Chapter 2
Graham
The county courthouse loomed ahead of me, looking exactly like the kind of place built to intimidate—all solid stone and flawless symmetry. Every crisp line screamed order and judgment. It was beautiful in the way old things built to stand the test of time were.
A rush of warmth washed over me as I stepped inside the copper-gilded doors from the frigid afternoon air. It was already ungodly cold for the first days of November.
The security guard nodded in greeting as I slipped through the metal detectors. I’d been here countless times before, but as I strode up the white marble steps toward the courtrooms on the fourth level, my heart rate kicked up.
I shouldn’t have been nervous. This was like any other pretrial evidentiary hearing. I would take the stand, do my best to answer everything honestly, and await the ruling by the judge.
Except this wasn’t like every other time, no matter how much I pretended that it was.
I forced my lips to break a smile as I walked up to Tom Gealding, the prosecutor, standing outside courtroom two.
“Graham,” he said in greeting, holding out his hand. “How are you?”
I shook hands with him. “Ready to get this over with.”
He smoothed down the lapels of his jacket.
“It shouldn’t take long.” He glanced at his watch.
“This is something we expected, as you know. We don’t necessarily need your initial reports, but it would save us time and money if we could keep that in evidence.
If it’s inadmissible, we can still get backup experts to provide them. ”
I nodded. I knew all of this already. When the infamous serial killer known as Shadow Stalker was arrested and charged with a plethora of crimes—some decades old—I was the one the prosecution asked to do the psychological profile and behavioral analysis in a personal interview.
I was one of the main forensic psychologists the state used in situations like these, because I was local.
It wasn’t a big problem until my brother married one of the killer’s intended victims.
Now, we were fighting to keep that profile and my report on the defendant in evidence.
I nodded again, as the prosecutor gave me a small, tired smile. I wasn’t sure why I felt some guilt as he looked at me. Tom and I had been friendly for years now, considering we often worked together. He wouldn’t put any blame on me if we didn’t win this.
Still, some semblance of pressure bore down on me as he turned and disappeared inside the courtroom.
The cold of the marble bench seeped through my clothes and into my skin when I sat down. I grabbed my book from my briefcase and tried to read, but none of the words absorbed into my brain.
I lost track of time before the bailiff stuck his head out from a crack in the courtroom doors. His voice carried through the hallway.
“The defense calls Dr. Graham Ramsey.”
The old courtroom unfolded around me as I walked inside.
The ceilings were impossibly tall. Every sound echoed around me, bouncing off the walls paneled in gleaming oak.
The pew-like benches creaked as people shifted to look at me, their necks craning.
There weren’t many in the gallery, a few reporters and family members of known victims. I tried not to make eye contact with the ones I recognized.
I didn’t want to disappoint anyone if this didn’t go the prosecution’s way.
And I wasn’t sure whether it was expected to.
My heart skittered against my ribs. An irritating reminder that I wasn’t as calm as I wanted to be.
My gaze swept the room out of habit, bouncing from the prosecution table to the defense almost against my will. I caught the back of the defendant’s head—the man who had brought a nightmare to this town.
So much pain had started with him.
I looked away, not wanting or needing to dwell on his crimes. On the innocent women he’d taken from this world. My gaze slid to the person beside him, mostly out of habit.
Amos Anderson—most notably known as the Shadow Stalker serial killer—was a wealthy man. He’d hired some of the best lawyers in the state, who’d been working tirelessly for almost two years to give him any possible break they could.
The woman seated beside the defendant had long dark-brown hair spilling past her shoulders. Recognition prickled at the back of my skull.
My curiosity piqued, intensifying as I came to the front of the room and took a seat on the witness stand. Fully facing the two teams of lawyers, I forced my face to remain emotionless as I met a pair of the palest blue eyes.
The woman at the defense table was the same one I had met in the library hours earlier. The one who had been attacked—if you could call it that—by Calliope the cat.
She barely indicated outwardly that she recognized me, but her stare did not waver. Her entire body had stilled, as if she were frozen.
I raised my right hand as I was sworn in, not looking away from her, either.
The new bangs she had spontaneously cut with a pair of medical scissors hid the bandage on her forehead well. It made sense now, why she’d been so upset about it. She had wanted to hide the evidence for court. Hadn’t wanted to bring attention to herself in that way.
I wasn’t sure how to process this.
She had been an anomaly when she walked into that library. I hadn’t recognized her, and the way she’d dealt with her injury, like it was a nuisance and not a wound, had been…entertaining. I hadn’t been able to make sense of her.
Until now.
“Quinn Carpenter?” The judge’s voice tore both of our attention away from each other.
“Yes, Your Honor?” the woman answered, without missing a beat.
Judge Connolly gestured toward me. “Are you to question this witness?”
The woman, Quinn, nodded. “Yes, Your Honor.”
He nodded. “Go ahead, Counselor.”
Apprehension coiled around my spine like barbed wire.
I glanced at the two other lawyers sitting at the defense table; George Barron was an older gentleman, but the younger man with slicked-back hair I did not recognize.
They had to be the leads on this case, though; I was familiar enough with the firm to know that.
It was my luck that they were having her—Quinn—questioning me today. As if I weren’t feeling enough off-kilter. Now, I had to sit here and pretend I hadn’t watched her bleeding in front of me mere hours ago.
Quinn gathered her notes from the table and approached the podium facing the witness stand.
She walked with purpose, her head held high and shoulders pushed back.
She gave the energy like she had done it a thousand times before.
Like she lived in this courtroom, and we were all nothing but visitors in her domain.
She took some time situating her notes, but I suspected it was to hide the slight tremble of her fingertips.
Something that would be missed by most, but I saw it.
She touched the watch on her left wrist, sliding the pad of her index finger over the glass face as if she were touching something precious.
I frowned at the thing, noting how thick the worn leather band was around her dainty wrist. It was too big for her. But it was obviously worn often. Another interesting anomaly to add to her repertoire.
When she was all set, she looked up at me.
Her expression wasn’t one I recognized from the library. When Quinn looked at me now, it was with a touch of softness. Almost pity.
Annoyance prickled at the back of my neck.
“Good morning, Dr. Ramsey.” She smiled, and though it looked convincing, it was forced.
I greeted her in return, and she continued her initial questioning, establishing my name and credentials.
I’ve been a professional forensic psychologist for over seven years, but had been working with violent offenders for over a decade.
I have testified in numerous courtrooms and conducted assessments with inmates in the prison system for both the prosecution and the defense.
“It seems that your professional experience is considerable, wouldn’t you agree?” Quinn tilted her head, but her face didn’t give anything away.
I nodded, keeping the questioning cordial. “I suppose so.”
She touched her watch face again, not breaking eye contact with me. “Do you have any other experience with violent crimes outside of your professional involvement?”
Her question sounded so neutral, as if she were asking about the weather. My stomach clenched. She knew exactly what she was doing, and I knew exactly how she was going to get there.
“Yes.”
One word. No elaboration needed.
She paused, as if waiting for more. When there wasn’t any, she continued quickly. “Your sister, Thea Ramsey, was murdered twelve years ago, correct?”
The thin skin around Quinn’s mouth tightened, as if she felt the slightest bit guilty about bringing up one of the worst things that had ever happened to me.
But that wasn’t unusual in a courtroom, I supposed.
I didn’t give her any indication of my emotions. That, at least, was something I could do. Pretend that I didn’t feel anything at all.
“That is correct,” I answered.
“At the time, did your family believe her murder was related to a serial killer known to the media as the Shadow Stalker?”
Quinn’s lips thinned, and I resisted the urge to shift in the uncomfortable chair.
“That’s what we thought at the time,” I said with a tight nod. “But it was later discovered that she had been murdered by her own boyfriend, who wanted to make it look as if that crime had been committed by the Shadow Stalker.”
My eyes cut to him—Amos Anderson. Rage lit inside me, but I refused to give him any sign of it. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been the one who killed my little sister; his sins were much worse.
He wasn’t even looking at me. He seemed almost bored, sitting there with his lawyers. His silver-streaked hair was even more white than when I’d seen him last, the only sign that his time in jail was wearing on him.