11. Rowan
ROWAN
“Ididn’t mean to kill him.”
“That’s the defence you’re going to use?”
The lecture hall has been rearranged into a rough imitation of a courtroom.
Desks are shoved into stiff, orderly rows. The podium at the front has been promoted to judge’s bench, elevated more by authority than design. A folding table has been dragged forward and propped up just enough to serve as a witness stand. Someone has taped a laminated sign to the front of it.
DEFENDANT
The sign is crooked, scuffed, and peeling at one corner. It’s clearly been reused for years.
I’m standing behind it.
My palms rest flat against the cheap plastic, steady. My pulse isn’t. I can feel it in my throat, in the backs of my knees, in the quiet space just behind my eyes where adrenaline hums like a live wire.
Professor Hale—no relation, unfortunately—paces in front of the room like a man spoiling for blood. His sleeves are rolled up, tie loosened, glasses shoved so far up his nose they’re one sharp gesture away from poking an eye out.
“So,” he says, voice rising, irritated. “Let me understand this correctly.”
I lift my chin.
“You are charged with the murder of your husband.”
“Yes.”
“And your defence,” he continues, incredulous now, “is what, exactly?”
I don’t hesitate. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”
The room reacts instantly. A ripple of sound—snorts, whispers, a sharp laugh from the back row. Someone mutters that’s rich. Angus Shear, seated at the prosecution table, grins like he’s just been handed a loaded gun.
Professor Hale stops pacing. He turns slowly toward me.
“That,” the professor argues, voice pitching higher, “is going to be your defence? That you didn’t mean to do it?”
“Yes.”
He scoffs, loud and theatrical. “Miss Hale, intent is the cornerstone of criminal liability. You don’t get to shrug your shoulders and say “oops” when a man ends up dead.”
I feel heat rise up my neck. It’s not exactly nerves. More like indignation.
“With respect,” I say, evenly, “intent is not the only cornerstone. Mens rea is contextual. So is causation.”
A few heads turn. Angus’s smile spreads.
Professor Hale’s eyes flash. “Oh, please. You poison your husband, he dies, and you want a jury to believe it was an accident?”
“I didn’t say accident,” I reply. “I said I didn’t mean to kill him.”
There’s a difference, and he knows it.
I lean forward, hands still flat on the stand. “By the end of this trial, I will have convinced everyone in this room that I lacked intent to kill, that the act itself does not meet the threshold for murder, and that the appropriate verdict is not guilty.”
Silence.
The professor stares at me like I’ve personally offended him.
For a moment, I think he’s going to shut it down. Fail me on the spot. Call it unrealistic, irresponsible, na?ve. He looks like he’d enjoy doing that. Instead, his lips thin.
“Fine,” he snaps. “Proceed. But don’t expect leniency when your argument collapses.”
I don’t smile, even though I know I’ve just scored the first point and put myself ahead of everyone else.
The prosecution begins with confidence and volume.
Angus Shear rises from his seat like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. He straightens his jacket, smooths a hand through his hair, flashes the room a grin that plays well at parties and terribly in court.
He’s going to make such a bad lawyer. Jerk.
“Miss Hale,” he steps closer. Too close. “Isn’t it true that your husband was abusive?”
“Yes.”
“And isn’t it also true that on the night of his death, you administered a substance to his drink?”
“Yes.”
“A substance known to be toxic in high doses?”
“Yes.”
A murmur ripples through the mock jury.
Angus pounces. “So you expect us to believe that this was all some tragic coincidence? That you just happened to poison your husband to death?”
I meet his eyes and hold them, letting the silence stretch for a few beats before I answer. Because suspense has a way of making things stick.
“No,” I say. “I expect you to believe that I intended to sedate him. Not kill him.”
He laughs. “That’s convenient.”
“It’s documented,” I reply. “The dosage aligns with non-lethal intent. The complication arose because of an underlying condition he never disclosed. A heart abnormality. One exacerbated by alcohol.”
I let that settle.
“There are real cases,” I continue, addressing the room now, not Angus.
“Women who administered substances meant to calm, to control, to survive another night—only for a variable they didn’t know existed to turn it fatal.
Jurors believed them. Courts acquitted them.
Not because they were saints, but because the law recognized the absence of intent. ”
The professor’s pen stills.
Angus shifts, recalibrating. “You’re saying you meant to drug your husband.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t see how that sounds?”
“I see how it sounds,” I say. “I also see how it holds up under scrutiny.”
A few students nod, understanding flickering across their faces. Others frown, brows knitting as they turn the idea over in their minds.
The laughter dies out.
What replaces it is better.
Thought. Recalibration. The subtle shift of perspectives being rearranged in real time. Which is exactly where I want them.
The back door to the auditorium opens.
Light floods in, harsh and sudden, slicing across the tiered seating. Heads turn. The moment fractures.
I lose my place mid-thought.
A man stands there, framed in the doorway, hands in his pockets. His coat is dark against the brightness behind him. His eyes scan the room before they land on me. My mouth goes dry.
Justin.
He doesn’t interrupt or move forward. He just observes, gaze intent, sharp, almost curious. Like this mock trial is anything but hypothetical.
I feel exposed in a way I didn’t a second ago.
“Miss Hale?” the professor snaps. “Answer the question.”
I blink. Refocus. Push him out of my head.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “I see how it sounds. That still doesn’t make it murder.”
Professor Hale calls a recess. The room erupts. Chairs scrape. Voices overlap. Angus is on me immediately, grinning again, hand hovering too close to my elbow.
“That was impressive,” he says. “We should grab a coffee and—”
“No.”
He laughs, clearly convinced I’m joking, and starts talking again. I don’t hear a single word—because the air around me suddenly feels tight, heavy, almost impossible to breathe through.
Justin is suddenly there.
Close enough that Angus notices when the air shifts.
“She said no,” Justin tells him.
Angus bristles. “The fuck, man… this is between—”
“Her,” Justin interrupts, eyes never leaving Angus, “and her time.”
The smile slides off Angus’s face. He steps back.
I don’t thank Justin. Instead, I grab my bag and move for the exit, fast enough that the strap bites into my shoulder.
The moment shifts the second I do—like a switch has been thrown—and suddenly I’m aware of every head turned in my direction.
Every whisper. Every pause that stretches just a fraction too long.
I hate it.
I hate the way attention clings. I hate the low murmur that rises as I pass, the way people lean toward one another as if I’m something worth dissecting. And I hate the looks from the other girls most of all. Because it’s not curiosity or interest. It’s derision.
I don’t have to guess what they’re thinking. I’ve seen that look before.
What’s so special about her?
I keep my head down and don’t slow until the doors swing open and cold air rushes in, sharp and clean. I step outside like I’m escaping a burning room.
Justin falls into step beside me without asking.
I don’t look at him. I just keep walking.
The quad stretches ahead of us, wet from the earlier rain, the stone paths dark and slick.
Students cross in clusters, laughing, arguing, oblivious.
It’s jarring how normal it all looks. Like nothing just happened.
Like I wasn’t standing on a makeshift witness stand ten minutes ago arguing the difference between intent and murder.
“Rowan,” Justin says calmly.
I keep walking.
“Rowan.”
I stop so abruptly he almost walks into me.
I turn then, finally, and the words come out sharper than I intend. “Who are you and what do you want from me?”
His expression doesn’t change.
I exhale, slow and controlled, because snapping at him won’t undo anything. “Why are you here?”
“I was curious.”
I scoff. “About a mock trial?”
“About you.”
There it is. Clean. Unembellished.
My core tightens. “That’s not reassuring.”
“No,” he agrees. “I don’t imagine it is.”
I start walking again, angling toward the far side of the quad where the trees press closer together and the stream of students thins to a trickle. The air shifts there—quieter, heavier, like the space itself is paying attention.
Justin matches my stride without trying. He keeps his hands in his pockets, posture loose, almost careless. The kind of ease that would have felt unremarkable on anyone else.
On him, it doesn’t.
On him, it’s intimidating. It makes him feel larger than the space he occupies, like he’s carrying his own gravity.
His closeness unsettles me. Not just because he’s there—but because I’m aware of him in a way that’s sharp and immediate, every sense tuned in his direction.
We pass beneath the first line of trees, the noise of the central quad dulling behind us. Fewer students cut through here. Fewer witnesses. I don’t like how aware I am of that.
“You argue like you’ve been cornered before.”
The words slide in under my defenses.
I slow despite myself. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t look at me. His gaze stays forward, posture loose, unbothered. “Not academically,” he adds. “Personally.”
“That’s a reach.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Another almost-smile ghosts at the edge of his mouth. It agitates me how close to the truth he is, and he doesn’t even know me.
I stop near the edge of the path where the ivy starts swallowing the stone walls of the older buildings. He stops too—but not immediately. He takes one more step, then turns, giving me space like he’s aware of how close is too close.
I exhale slowly through my nose, scanning the path behind him, the shadows between trees. My pulse ticks faster than it should.
“You keep showing up where I am,” I say carefully. “That makes this feel less like coincidence and more like intent.”
“And if I said coincidence,” he asks, “would you believe me?”
“No.”
A pause. Charged. Weighted.
“Good. I’d be disappointed if you did.”
Something hot and sharp flares in my chest—anger, mostly. Something else underneath it that I don’t want to name.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“To understand you.”
“That could mean a lot of things.”
“Then let me be clearer.” He tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle that refuses to be broken. “I’m not here because I’m curious,” he admits. “I’m here because you felt unfinished.”
The world seems to stutter.
Not a full stop—just a hitch, like time catching on something sharp. My breath snags halfway in, shallow and useless, and for a terrifying second I forget what I was about to say.
Unfinished.
The word settles low in my chest, heavy and invasive. It isn’t curiosity I hear in his voice. It’s certainty. Like he’s naming something I didn’t know could be seen from the outside.
I force my shoulders to stay loose, my expression neutral. Years of training snap into place—don’t react, don’t reveal, don’t give him anything he didn’t earn.
But my pulse has other ideas. It skids, stumbles, then starts racing, loud enough that I’m sure he can hear it.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I say, even as the ground beneath me feels less solid than it did a moment ago.
Because the worst part—the part that makes my skin prickle—isn’t that he said it.
It’s that some quiet, traitorous piece of me wonders if he’s right.
The silence stretches.
I should leave. I know I should. Every internal alarm is lit and screaming. But my feet stay planted, stubborn and traitorous.
“You were outside the law library,” I say. “The other day.”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t an accident.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“That’s creepy,” I tell him.
His expression shifts—not offended, yet not amused. “Is it?”
“You know it is.”
“Or is it just unfamiliar?” he counters. “You don’t want people to notice you. Yet, here we are.”
The words land too close to something raw.
I cross my arms, defensive. “I didn’t ask to be noticed.”
“Like I said… here we are.”
“Don’t come to my classes again,” I say.
He studies my face, then nods once. “Alright.”
Relief flickers—brief, unwarranted.
“Unless,” he adds, “you want me to.”
“I won’t.”
“I know.”
There it is again. That certainty. That calm, unnerving confidence.
I take a step back, breaking the invisible line between us. “You don’t know me.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I will.”
The words follow me as I turn away.
I don’t look back. I don’t need to. I can feel him watching until the trees swallow me whole.
And the worst part—the part I don’t admit even to myself—is that some dangerous, visceral piece of me already knows this isn’t the last time we will meet.