Chapter 48 Dom
DOM
Deborah Sinclair’s body was found three miles from where Autumn had seen Spears burying the bag, lying face down at the bottom of a ravine.
She was still dressed in the clothes she’d worn on her last hike.
No injuries marked her body except for those from the fall.
So much for Spears’ plan to stage it as an accident, just like what he’d tried to do to Autumn and me.
He denied having anything to do with it.
Deborah’s death was devastating, but part of me almost wished he had shot her. Because a bullet would’ve tied him to it. Spears had been carrying his gun when Autumn caught him trying to bury it with the bag. That detail had never sat right with me.
I believed Spears had used the gun on Deborah.
Maybe to scare her, maybe only grazing her.
A clean shot, in and out. After months of exposure to the elements, a shallow wound would’ve disappeared with the rest of her.
And out there, deep in the wilderness, the shooting could have happened anywhere.
The chance of finding the bullet was almost zero.
Thank God Sheriff Colton greenlit the retesting.
And thank God even more for Susan Nolan. We had enough evidence for the trial to move forward. And not just for Deborah’s disappearance, but her murder.
Today, the trial continued.
I wasn’t at the front, and I wasn’t cross-examining or hammering a witness. For once, I was just a spectator. But inside? I was pacing the floor, breaking apart arguments, and slamming objections, if only in my head.
Autumn gave me a tiny nudge. “Cool it, courtroom cowboy,” she whispered. “Let the man do his job.”
Just beyond the rail, Allan Spears sat hunched at the defense table, a crumpled version of the smug bastard who’d nearly taken Otter and me down for good.
His wife was behind him, wringing a tissue until it shredded. His brother, David Spears, the cleaner of the two, kept darting glances toward the exit like he was ready to bolt.
Across the aisle, Deborah Sinclair’s parents sat motionless, their hands clutched tightly. I didn’t need to look straight at them to feel their grief.
The judge had ordered a closed trial. So no cameras, no reporters, no circus. Just facts, evidence, and the long, cold road to justice.
Susan Nolan took the stand today.
I leaned forward before I caught myself, my muscles taut.
Even from back here, I watched the County Attorney the way a hawk watches the wind.
Every question mattered.
Every damn pause.
Susan adjusted the microphone, her voice carrying steadily through the courtroom.
“We extracted multiple samples from the soil residue found inside the bag,” she said. “Advanced spectral analysis confirmed organic material consistent with human blood.”
The County Attorney walked closer to the stand. “And what did further testing reveal?”
“We isolated a DNA profile. It matched Deborah Sinclair.”
Across the gallery, Deborah’s mother broke first with a gasp, then a shudder. Her husband gripped her tighter, folding around her like he could shield her from hearing it again. Sheriff Colton, sitting not far from them, stood quietly and helped steady them without a word.
The prosecutor nodded. “Were there any signs of contamination or mishandling?”
Susan’s response came fast. “No. Chain of custody remained intact from the moment the soil was collected to the final sequencing.”
My grip on the bench tightened. Come on, drive it home.
The prosecutor asked, “Is there any way Deborah Sinclair’s blood could have ended up in that bag by accident?”
“No,” Susan affirmed. “Both the soil and grass clippings recovered from the duffel showed clear compression patterns consistent with being pressed inside the bag by external objects, likely boots or heavy clothing. There were no signs of secondary transfer. In my professional opinion, the biological material entered the bag directly, not by contamination.”
Then, she paused briefly before adding, “It’s worth noting that one of the key witnesses observed the duffel appearing almost full at the time it was buried. That observation supports the compression patterns we documented.”
The prosecutor nodded. “And based on your findings, what’s the probability that the DNA recovered belonged to an unrelated individual?”
Susan answered without pause. “The probability of an unrelated person matching the recovered DNA profile is approximately one in seventeen billion.”
Across the room, Spears’ lawyer shifted, rattling papers in a weak attempt to look composed.
But it was already over. There was no contamination, no doubt, no escape.
It was a knife through the heart of Spears’ defense.
He had no answer, just tears, playing the same stress card like he was some fragile ornament who couldn’t bear to exist under a little pressure.
But this time, there was no manufactured sob story big enough to drown the evidence.
The judge called for a recess.
Autumn reached for my hand.
I didn’t even realize I’d been gripping the bench until she peeled my fingers loose.
“What do you think?” she murmured.
I kept my voice even when I said, “Prosecutor’s done his job.”
“You’d have done it differently,” she teased.
“Not my case to try, Otter.”
“Oh, you’re itching.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
She smiled and threaded her fingers through mine.
The jury didn’t take long. When they filed back, the courtroom held its breath.
Allan Spears: Guilty of the murder of Deborah Sinclair.
Deborah’s mother sobbed openly, and her father wrapped an arm around her shoulders, his eyes fixed on the man who’d taken their daughter.
Spears didn’t even look at them. Or at me. Or at Autumn.
But Autumn looked at him.
And though his stiff neck barely turned, I knew he felt it—the weight of what he’d done, the justice he couldn’t outrun.
Deborah’s mother found us.
She hugged Autumn like she’d been waiting her whole life for that embrace.
“She was everything to us,” she whispered. “Lulu knew something was wrong. She kept leading us back to the trail, but we were lost and hopeless to find our Debbie. It was fate the dog found you.”
“Lulu’s a smart girl,” Autumn said.
“She’s yours now,” Deborah’s mom murmured. “Thank you. For everything.”
We stepped out of the courthouse into the open lot, sunlight spilling across the cracked pavement.
Susan was already waiting near the curb, her bag slung over one shoulder.
“Susan Nolan,” I said, shaking her hand. “You killed it in there.”
She cocked a brow. “How’d it feel, sitting on the sidelines?”
“It sucked.”
“I’ll bet.” She gave a low laugh. “You looked like a trapped badger the whole time.”
I smirked. “The world doesn’t need me anymore. Not in a courtroom, anyway.”
“Pity.” She crossed her arms. “So, what’s next for Dominic Powell? Candle making? Organic beard oil?”
“Fishing shop,” I said. “Selling worms and shattered dreams.”
Susan snorted. “Failed cowboy to failed fisherman.”
“Appreciate the support, Nolan.”
Otter was right beside me, soaking it all in. Susan caught the look between us, and her grin tapered.
“Take care of her, Powell,” she said. “You screw this up, and even your fancy coin won’t buy you a second chance.”
Then she was off, cutting across the lot.
“I like her,” Autumn said, bumping my shoulder.
“It’s not easy to like her,” I muttered. “You must be special.”
She grinned. “You realize I’m still gonna roast you about her, right?”
I narrowed my eyes at her, but all I could do was pull her into a hug.
As we sauntered toward my truck, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the coin. It was scuffed, battered, and still with me.
I rolled it over my knuckles, letting it catch the light.
“You’re doing the thing again,” Autumn said.
“Can’t help it.”
“Did you do that before and after every case?”
“Every important one.”
“This one got under your skin, huh?” she nudged.
I flicked the coin into the air, caught it, and tucked it back into my pocket. “This one was everything.”
My eyes stayed on her. Yeah, it was. Because she was.