Monday: November 13, 2028
4:05 PM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, LAB
Bo looked away from his laptop as his phone dinged with a text. He unlocked his screen and opened the message.
Cecilia: Closing statements over. Jury already deliberating. Nervous as hell.
Bo: Don’t be. You hit this one hard, Celia. Prosecution doesn’t stand a damn chance.
Bo hated that, more than likely, he was actually right. He’d seen Cecilia in action. He’d been cross-examined by her specifically for Dominic’s case. He knew Dominic was guilty, but he knew even better that the jury wasn’t him, and the jury would fall into every single trap Cecilia had laid for them.
She had painted a beautiful picture of Dominic Wilkinson and his innocence. If his life was the dark, starry sky of a deep winter night, Dominic was the beautiful white owl perched delicately on a fence post alongside the road. He was wise and delicate and gorgeous and awe-stopping.
In Cecilia’s case, he could do no wrong. He had only protected his friend, and those other murders? The ones where the hearts had been ripped so violently from the victims?
Oh, Dominic wasn’t capable of such violence. He was a good soul!
At least, according to the picture Cecilia had painted.
Bo had watched the jury carefully the days he had been in the courtroom. They’d eaten Cecilia’s story right up. They’d watched her paint it, and they had loved every color and stroke of the paint brush.
He knew she would win the case.
To say he hated the idea was an understatement.
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