Chapter Twenty-Two
Simon
The courthouse hallway was packed.
I stood near the wall, my parents on either side of me, while Tony spoke in low tones with Nav a few feet away.
The Silver Shadows had shown up in force, King leading the way, and at least a dozen or so others.
They lined the hallway like sentries, their leather cuts and imposing presence, making it clear whose side they were on.
People from town milled around; some I recognized from the salon, others from the diner or the grocery store. Mrs. Patterson from the church gave me a small, encouraging smile. Beatrice Allen squeezed my hand as she passed.
The support should have made me feel better.
It didn’t.
Because none of them could change what was about to happen inside that courtroom.
“You okay, honey?” Mom asked, her hand resting on my arm.
I nodded, even though I wasn’t. My stomach was in knots, my hands clammy, my heart racing so fast I thought it might burst out of my chest.
“It’s going to be okay,” Dad said quietly. “Tony knows what he’s doing.”
I glanced at Tony, who was still deep in conversation with Nav, his expression focused, controlled, every inch the brilliant lawyer. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the strain in his jaw.
He was worried.
And if Tony was worried, I should be terrified.
The sound of heels clicking against the tile floor made me look up.
Rosalind Winthrop approached, her tailored suit immaculate, her expression calm and confident. She carried a leather briefcase in one hand and stopped a few feet away from us.
“Mr. Nelson,” she said, her voice smooth. “Mr. Gallagher.”
Tony turned, his eyes narrowing. “Ms. Winthrop.”
“I wanted to speak with you before we go inside,” Rosalind said, her gaze shifting to me. “One last time.”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Tony said flatly, moving to stand by my side.
My protector.
“I think there is.” Rosalind opened her briefcase and pulled out a document, holding it out toward me.
“This is my final offer. Murder in the second degree. Fifteen to twenty-five years, with no possibility of parole for a minimum of fifteen. You’ll be in your fifties before you see daylight again, Mr. Nelson. This is the only mercy I’m offering.”
I stared at the document, my throat tight.
Fifteen to twenty-five years.
Fifteen years minimum before I’d even be eligible for parole.
I’d be in my forties by then. Maybe older. My entire thirties, gone. The best years of my life locked away.
“No,” I said.
Rosalind’s expression didn’t change. “Mr. Nelson, I strongly encourage you to consider—”
“He said no,” Tony interrupted, his voice hard. “We’re going to trial.”
Rosalind’s gaze flicked to Tony, and something cold passed through her eyes. “You’re making a mistake, Mr. Gallagher. Both of you.”
“We’ll take our chances,” Tony said.
Rosalind slid the document back into her briefcase and snapped it shut. “Very well. I’ll see you inside.”
She smiled before turning and walking away, her heels clicking against the tile.
Mom’s hand tightened on my arm. “Simon—”
“I’m not taking a plea deal,” I said. “I’m not guilty of what she’s accusing me of.”
“But you confessed,” Dad said quietly.
“I know.” My voice cracked.
Tony stepped closer, his hand brushing against my lower back, a brief, grounding touch that no one else would notice. “We’re going to win this,” he said quietly. “Trust me.”
I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
But the fear in my chest wouldn’t let me.
The courtroom felt smaller than the last time I was here.
Rows of wooden benches filled the gallery, already packed with people. My parents sat directly behind me, with Sadie between them. The Silver Shadows filled the rest of the row and spilled into the one behind it. I could feel their presence like a wall at my back.
Tony sat beside me at the defense table, his briefcase open, documents spread out in front of him. He looked calm, composed, every inch the professional.
I felt like I was going to throw up.
Rosalind sat at the prosecution table across the aisle, her posture perfect, her expression serene. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t acknowledge me at all.
It was worse, somehow, than if she’d glared.
The door to the judge’s chambers opened, and the bailiff stepped forward.
“All rise,” he announced.
The room erupted in the sound of shuffling feet and rustling fabric as everyone stood.
Uncle Alex entered, his black robe flowing behind him, his expression stern and impartial. He took his seat at the bench and gestured for us to sit.
“Please be seated,” he said.
I sank into my chair, my hands gripping the edge of the seat.
Uncle Alex looked out over the courtroom, his gaze sweeping across the gallery before settling on the jury box.
Twelve people sat there. Twelve people who’d known me for years, some my whole life, who would decide my fate.
Some looked curious. Others looked bored.
A few looked uncomfortable, like they didn’t want to be here.
I didn’t blame them.
“Ms. Winthrop,” Uncle Alex said, his voice carrying through the room. “You may deliver your opening statement to the jury.”
Rosalind stood, smoothing her skirt, and walked toward the jury box.
She didn’t look at me.
She looked at them.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she began, her voice clear and confident. “Thank you for your service. I know this is not an easy task, but it is a necessary one. Today, you will hear a story. A story about jealousy, obsession, and rage.”
My stomach hit the floor.
“The defendant, Simon Nelson, is a hairdresser. He’s well-known in this community. Friendly. Outgoing. Openly gay.” She paused, letting the words hang in the air. “And he was very close to his sister, Mercedes Nelson. Some might say too close.”
Tony’s hand landed on my arm, his grip firm.
I forced myself to stay still.
“Alan Sanders was Mercedes’ boyfriend,” Rosalind continued. “By all accounts, he was a good man. Hardworking. Devoted. He loved Mercedes. And she loved him.”
My jaw clenched.
Liar.
“But Simon didn’t approve,” Rosalind said, her tone turning darker. “He didn’t like Alan. He didn’t like that his sister had chosen someone else. That she had moved on. That she belonged to someone else.”
Belonged?
My hands curled into fists under the table.
“The prosecution will show that Simon Nelson was obsessed with his sister,” Rosalind said, pacing slowly in front of the jury.
“That he couldn’t accept her relationship with Alan Sanders.
That he was jealous. Possessive. And when Alan proposed to Mercedes, when it became clear that she was going to leave Simon behind and start a life with Alan, Simon snapped. ”
I could feel the eyes of the jury on me.
Some of them were nodding.
No. No, no, no.
“On the night of March 4th, Simon Nelson went to Alan Sanders’ home,” Rosalind said. “And he stabbed him. Not once. Not twice. But eleven times.”
A murmur rippled through the gallery.
“Eleven times,” Rosalind repeated, her voice rising. “That is not self-defense. That is not an accident. That is rage. That is a man who lost control. A man who couldn’t accept that his sister had chosen someone else.”
Tony’s grip on my arm tightened.
I couldn’t breathe.
“The defense will try to tell you that Simon acted to protect his sister,” Rosalind said, turning to face the jury fully.
“They will try to paint Alan Sanders as a monster. But the evidence will show otherwise. The evidence will show that Simon Nelson is a man consumed by jealousy. A man who couldn’t accept that his sister was moving on.
A man who was so obsessed with control that he murdered the man his sister loved. ”
She paused, letting her words sink in.
“And I have to ask,” Rosalind said, her voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial.
“What if the real motivation was something darker? What if Simon couldn’t accept that his sister belonged to someone else?
What if his jealousy wasn’t just about losing her attention but about something. .. more?”
My blood ran cold.
She was implying...
“Simon Nelson is a gay man,” Rosalind said, her tone careful, measured.
“And there is nothing wrong with that. But what if his feelings toward his sister were... complicated? What if he resented her relationship with Alan not just because he was losing her, but because he couldn’t understand it? Because he was disgusted by it?”
I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t breathe.
She was twisting everything.
“Or perhaps,” Rosalind continued, “it was shame. Shame about his own identity. Shame that manifested as rage. Rage that he took out on Alan Sanders.”
“Objection,” Tony said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Counsel is speculating.”
“Sustained,” Uncle Alex said, though his tone was reluctant. “Ms. Winthrop, stick to the facts.”
Rosalind nodded, but the damage was done.
I could see it in the jury’s faces.
Some of them looked confused.
Others looked... convinced.
“The prosecution will prove,” Rosalind said, turning back to the jury, “that Simon Nelson had motive. He had opportunity. And he had the means. We will show you the evidence. The knife. The blood. The confession. And we will show you that Simon Nelson is guilty of murder.”
She walked back to her table and sat down, her expression calm.
The courtroom was silent.
I stared at the table in front of me, my vision blurring.
She’d just destroyed me.
In front of everyone.
In front of the jury.
In front of my parents.
She’d taken everything I was, everything I’d ever been, and twisted it into something ugly. Something shameful. Something monstrous.
And the worst part?
Some of them believed her.
I could feel it.
Tony’s hand was still on my arm, his grip grounding me, keeping me from falling apart.
But it wasn’t enough.
Because I’d just watched my life get torn apart in front of a room full of people I knew. People I thought knew me.
And I didn’t know if Tony could put it back together.