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I push harder. I forget he’s my brother, forget we’re meant to be on the same side. It’s like he’s a key opposition witness and I’m going for the jugular. I need to stop this. I’ve got the answers I came for. But I can’t bear the idea that family members don’t think I’m worthy of their confidence.
“That’s not the whole story, is it? That might have been the last straw, but something else had already left you drained.”
“No, it’s not the whole story. But once again, I did not kill Niall Thorner or have any involvement, direct or indirect, with his death. The reason I was weak had nothing to do with any of that and it’s none of your business. Are we done now?”
“I release you,” I say, all scripted solemnity again now. “I thank you for your answers and sever the connection to your mind.”
I wrench my hands away from Bren’s face like they’re about to be burnt off.
We open our eyes at the same time.
“So, are you satisfied?” Bren asks, his head and shoulders slumping down.
I press my hands to my own face. “I’m sorry, Bren.”
He takes a long, deep inhale and then exhales even more slowly. It’s a perfect mirror image of the way I breathe when I’m determined to calm myself down. Something Nan taught us both. “It’s okay. I can understand why you did it. Just promise me you’ll believe me now? That you’ll stop asking me if I did it? And that you’ll never do that again?”
I nod rapidly. “I promise. Anyway, forget all that. I know the truth for sure now, and I need to defend you. Gabriel can’t merely be mistaken, and you clearly didn’t do it. So the next step is to cross-examine the hell out of that bastard. Prove he’s setting you up.”
It’s only when I leave Bren that I think to wonder what on earth Becca’s claims were all about. I push the thought away. I need to concentrate on Gabriel, and I can afford no distractions.
* * *
When the lunchbreak ends, I drag myself back into the courtroom. I honestly can’t remember ever being more nervous about anything. I never normally bite my nails, but I’ve chewed them down to stubs and torn my lips to shreds, too.
I’ve cross-examined literally hundreds of people over the course of my career. I’ve had witnesses who were vicious and threatening, and I’ve not been scared. I’ve had others who were vulnerable and terrified, and though I’ve never been deliberately cruel, I’ve not gone easy on them. I’ve never taken those with a weak story for granted or been fazed by those whose credible and carefully rehearsed testimony didn’t suit my client’s case. I’m passionate about what I do, but at the end of the day, it’s always just been a job.
I’ve worried all along that this case would be too personal, that I wouldn’t be able to stay professional in the face of my worries about my brother. Against the odds, I’ve held it together. But I don’t know the meaning of the word ‘personal’ until I’m face to face with Gabriel Thornber in court.
He gazes straight at me, his eyes locked on mine. I expect a facetious or flirtatious remark, but he’s still playing the role of the perfect witness.
I glance down at my notes and think about my various possible lines of questioning. His relationship with his father. His bad character. How Bren supposedly got in—and then out again—so easily. How he knew Brendan and was so sure he was the intruder.
Gabriel is a polished speaker with a compelling story that tallies with other people’s accounts of the evening. But there are no other eyewitnesses or anyone who can even confirm he was at the scene. I’ve picked holes in equally believable evidence before.
The thing about a bargain is that it cuts both ways.
I can’t seem to find my voice. This must be what stage fright feels like.
It wasn’t a spur of the moment decision to take you back with me that night. It was half the point of the evening.
He’s staring at me expectantly. For all I know, the rest of the court could have got up and left.
Just stay awake. Let your magic flow through you. Let it heal you. Let it grow again.
We can pretend to be an anonymous witness and a detached lawyer all we want. That strange, surging connection is as present as it was when he unleashed the Greenfire or provoked me into burning through my magic at the casino. I can’t do this.
“Ms Elner.” The judge gives me a stern look. “Do you have any questions for the witness?”
I grind my heels down into the floor and gather every ounce of self-control I possess into a tight little ball. “How do you know the defendant, Mr Thornber?”
He smiles. He looks terribly amused. He’s probably going to look amused for the entirety of the cross-examination.
“We’re the same age. Grew up in the same small town. Moved in the same overlapping circles. Our fathers had similar business interests—sometimes complementary, sometimes competitive. And as I mentioned—a few years ago, I had a thing with his sister.”
I ought to pursue that blatant untruth, but if I’m going to manage to speak at all, I need to stay on safer topics.
“How was your relationship with your father?” My voice trembles a little, even with the relatively innocuous question.
