Chapter 45 Maya
MAYA
The courtroom felt smaller than it was.
No, it wasn’t the walls. They hadn’t closed in. But something had. The weight in the air, maybe, squeezed between justice and whatever twisted version of it the prosecution was determined to sell.
Across the aisle, David Belrose and his entourage sat in grim symmetry, their backs too straight, their smiles a touch too smug.
His wife wore the expression of someone seated next to a dumpster, while Annamaria perched like a spoiled heiress mid-pageant, her glee thinly veiled beneath a performance of bored elegance.
They thought they’d already won.
But Buffaloberry Hill had come.
Elia and Claire sat front and center, his arm protectively across her shoulders, her fingers gripped in his. Logan was here too, arms crossed and stone-faced, and next to him was Mrs. Appleby.
Sheryn and Nick flanked Hank, who’d shown up in a collared shirt for the first time in years. Behind them were the ranch hands. And even some customers of Butterberry Oven. One by one, every familiar face I thought might flinch at the scandal had shown up and said, Not today.
Still, it was Noah I sought.
He was seated directly behind the defense table, close enough to touch, but far enough to keep from being a distraction. But he was mine. My tether.
He caught my eye and nodded once. You’ve got this. It was written in the burn in his gaze and in the way he leaned forward, as though he’d take the hit if the world came for me again.
Then, just beneath that fire, was a quick flick of his attention to Dom. A silent warning. Don’t screw this up.
And Dom knew it.
Because despite all his brilliance, despite the sleepless nights and caffeine-fueled warpath he’d been on, he still hadn’t cracked it.
There was still no hard proof that Annamaria had undergone surgery at that clinic.
No records. No confirmation. Just an email thread and a phone full of mirrors she’d avoided for a reason.
Time hadn’t been kind to us.
The trial came quicker than it should have, and the prosecution was smug and cocky.
Detective Harlow took the stand. His posture broadcast confidence, with the lift of his chin and the easy drape of one arm over the witness box rail.
The prosecutor barely needed to lift a finger. Harlow delivered everything on a silver platter. Details about the RF equipment, how the Belrose mansion’s alarm system had been breached using similar technology, and the recorded power anomalies during the exact window I was allegedly inside.
Noah caught my eye from the gallery, his hand resting over his heart, his fingers curling.
As bleak as things felt, this was nothing like my first trial over four years ago.
Even with hope thinning, I wasn’t alone.
The town I’d come to call home was behind me, and I had the love of a man who never faltered, who’d married me without conditions, for life.
Dom rose to cross. He moved with purpose. He buttoned his jacket and adjusted his cuffs, as if that alone would swat away the arrogance in the air. His voice was calm, and it carried across the room.
“Detective,” he began, “you stated that the power anomaly in the house during the alleged time of the burglary lines up with what you believe to be a disabling of the system?”
“Yes,” Harlow replied.
“And that this disruption could’ve been triggered by an external RF source?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re also aware the home in question was originally built near the turn of the century and, aside from a renovation in the 1970s, hasn’t had a comprehensive electrical update since?”
“That’s correct.”
“So, in theory,” Dom said, walking a slow loop, “a power surge, natural or otherwise, could’ve caused the same anomaly?”
“Yes. That’s possible,” he said, easing back from the mic just slightly.
Dom tilted his head as if he was just warming up. “Interesting. Let’s talk about motive. You visited my client in Buffaloberry Hill and questioned her during dinner about a burglary you later said took place in July, yet you brought up a completely different date. September thirtieth. Why?”
“It was an error,” Harlow said flatly.
Dom raised a brow. “That’s a pretty big oversight, don’t you think? Nearly a three-month gap?”
“Mistakes happen, Mr. Powell. I was misinformed.”
Dom offered a bland smile. “And that informant was a man in a ski mask threatening my client?”
“Objection,” the prosecutor snapped. “Hearsay!”
Dom kept walking when he said, “Withdrawn.” Then his next question landed. “Have you located the necklace, detective?”
“No,” Harlow said.
“Was anyone physically harmed in this alleged incident?”
“No.”
“Unlike, say, an incident from nearly five years ago? One that involved Miss Annamaria Belrose and an alleged assault?”
“Objection. Relevance,” the prosecutor said.
“Sustained.”
“Withdrawn, Your Honor.” Dom paused just long enough for the silence to settle. “Final question. Did you, Detective, receive any form of compensation or incentive, financial or otherwise, from either David or Annamaria Belrose to pursue this case?”
“Objection!”
The judge’s voice was sharp now. “Sustained. Mr. Powell, consider yourself cautioned.”
So much for Dom knowing this judge. It hadn’t made a difference, at least not yet. Or maybe that’s exactly why he was on the case. He was the real deal, the kind of judge who couldn’t be swayed by anyone or anything.
“No further questions,” Dom said, adjusting his cuffs one more time as he returned to our table.
He sat down quietly beside me. I could see the glint of frustration in his eyes, but his posture remained controlled and professional. Brilliant. But the prosecution had thrown more punches than he’d expected.
And then it got worse.
A name was called. One that hadn’t been on the list.
Dom’s head jerked up, and his hand froze mid-note. He looked at the judge. “Your Honor, this witness wasn’t disclosed in pretrial.”
The judge adjusted his glasses. “It’s rebuttal testimony. Allowable.”
Dom looked at me, then over my shoulder at Noah. Noah didn’t move, but the heat rolling off him felt combustible.
There was nothing we could do.
A woman took the stand. She was in her mid-fifties, with neat hair and pearls too big for her neck. She had nervous hands, but her voice carried like she’d rehearsed it.
“I saw a woman walking alone down the edge of the road in Bridger Canyon. Wearing a red plaid shirt and jeans. Small build.”
The prosecutor lifted a printed photo. “And were the clothes you saw similar to these?”
“Yes,” the witness replied.
He turned toward the judge. “Your Honor, the prosecution offers this into evidence as Exhibit B, a recent photo of Maya Lucas taken at Buffaloberry’s town park.”
Once the judge gave a nod, the prosecutor handed the image to the bailiff, who carried it over to the jury box.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
That photo? It was me, strolling after doing errands. That witness? She’d really seen me. I’d gone to Bridger Canyon in the same clothes, parked far from where I ended up. I’d thought I was alone. Turns out, I’d been wrong.
When Dom stood for the cross, he began, “Did you see her face?”
“She wore a ski mask,” the woman replied primly. “That’s what thieves do.”
“Ma’am, did you see her get into the Belrose Mansion?”
“No.”
“So, just to confirm. You saw a figure walking in a shirt you think looked like this one”—he gestured at the photo—“but never saw her face, her car, or her destination?”
The woman hesitated. “It was suspicious.”
“Thank you. That’ll be all.”
Dom sat down, his every motion too careful to be calm.
But the damage was done.
The jury didn’t move, but something in their posture had shifted. Doubt had crept in.
Noah leaned forward behind me, close enough for the heat of him to graze my spine. “We’re not done,” he murmured. “Don’t let them shake you, Maya Lucas.”
My throat tightened. And I nodded, barely.
I wanted to believe him. I needed to. But something inside me had begun to tilt. Just a little, and enough to feel the edge of the fall waiting.