Page 71 of Pulling Strings

Beatriz wiped her eyes. “He was forced. He would never have killed himself.”

“But he held the knife, did he not?” Talbot asked. “Put it to his own throat?”

“He waspossessed, I said. Not of his own mind.”

Cue the smile. Nice to see the lawyer was feeling it, but I was still profoundly unsettled. “My client is telekinetic, Miss Silva. He cannot control other people’s minds. Or possess them.”

“He moved his body, then!” Beatriz’s voice became suddenly shrill. “The news talks about it. He made that poor man jump out a window just last week—”

“Miss Silva,” Maximus cut in. “Please limit your responses to the questions asked.”

Beatriz settled reluctantly, and regarded Talbot with a sour expression as he continued.

“Respectfully, ma’am. Mister Farrow is hardly the only telekinetic in our city. I believe the extent of those abilities is common knowledge. Chief Investigator Briggs could attest to the fact that moving body parts with one’s mind falls well outside the scope of that brand of magic.”

Briggs sat still as stone. His public persona was unyielding, like a military sergeant. In private, at the dinner parties he’d attended at my childhood home, he was much more relaxed. He was actually a pretty funny guy, not that anyone would guess.

The rest of Talbot’s cross-examination went aboutthe same, giving me a good idea of his strategy for this whole thing. Namely, relying heavily on how unlikely it was that I could do what I did. At some point, his insistence on downplaying my abilities ruffled my feathers. I had a reputation to protect, after all. But, if my pride was the necessary sacrifice for my survival, so be it.

Several hours and as many testimonies later, my day in court had become the longest day of my life. My legs were numb from sitting, and I had grown bored with the name-calling, finger-pointing, and incidental education on the supposed limitations of my power.

When I asked if or when I would be called to testify, Talbot dismissed me with a chuckle. “Of course not. You have rights, after all.”

The shock collar currently digging into my neck suggested otherwise.

Finally, Aster announced the prosecution’s rest.

I checked the jury box, expecting dirty looks but getting none. Not one of them looked my way. Good news? Or very bad?

Unless Talbot had a hell of a rebuttal, I wasn’t feeling great about my chances. My name had been spoken with enough venom over the course of the day that even I was beginning to loathe the sound of it.

“You’re going to win.”

Grimm’s assurance circled back through my mind.

How had he been so sure?

I didn’t have to wonder long because Talbot wasted no time summoning his first witness.

“I would like to call Mister Jacoby Thatcher to the stand.”

Whispers rushed through the crowd.

I knew what they were thinking. Thatcher for the defense? What kind ofBizarroworld was this?

I also knew something they didn’t. Jacoby Thatcher died ten days ago, and his body had been ferried away by the Bloody Hex’s resident necromancer. In his place, the man who had promised me the success of this trial strode into the courtroom.

He didn’t move quite like Thatcher. He had more swagger, more gravitas. But Grimm was not a man suited to a small part. Jacoby Thatcher may have been Maximus Lyle’s underling, but he was equally synonymous with our government. A fixture in the public eye. A very credible witness. And he was on my side.

Grimm—Thatcher, whatever—took his place on the witness stand.

Volume in the gallery increased. Across the aisle, Holland Lyle leaned over the railing again, commanding Briggs’s attention. The pair delved into a hushed conversation, which I watched until Holland caught me staring.

“Mister Thatcher, thank you for taking the time to join us today,” Talbot said.

“Of course,” Thatcher replied, settling in his seat. “I am ever ready to aid in the pursuit of truth and justice.”

I frowned.

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