He freezes, then swears evenly under his breath. He blocks it, but it’s a sloppy move. I move my knight again. Another check.
“I hate it when you do that,” Elio mutters, dragging a hand over his jaw.
“What?” I ask lightly.
“Toy with me. You already have your endgame in sight. Finish it quickly and let me die with dignity.”
“Ah,” I draw out slowly. “But where’s the fun in that?”
“You’re a dick, Matteo,” my brother states, frustration flashing across his face as he’s forced to move his king.
I take another one of his pieces.
“Two moves,” I say.
“I know,” he mutters.
He studies the board anyway, stubborn. Searching for a way out that doesn’t exist. He continues to play, though. I respectthat. If it had been Raffaele, he would have flipped the board over and walked out of the room.
He shifts his bishop, a last attempt. It’s good, but not good enough. I capture the bishop, moving my knight into place.
“Checkmate.”
He groans, leaning back in his chair. “Almost had you, though.”
“No, you didn’t.”
I lean back as well, thinking over our conversation. Lindsay Beaumont is starting to feel like a wound festering beneath my skin. I need to cut her out. I don’t want this infection to spread to my heart. Or even worse, my head.
Now that would be fatal.
CHAPTER 6
Lindsay
“During the course of this trial, a lot of things will become clear,” I begin, my heels clacking against the tile floors as I walk up to the jury.
They’re quiet, attentive as their jobs require. And now it’s time for me to do my job.
“That the defendant, on the sixth day of November, 2026, purchased a .38 revolver from Gale’s Gun Shop. That five hours after the purchase of the gun, there was an altercation between the defendant and the victim. This altercation then led to the defendant pulling out the gun and shooting the victim in the chest. Three bullet wounds and the victim fell to the ground, dead. While the motive for the crime is still unclear, the evidence will show without a doubt, that the defendant, Gallard Pricket, shot and killed the victim, Carl Brown.”
I stop speaking for a moment, allowing those words to meet their mark and taking note of the reaction of the jury to my statements. The judge also pays attention from his seat, scribbling at intervals on a piece of paper.
“The prosecution will be presenting two videos as evidence during this trial. The first clearly showing the defendant makinghis purchase at the gun shop. And the second from outside the victim’s apartment building on the night of the murder. There you clearly see both the defendant and the victim having a scuffle, after which the defendant draws out his gun and unloads three bullets into the chest of Carl Brown, husband and father.
“We will also present three witnesses. One who heard the defendant say to the victim, ‘You are going to die for this,’ prior to opening fire. And two others who ran into the defendant in his haste to escape the crime scene. Like I said earlier, by the time this trial comes to an end, there will be no doubt in the mind of anyone here that the defendant shot and killed Carl Brown in a brutal fashion. We may not know the reason he did it, but we know that he did.”
With those words, I return to my seat. The defense counsel rises to her feet. She’s dressed sharply in a cream suit that contrasts nicely with her dark skin. Her hair is in a sleek bun. She’s calm, confident, and collected. I pay rapt attention as she makes the defense for her client.
She begins with an admission, which we had been anticipating. The video evidence makes it pretty clear that the defendant committed murder. I’d been expecting a guilty plea and a quick, seamless trial. What I hadn’t been expecting was a plea of self-defense.
My eyebrow arches as the counsel goes on a tangent about the victim’s abuse in the workplace and the frustration and fear it caused to most of his employees. She mentions witnesses who are ready to step forward to speak on the defendant’s behalf. She brings up the defendant’s pitiful home life, his struggle to raise a five-year-old daughter all on his own.
The defendant, for his part, looks contrite and regretful from his seat. He’s wearing a ratty T-shirt and jeans, dark brown hair shorn at the sides. He looks more like a victim than theperpetrator. I can tell the jury’s eating this shit up. My grip on the pen in my hand tightens.
There goes my simple, breezy trial. The court rises once the defense finishes their opening statement after adjourning till a date three weeks later.
I don’t waste any time sitting around. I get to my feet, walking out of the courtroom, Rachel is at my side in a flash.
