Chapter Twenty-Five
Simon
“Dr. Wallace, defense counsel asked whether the evidence was consistent with the defendant intervening to stop an assault. Forensic evidence can be consistent with more than one scenario, correct?” Rosalind asked.
“Yes.”
“Does the physical evidence tell you why the stabbing occurred?”
“No,” Dr. Wallace confirmed.
“It does not tell you what the defendant was thinking. Is that correct?”
“That is correct.”
“And it does not establish whether the force used was necessary, excessive, or justified. Correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“The victim sustained multiple stab wounds to the back?”
“Yes.”
“Including wounds delivered after the first incapacitating injury?”
“Possibly,” Dr. Wallace answered.
“And repeated stab wounds to the back can also be consistent with an intentional homicidal assault. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Dr. Wallace. No further questions.”
By the time Rosalind called her third witness, the frustration was written all over her.
Her jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle working beneath her skin.
She moved with sharp, jerky motions as she gathered her files, her earlier grace replaced by something harder, more brittle.
She wasn’t taking notes anymore; hadn’t been for the last ten minutes of redirect.
Her pen sat abandoned on the prosecution table.
I watched her eyes scan the jury box, and I saw the moment she realized what I already knew: they didn’t believe her.
Not really. Tony’s narrative had taken root.
The jury had seen the evidence through his lens now.
A protective brother, not a jealous killer.
Her redirect had been technically sound, but it felt like she was trying to convince them of something they’d already rejected.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she stood, and there was no warmth in her expression anymore. The calculated smile was gone. This was a woman who’d expected to win, and the trial was slipping through her fingers.
“The State calls Mrs. Diane Fletcher.”
Mrs. Fletcher was Alan’s neighbor. A woman in her sixties with carefully styled hair and a floral dress. She looked nervous as she took the stand.
Rosalind’s smile was warm, reassuring.
“Mrs. Fletcher, can you please tell the jury where you live?”
“I live at 1249 Oakwood Drive. Right next door to Alan Sanders’ house.”
“And were you home on the night of March 4th?”
“Yes. I was watching TV in my living room.”
“Did you hear anything unusual that night?”
“Yes. Around 3:00 in the morning, I heard voices. Angry voices.”
“Could you tell what they were saying?”
“No. But they were loud. Shouting.”
“Could you identify who was shouting?”
Mrs. Fletcher hesitated. “No. I couldn’t make out the words.”
“But you heard angry voices coming from Alan Sanders’ house?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. No further questions.”
Tony stood.
He didn’t button his jacket this time.
He just walked toward Mrs. Fletcher with his hands in his pockets, his expression calm and almost friendly.
“Mrs. Fletcher, you testified that you heard angry voices around 3:00 AM. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you were inside your house at the time.”
“Yes.”
“With the TV on.”
“Yes.”
“What were you watching?”
Mrs. Fletcher blinked. “I... I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember what you were watching, but you remember being awake at 3:00 AM and hearing voices from next door.”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, did you know Mr. Sanders’ girlfriend?”
“Yes. I... I saw her around sometimes.”
“And you knew her name?”
“I think it was Sadie. Or something like that.”
“So when you heard these angry voices at 3:00 AM, you were aware that Mr. Sanders lived with a woman?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, had you heard shouting or yelling coming from Alan Sanders’ house on other occasions?”
Mrs. Fletcher’s face flushed slightly. “Yes. A few times.”
“A few times. Can you be more specific?”
“I... many times over the past year. Late at night. Voices raised. Angry.”
“And in those previous instances, did you ever call the police?”
“No. I didn’t think it was my place.”
“But you heard enough to recognize it as conflict? Enough to notice a pattern?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. No further questions.”
I watched Tony return to the table, and something tightened in my chest.
He was destroying Rosalind’s case.
Piece by piece.
Witness by witness.
And he was doing it with the kind of precision and control that made my pulse race.
I’d always known Tony was smart.
But watching him work, watching him dismantle the prosecution’s narrative with nothing but relentless questioning, was something else entirely.
It was fucking intoxicating.
The way he moved.
The way he spoke.
The way he commanded the room without raising his voice.
I wanted him.
God, I wanted him so badly I could barely sit still.
Rosalind stood again, and I could see the tension in her shoulders.
“The State calls forensic psychologist Dr. Marcus Webb.”
Dr. Webb was a man in his forties with wire-rimmed glasses and a calm, professional demeanor. He took the stand and was sworn in. Rosalind moved out from behind the table and sauntered toward the witness.
“Dr. Webb, can you please describe your area of expertise?”
“I specialize in criminal psychology, particularly the psychological profiles of individuals who commit violent crimes.”
“Have you reviewed the evidence in this case?”
“Yes, I have.”
“And in your professional opinion, is the defendant’s behavior consistent with someone who committed a crime of passion?”
Dr. Webb nodded. “Yes. The lack of premeditation, the emotional volatility, and the immediate confession are all consistent with a crime driven by intense emotion. Jealousy, rage, shame.”
I felt the jury’s eyes on me again.
Rosalind smiled.
“Thank you, Dr. Webb. No further questions.”
Tony stood. And this time, there was something different in his expression. Something sharp.
“Dr. Webb,” Tony began, his voice calm. “You testified that Mr. Nelson’s behavior is consistent with a crime of passion. That term can include a range of emotional responses, correct?
Dr. Webb hesitated. “Yes. It generally refers to an emotionally driven, impulsive act rather than a premeditated one.”
“And one possible emotional trigger for an impulsive act could be witnessing a violent attack on a family member?”
“Yes, that could be a triggering circumstance for some individuals.”
“In your professional experience, how do individuals typically respond psychologically when they perceive an immediate threat to a close family member?”
Dr. Webb nodded slowly. “There can be a range of responses, including heightened arousal, fear, anger, and sometimes impulsive or reactive behavior.”
“Would that kind of perceived threat sometimes result in immediate, unplanned intervention?”
“Yes, it can.”
Tony walked closer to the stand.
“And in those situations, the individual’s actions are often driven by the perception of danger in the moment, rather than careful reflection?”
“That is often the case, yes.”
“Now, Dr. Webb, you are not a forensic pathologist, correct?”
Dr. Webb met his eyes. “Correct.”
“So your evaluation does not involve determining wound patterns, blood transfer, or the physical mechanics of the incident?”
“No, it does not.”
“And based on that, a scenario in which a person perceives a violent attack on a sibling could be consistent with a reactive or defensive psychological response?”
Dr. Webb hesitated only briefly. “Yes, that would be consistent with such a response.”
“And that type of response could include immediate, emotionally driven actions taken in the moment?”
“Yes,” Dr. Webb admitted. “That scenario is consistent with all of the evidence presented.”
“Thank you. No further questions.”
“We’ll adjourn for the day,” Uncle Alex announced. “Court will reconvene tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM, and the prosecution will continue presenting its case.”
The gavel came down.
I sat frozen as the courtroom began to empty. Tony gathered his files, his movements steady, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set. He’d just eviscerated the prosecution’s case, and I’d watched every second of it.
My parents stood, and Mom leaned down to kiss my cheek. “We’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”
Dad squeezed my shoulder. “You’re doing great, son.”
Sadie hugged me briefly, her arms tight around my neck. “Thank you,” she whispered.
And then they were gone.
The Silver Shadows filed out. Grace gave me a small smile as she passed. King nodded at Tony. And then it was just us, Tony and me, alone in the courtroom. He looked at me, and something passed between us. Something electric. Something desperate. “Let’s go,” he said quietly.
We walked through the courthouse hallways in silence, past reporters shouting questions, past people staring, past all of it.
Tony’s hand was on the small of my back the whole way, guiding me, protecting me.
We reached his SUV, and he unlocked it without a word.
We climbed in. He started the engine. And we drove.
I couldn’t sit still. My hands were shaking.
My pulse was racing. I watched Tony drive.
Watched his hands on the wheel, the way his fingers gripped the leather.
Watched the line of his jaw, the way his throat moved when he swallowed.
I watched the way his eyes stayed focused on the road, but I could see the tension in every line of his body.
He fought for me today. He’d stood in front of a courtroom full of people and fought for me with everything he had. And I wanted him so badly I thought I might come apart. “Tony,” I whispered.
His hands tightened on the wheel. “Not yet.”
“Tony—”
“Not. Yet.”
But his voice was rough, strained. He wanted this too.
We pulled into my driveway, and Tony turned off the engine. For a moment, neither of us moved. And then I was reaching for him, my hand on his thigh, my breath coming fast. “Simon—”
“I need you,” I said, my voice breaking. “I need you right now.”
Tony’s eyes closed. And then he was moving. He was out of the vehicle, around to my side, pulling open the door. His hands were on me, and I could feel the restraint he was exercising. The careful way he was holding back everything he wanted to do to me now that we were finally, finally alone.
We walked to the front door, and I fumbled with my keys, my hands shaking so badly I could barely get the damn thing in the lock. Tony stood behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, but he didn’t touch me. His jaw was clenched. His breathing was controlled.
“Easy,” he said quietly, his voice tight with the effort of holding back.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
And the moment we crossed the threshold, the moment the door slammed shut behind us, everything changed.
My control shattered.
I turned around, my hands gripping his face, and my mouth was on his, desperate and consuming.
All the restraint from the drive and the walk suddenly unleashed.
He spun us around and his body pressed me against the closed door.
I gasped into his kiss as his hands moved down my sides, pulling me closer, claiming me now that we were home.