The courtroom and jurors had fallen deathly still, feeding on Mitchell’s every word like feral, blood-craving creatures. My hair stood on end, and my skin prickled with the static in the air.
“We will bring copious amounts of evidence showing that she was obsessed with Winston Donovan,” Mitchell continued. “She was tracking him, stalking him, researching his businesses online, and following his social media posts.
“You will hear testimony and see evidence showing that Olivia Taylor’s fingerprints were found on the murder weapon, a clear and undeniable connection to the crime. This crucial piece of evidence places her directly at the scene, with her hands on the very instrument that ended Mr. Donovan’s life.
“We will present chilling video footage that captures Olivia Taylor at the hotel on the afternoon of the murder. You will see her moving through the halls, her every determined step a testament to premeditation and cold-blooded calculation. This isn’t a woman caught in the wrong place at the wrong time—this is a predator moving in for the kill.
“As for her motive, we will demonstrate that her act was driven by desperation and a deep-seated fear of exposure. Olivia Taylor, living a life built on lies, was terrified of being unmasked and losing everything she had worked for and deceived her way into. Winston Donovan haddiscovered her true identity, and she killed him in a panicked attempt to silence him and protect her fabricated life.”
It was all a lie, but told so convincingly that I couldn’t blame the jurors for believing every word Mitchell was saying. He was telling them the story they wanted to hear.
“We will also show that the defendant had the opportunity to commit this heinous act,” Mitchell said. “Her relationship with Mr. Donovan was not what it appeared to be. It was built on a foundation of lies and ulterior motives, driven by a desperate need to maintain her false identity and lifestyle.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecution will lay bare the truth that Olivia Taylor sought so desperately to conceal. We will show you the lengths she went to in order to cover her tracks, to fabricate an alibi, to paint herself as the victim. But in this courtroom, the true victim is Winston Donovan, and it is our duty to see that his murderer is brought to justice.
“At the conclusion of this trial, we will ask you to see through the lies, to sift through the deception, and to find Olivia Taylor guilty of the cold-blooded murder of Winston Donovan. Thank you.”
Mitchell took his seat at the prosecution’s table. I breathed, relieved that the lies had stopped, at least for a while.
The judge nodded. “Mr. Blake?”
Colton stood and walked over to the jurors, smiling and making eye contact just like Mitchell had. It was all a well-choreographed game, every player knowing exactly what to do and what to expect.
Except me.
“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Colton said, nodding as he greeted the jury. “My name is Colton Blake, and I speak for the defense. Today, we stand before you to present the truth about Olivia Taylor, a woman who has been unjustly accused of a heinous crime she did not commit. The prosecution will paint her as a master manipulator, but we will show you a different picture—one of awoman deeply in love, who is now grieving the tragic loss of her fiancé, Winston Donovan.
“First, let’s address the supposed motive. The prosecution would have you believe that Olivia had everything to gain by killing Winston. But the reality is quite the opposite. Olivia stood to gain far more by marrying Winston Donovan. She was poised to share in his immense fortune and live a life of happiness by his side. What possible reason would she have to throw all that away? There is no logical motive for Olivia to commit such an act.
“We will show that Olivia had no reason to harm the man she loved. Their relationship, contrary to the prosecution’s narrative, was built on genuine affection and mutual respect. Witnesses will testify to their plans for the future, their shared dreams, and the deep bond they shared. Olivia Taylor was not a gold digger or a schemer—she was a woman in love, and her world has been shattered by Winston’s death.
“You will hear testimony that Olivia has been utterly devastated by this loss. Her grief is real and profound, not the manufactured response of someone trying to cover their tracks. The image of Olivia as a cold-hearted killer is a fabrication, designed to distract you from the real issue at hand: the lack of concrete evidence tying her to this crime.
“The prosecution’s case relies heavily on circumstantial evidence and conjecture. Yes, Olivia was at the hotel, but that does not make her a murderer. Yes, her fingerprints were found on the weapon, but we will show plausible explanations for that, as well. We will challenge every piece of evidence, demonstrating how it fails to conclusively prove her guilt.
“Finally, ladies and gentlemen, I remind you of the cornerstone of our justice system: the presumption of innocence. Olivia Taylor is innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. If there is any shred of doubt in your minds, any uncertainty about the prosecution’s narrative, then you must return a verdict of not guilty.
“At the end of this trial, we will ask you to see the truth—that Olivia Taylor did not commit this crime. She is a victim of circumstance, caught in a web of suspicion, but not a murderer. Thank you.”
Colton sat by my side and squeezed my forearm in a quick gesture of support. But I wasn’t paying attention. My eyes were riveted on the jurors. After Colton’s opening statement, only three had adopted a more neutral expression on their faces. Only three were willing to consider my innocence.
Out of twelve.
45
Witnesses
Before leaving the courtroom, someone from the prosecution—a sharp-suited woman—had dropped a package on our table. A cardboard box tied with string. “Final discovery,” she’d said, winking at Colton before walking away on three-inch heels.
Colton hadn’t reacted to her wink. Did they know each other? Or had she just been flirting with the handsome litigator? With so many people around, I hadn’t asked. Moments later, after cutting through the mob of reporters, he’d driven us home, silent and grim, stoking my fears. Had something changed?
At home, I followed Colton into the dining room. He opened the box, pulling out a brown envelope labeledWitness List, and two stacks of DVDs markedMall SecurityandHotel Security. With a frustrated groan, he pushed the box aside. “This is how you do it,” he said bitterly. “You give the defense evidence at the last minute.” He stared at the wall. “It’s tens of hours of video.”
“I’ll help,” Billy Ray said, already out of the suit he’d borrowed from Colton and putting on his apron and ballcap. “Just get me something I can watch them on, and tell me what to look for.”
“Good,” Colton said, taking out his phone.
“I’ll take the Miracle Mile videos,” I offered, eager to follow Claire’s moves through that mall and match them against the time codes of the hotel security placing her at Winston’s door.
