Chapter 10 #2
Rodriguez takes me through the beginning—how I came to interview an inmate at the state prison. Research for a book, I tell the jury. The man was serving life for a murder they could prove. He liked to talk. Liked having an audience.
"And what did this inmate tell you during your visit?"
"He told me about other jobs he'd done. Jobs no one knew about." I keep my voice steady. "Three murders. He described them in detail—who ordered them, how he carried them out, how he was paid. He named Anthony Venetti as the man who hired him."
"Did you document this conversation?"
"I wrote down everything he said during the interview. Word for word, as close as I could get it."
Rodriguez holds up a stack of pages. "Are these the notes you took?"
"Yes."
"And is this your handwriting?"
"Yes."
"What did you do after the interview?"
"I went straight to Detective Carver."
"Why Detective Carver specifically?"
"We've had a professional relationship for a few years. I write thrillers—he's been a source to help me get details correct." I glance at him in the gallery. "When I realized what I had, he was the first person I thought to call."
"And what happened when you brought this information to him?"
"He'd been working a cold case for years—one of the murders the hitman described. The details matched. Things only the killer would know."
Rodriguez enters my notes into evidence.
Then she gets to the safe house.
"After you came forward with this information, were you placed in protective custody?"
"Yes."
"And when was the defendant informed of your identity as a witness?"
"When discovery was released. About two months ago."
"What happened after that?"
"I was moved to a safe location. And while there, the house was hit."
"Can you describe what happened the night of the hit?"
I can. I don't want to. But I can.
"Two officers were assigned to guard me—a uniformed officer and Detective Daniels." My voice doesn't shake. I won't let it. "I woke up to gunfire. Glass breaking. The uniformed officer went down in the first seconds. Detective Daniels took a bullet trying to hold them off."
The courtroom is silent. Every eye on me.
"I ran. Out a back window, into the dark. I hid until backup arrived." I stop. Swallow. "I don't know how long. It felt like hours."
"Can you describe the injuries you sustained?"
"Cuts from the glass. A bullet grazed my shoulder—ricocheted off something. I didn't even know I was hit until after."
Rodriguez pauses. Lets it land.
"No further questions."
The defense attorney stands for cross-examination. I've written this guy in three different books. The shark in a good suit.
"Ms. Cross, you're a thriller writer, correct? Someone who makes up stories for a living?"
"I write fiction, yes."
"And isn't it true this case has generated significant media attention? Attention that could benefit your book sales?"
"I haven't worked on anything for publication since the attack."
"But you could. A book about this case would sell quite well, wouldn't it?"
I don't take the bait. "I wouldn't know."
He shifts tactics. "These notes you claim to have taken—we only have your word that they're accurate. No recording. No other witness present during that interview."
"The details I documented matched Detective Carver's cold case. Things only the killer would know."
"Or things a skilled fiction writer could research and fabricate."
I look at him. Look through him.
"I didn't fabricate anything."
"This inmate you interviewed—he's a convicted murderer, isn't he? A man who kills for money?"
"Yes."
"Isn't it possible he was lying to you? Making up stories to impress a pretty writer?"
"He wasn't trying to impress me. He was bragging. There's a difference."
"You've been in hiding for months, is that correct? Living in undisclosed locations under significant psychological stress?"
"Yes."
"Jumping at shadows. Unable to sleep. Afraid for your life."
"Yes."
"And during this time, you had no access to your notes. No way to review what you'd originally written down."
"That's correct."
"So what we have here is a woman who, by her own admission, has spent two months in a state of extreme psychological distress—" He pauses, lets it land. "—now asking this jury to trust her memory of a conversation that happened over a year ago."
Something cold slides down my spine.
"Isn't it possible, Ms. Cross, that your mind has... filled in gaps? Created details that feel true but aren't? That trauma has done what trauma does—distorted your perception of events?"
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against my thighs where no one can see.
What if he's right?
The thought comes from nowhere. Or maybe it's been waiting there all along, curled up in the dark.
What if you made it all up? What if you're as broken as they're saying you are?
The courtroom is too quiet. Everyone watching. The jury. Venetti with his cold eyes. Rodriguez, whose whole case rests on my word.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
You're broken. You're unreliable. You're—
And then I hear him.
Not the words he used to push me away. Not the lies he told to make me leave. The other thing. The true thing. The night I woke up screaming and he didn't flinch, didn't pull back, just held me until I could breathe again.
You're not broken, Eden. You're surviving. And surviving looks ugly as hell from the inside.
My spine straightens. My hands go still.
The defense attorney is waiting. Confident. He thinks he has me.
"Ms. Cross? Do you need me to repeat the question?"
"No." My voice comes out steady. Quiet. "I heard you."
I look at him.
"You're asking if trauma affected my memory. The answer is yes. It did." I pause. Let the jury shift uncomfortably. "Trauma made my memory sharper. Because when you're trying to survive, you remember everything. Every detail. Every sound. Every word. You don't get the luxury of forgetting."
The attorney's mouth tightens.
"That's not—"
"I remember what that man told me in the prison.
I remember the names, the dates, the way he smiled when he described what he'd done.
And I remember what Venetti's men looked like when they came to kill me.
" I hold his gaze. "My memory is fine. It's the one thing I have left that no one gets to take from me. "
Silence.
Somewhere in the gallery, someone exhales.
The defense attorney looks at his notes. Shuffles them. Regroups.
He changes angle. "You stand to benefit financially from this case, don't you, Ms. Cross? Book deals? Media appearances?"
I meet his eyes.
"I stand to benefit from not being murdered. That's been my primary concern."
Someone in the gallery coughs. Almost a laugh.
"No further questions."
I step down. My legs are shaking. I keep walking.
Carver catches my eye from the gallery and nods.
Rodriguez approaches. "That was exactly what we needed. Jury's going to deliberate now. Could be hours."
"I'm done, right? Legally?"
She blinks. "You don't want to stay for the verdict?"
"I did my part." I'm already looking toward the door. "I need to go."
Rodriguez studies me for a moment. "We'll call you when we have a verdict."
I nod. Walk out of the courtroom without looking back.
Ash is in the hallway, leaning against the wall. He straightens when he sees me.
"That was fast."
"I'm done. I want to go home."
He doesn't ask questions. Just nods. "I'll get Maya."
The drive takes forty minutes. Maya sits in the back with me. Ash drives, one hand on the wheel, the other on his phone. Texting. The whole drive.
I watch his thumbs move across the screen and wonder what he's saying. She testified. She's out. Heading to her place now.
I wonder if Diesel is on the other end. If he's reading every update. If he cares.
I close my eyes and lean my head against the window.
When we pull up to my building, it looks the same. Of course it does. Two months. Eight weeks at the safe house, jumping at every sound. Eight days at the cottage, learning what it felt like to be safe. And now I'm back where I started.
Maya helps me open windows while Ash checks the locks. The place smells stale—dust and old air.
"Fridge is empty," Maya calls from the kitchen. "We can stop for groceries if you want."
"I'll order something later."
My phone is where I left it—on the counter, dead for two months. Ash plugs it in while I stand in the middle of my living room, trying to remember how to exist in this space.
The phone lights up. Starts buzzing with two months of missed notifications.
I ignore it.
"Jury could take hours," Maya says. "We'll wait with you."
So we wait.
Maya makes tea I don't drink. Ash checks the windows, the locks, the street below. I sit on my couch and stare at the wall and try not to think about the last time I sat still in a room, waiting.
He was there. Cooking something. Humming off-key.
I close my eyes.
The light shifts. Afternoon bleeds toward evening.
My phone rings.
I grab it so fast I nearly knock it off the coffee table—then hate myself for hoping, even for a second, that it might be him.
Rodriguez.
"You did it, Eden. Guilty on all counts."
I wait for the relief. The triumph. Something.
"He can appeal, but no judge is going to overturn after seeing the evidence. Plus that inmate you interviewed? He took a deal. Agreed to testify in exchange for moving to a lower-security facility." A pause. "Venetti's going away for a very long time. Good work."
"Thank you."
"It's over. We'll handle the rest."
I hang up. Maya and Ash are watching me.
"Guilty," I say.
Maya's face breaks into a smile. Ash lets out a breath.
I should feel something. A year of my life wrapped up in this case, and it's finally over. The running, the hiding, the fear—all of it for this moment.
I feel nothing.
"We should celebrate," Maya says. "Get dinner, at least."
"I just want to sleep."
She and Ash exchange a look.
"We can stay," Maya offers. "Or Ash can get a hotel room and I'll sleep on the couch. If you'd feel better."
"No." I try to smile. It doesn't quite work. "I'm fine. I have to start living on my own again someday."
"Eden—"
"Besides, Carver already asked to meet for breakfast tomorrow. Wants to debrief, go over next steps. And my agent's left about thirty voicemails." I shrug. "I won't be alone."
Maya doesn't look convinced. Neither does Ash.
At the door, Ash stops. Looks back at me. For a second I think he's going to say something—about Diesel, about why he's really here, about the man who fought to make sure I wouldn't face this alone.
He doesn't. Just nods once. But his eyes say it: I'm here because he can't be.
I nod back.
Then they're gone.
The door closes behind them. The lock clicks. Silence.
I stand in the middle of my apartment and wait to feel something.
Nothing comes.
A minute later my phone buzzes with a text. Hope builds again.
CARVER: Proud of you, kid. Get some rest. See you tomorrow. 9am, the diner on Peachtree.
Not Diesel.
Of course not Diesel.
I stare at the message. Then I power the phone off. If I leave it on, I'll spend all night waiting for a text that isn't coming. Jumping every time it buzzes. Hoping.
I can't do that to myself.
I make it three steps toward the bedroom before my knees give out.
The floor is cold against my palms. I don't care. I'm crying—not the manageable kind, not the kind I can control.
He let me go.
I won. Venetti is going to prison.
He let me go. He watched me leave and he didn't stop me. He said what we had couldn't survive out there and then he made sure it couldn't.
"You told me some things have to break before they can be fixed."
I threw his own words back at him. Asked if he was breaking me to fix me, or breaking us to fix himself.
He didn't answer.
This isn't fixing. This is staying broken.
I cry until there's nothing left. Until my throat is raw and the light from the window has gone.
Then I pull myself off the floor. One limb at a time.
I don't turn on lights. Don't unpack. Don't shower. Don't eat. The phone stays on the counter, dark and silent.
I find my bedroom. Fall into sheets that don't smell like him.
The bed is wrong. Too wide, too empty. No arms to hold me. No heartbeat under my ear. No rumble of his voice in the dark.
I close my eyes.
I don't feel free. I feel scraped clean of everything I thought I was building.
But I'm tired. God, I'm tired. Two months of running, of fear, of falling in love with someone who decided loving him would destroy me—it's all crashing down now. The adrenaline and anger are gone. There's nothing left but exhaustion.
I sleep.
I sleep because there's nothing else to do.