own legs and came fully to his feet.
“Your Honor,” he said, the words sounding rough even to his own ears, “the State requests?—”
He stopped.
Because what, exactly, did the State request?
A recess? A mistrial? Time to breathe? Time to process that a trooper had confessed to killing the victim in the middle of the prosecution’s case?
Judge Harlan’s face had gone granite-hard.
“Trooper Mercer,” he said, every syllable clipped, “you will remain seated, and you will not say another word unless I direct you to do so. Do you understand me?”
Danny gave one broken nod.
Harlan motioned to the bailiff at the rear.
“Get Sheriff Scott in here now.”
Burke was already moving.
He came through the rail gate with Sara, two steps behind him, Luke Hale at her shoulder, all three of them carrying that alert, contained force of law enforcement walking into a room that had shifted into another category entirely.
Burke stopped near the witness stand.
For the briefest moment, something flashed across his face—shock, sharp and undeniable—followed by a harder edge.
Then it was gone.
He looked like a man who had just realized they had missed something they never should have missed.
Judge Harlan turned toward counsel.
“Approach.”
Reid was already moving when Harper stepped away from the podium to meet him at the bench. Up close, he could see all the color had drained from her face. Her breathing was controlled, but only because she was forcing it to be.
Deck O’Rourke came to stand behind her shoulder, grim and silent.
Harlan leaned forward over the bench, voice low and deadly.
“Someone tell me whether I heard what I think I heard.”
Nobody answered for a beat too long.
Then Harper did.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Reid dragged a hand across his face.
“The witness made a direct inculpatory statement under oath,” he said. “On the record.”
