Chapter 8
The trial began on a Monday morning.
I wore a navy dress and flat shoes.
David wore the same dark suit he had worn to Bellmont, because he said he wanted Tiffany to see that night did not own him.
I was not sure I was that brave.
But I walked beside him anyway.
Tiffany looked different in court.
No red dress.
No wild hair.
No smeared lipstick.
She wore pale gray and sat with her hands folded, looking like a woman wronged by the world.
Then the prosecutor played the restaurant video.
The mask cracked.
There she was on screen.
Storming in.
Striking me.
Screaming.
Reaching into her purse.
The jury watched the knife flash under the chandelier light.
Someone in the back row gasped.
Tiffany stared at the table.
Then came the apartment photos.
The broken safe.
The wall of surveillance from the cabin.
The vial.
The fake wedding invitation.
Marissa testified on the fourth day.
She had accepted a deal.
Her voice shook as she admitted everything.
The searches.
The key.
The messages.
The restaurant photo.
Tiffany stared at her sister with pure hatred.
“You promised,” Tiffany mouthed.
Marissa began to cry.
I did not feel sorry for her.
Maybe one day I would.
Not then.
David testified after lunch.
Tiffany’s attorney asked if he had ever loved her.
“Yes,” David said.
Tiffany lifted her head.
“But love ended,” he continued. “And when it ended, she decided my refusal was theft.”
Her face twisted.
The attorney asked why he had not told me about the fake pregnancy earlier.
David looked toward me.
“Because I was ashamed,” he said. “Because I thought keeping quiet would protect everyone. I was wrong. Silence protected her.”
That sentence settled inside me.
Not as a cure.
As truth.
My turn came last.
I walked to the stand with my hands shaking.
I told them about the first dead roses.
The 3 a.m. calls.
The car key marks.
The feeling of being watched.
Then I described Bellmont.
The slap.
The glass.
The knife.
The way everyone looked at me as if I had accidentally stepped into a private nightmare.
Tiffany’s attorney stood.
“Ms. Claire, did you enjoy taking Mr. Mitchell from my client?”
I looked at him.
“No.”
“Did you know they had history?”
“Yes.”
“So you inserted yourself into a complicated emotional situation?”
I leaned toward the microphone.
“I met a single man in a bookstore. I did not steal him. He was not property.”
The courtroom went silent.
The attorney tried again.
“You slapped her back?”
“No.”
“You wanted to?”
“Yes.”
A few jurors looked up.
I did not hide it.
“I wanted to defend myself. But I didn’t need to. The truth did that.”
The prosecutor played the final recording.
Tiffany’s phone call.
You’re in the way.
Close.
Claire disappears. David comes home.
By the time it ended, Tiffany was no longer pretending.
She stood suddenly.
“She ruined everything!”
The judge ordered her to sit.
“She made him hate me!”
David did not look at her.
He looked at me.
And for once, I saw no shame in his face.
Only sorrow.
And choice.
The verdict came two days later.
Guilty.
On every major count.
Tiffany screamed as they led her away.
Marissa cried into her hands.
I walked out of the courthouse into sunlight so bright it hurt.
May you like
David reached for my hand.
This time, I took it.
