It was almost one thirty when I left the restroom, feeling a little more refreshed after the cold towel I’d held on my neck. Lack of sleep and overwhelming fear were wearing me out, leaving my emotions raw and my nerves frayed.
I was a mess, barely holding it together.
We had two more days left until closing statements, then deliberations, and no one knew how long that process would take. The general consensus was, the longer, the better. I had no idea how I would survive waiting on the life-or-death decision from twelve hostile strangers. Or hearing the verdict.
I stepped into the crowded corridor, searching for Colton and Billy Ray. I didn’t see them, but caught a glimpse of Jack staring at me from about ten yards away. He was talking to someone else, and immediately turned and left when he saw me looking at him. I rushed in that direction and ran into Colton.
“Where are you going?” he asked, glancing at me with concern.
“Did you see that guy?” I pointed at Jack’s disappearing silhouette. “Do you know him?”
Colton followed the direction of my finger, craning his neck to see better. “Who?”
“The one in the ... Never mind.” Jack was gone.
“Who is he?” Colton asked. “Someone I should be concerned with?”
“His name is Frank Holford, but I call him Jack. I heard he works for the DiMarco family as an enforcer or something, but I believe Avery Sinclair hired him to follow me.”
Colton gaped at me. “What are you talking about?”
I shrugged, flicking my gaze to the clock. The proceedings were about to resume. The air felt heavy around me, but I pushed through it. Might as well get it all out now. “Doesn’t matter. He was my stalker for a while. He’s gone now, or maybe he’s back. He told me I should get out of Vegas.”
“When? You spoke to him?” Colton’s hand flew to his forehead and started rubbing, his signature gesture of exasperation.
“Yeah,” I said, walking with him toward our courtroom. “I got angry because he was always there watching me, so I asked what he wanted. He told me I should get out of Vegas and never come back if I wanted to live.” I chuckled bitterly. “In retrospect, that was good advice.”
Colton appeared pale under the fluorescent lights. “So, you had a DiMarco enforcer give you a warning, and you didn’t think it was worth mentioning?” He slammed his briefcase on the defense table and sat down with a groan. “Damn it ... Sometimes I wonder if we have any chance to win this.”
His words sliced through me like a frozen blade. I sat and turned sideways to face him. “Why? Who is this guy? Why does he matter? I’m sure Avery sent him to screw with me.”
“We don’t know that!” he shouted, getting people’s attention—including that of Mitchell, who grinned. “I need to know if I’m about to step on a land mine.” He sent a text message just as the bailiff walked in.
“All rise!” the bailiff called. “The Honorable Judge Antunez presiding. Court is now in session.”
The jury was brought in, and then Colton called witness after witness to speak about my relationship with Winston.
Rose Crosswhite testified about how happy he used to be when I visited, and how much he must’ve cared about me to leave important business meetings to go wave running or horseback riding with me.
Lamar, Winston’s helicopter pilot, who’d flown us to Antelope Canyon, spoke about our demeanor together. When he said I must’ve been Winston’s soulmate, I had to wipe a tear from my eye under Colton’s unforgiving glare.
Then Andrew Preston, his best friend—a man I’d never met, but I recognized from some photos I’d seen in Winston’s home—spoke about how Winston had changed since he’d met me, and how much he’d loved me. This man had helped Winston pick the perfect engagement ring, and had discussed with him his divorce plans at length.
With every piece of testimony, I relived my relationship with Winston, the pain nestled inside my chest still raw and threatening to push out, to break the floodgates open. Colton also reeled from the testimonies, turning colder and angrier. Darkness engulfed him like a shroud, but he still carried on diligently like a good soldier.
I breathed easier when he called Maria, my next-door neighbor, to testify about my rental car being left out all night. I hoped whatever was bothering him would fade away.
Then he called Samantha Grimshaw, a retired LVMPD homicide detective. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who had seen a lot, though her hands shook slightly.
Colton approached the stand with a respectful nod. “Detective Grimshaw, you’ve worked on countless homicide cases. Could you tell the court about your experience with cases where a clear motive for murder was never found?”
Samantha leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering. “In my thirty years as a homicide detective, I’ve seen cases with clear motives—money, revenge, passion, drugs. But I’ve also worked on cases where the motive was elusive, hidden beneath layers of lies, fear, or madness. Sometimes the reason for killing is so deeply buried in the psyche of theperpetrator that it defies logic, leaving everyone scrambling for answers that may never come.”
The courtroom was silent, on edge. She continued, though, her voice growing more intense, as if drawing from unsolved cases that still haunted her.
“But just because a motive isn’t immediately apparent doesn’t mean the crime didn’t happen—or that someone else didn’t make it look like it happened differently than it actually did.” Her eyes veered to the jury, then back to Colton. “You’d be surprised how often people try to frame others for murder, either to cover their own tracks or to settle an old score. It’s a dirty game, but it’s been played as long as homicide existed.”
Colton took a step closer, his eyes on the jury for a moment. “And in your experience, Detective Grimshaw, how does framing someone for murder typically work? How can someone make an innocent person look guilty?”
