Page 146 of Stolen for Keeps
No, it wasn’t the walls. They hadn’t closed in. But something had. The weight in the air, maybe, squeezed between justice and whatever twisted version of it the prosecution was determined to sell.
Across the aisle, David Belrose and his entourage sat in grim symmetry, their backs too straight, their smiles a touch too smug. His wife wore the expression of someone seated next to a dumpster, while Annamaria perched like a spoiled heiress mid-pageant, her glee thinly veiled beneath a performance of bored elegance.
They thought they’d already won.
But Buffaloberry Hill had come.
Elia and Claire sat front and center, his arm protectively across her shoulders, her fingers gripped in his. Logan was here too, arms crossed and stone-faced, and next to him was Mrs. Appleby.
Sheryn and Nick flanked Hank, who’d shown up in a collared shirt for the first time in years. Behind them were the ranch hands. And even some customers of Butterberry Oven.One by one, every familiar face I thought might flinch at the scandal had shown up and said,Not today.
Still, it was Noah I sought.
He was seated directly behind the defense table, close enough to touch, but far enough to keep from being a distraction. But he was mine. My tether.
He caught my eye and nodded once.You’ve got this.It was written in the burn in his gaze and in the way he leaned forward, as though he’d take the hit if the world came for me again.
Then, just beneath that fire, was a quick flick of his attention to Dom. A silent warning.Don’t screw this up.
And Dom knew it.
Because despite all his brilliance, despite the sleepless nights and caffeine-fueled warpath he’d been on, he still hadn’t cracked it. There was still no hard proof that Annamaria had undergone surgery at that clinic. No records. No confirmation. Just an email thread and a phone full of mirrors she’d avoided for a reason.
Time hadn’t been kind to us.
The trial came quicker than it should have, and the prosecution was smug and cocky.
Detective Harlow took the stand. His posture broadcast confidence, with the lift of his chin and the easy drape of one arm over the witness box rail.
The prosecutor barely needed to lift a finger. Harlow delivered everything on a silver platter. Details about the RF equipment, how the Belrose mansion’s alarm system had been breached using similar technology, and the recorded power anomalies during the exact window I was allegedly inside.
Noah caught my eye from the gallery, his hand resting over his heart, his fingers curling. As bleak as things felt, this was nothing like my first trial over four years ago. Even with hopethinning, I wasn’t alone. The town I’d come to call home was behind me, and I had the love of a man who never faltered, who’d married me without conditions, for life.
Dom rose to cross. He moved with purpose. He buttoned his jacket and adjusted his cuffs, as if that alone would swat away the arrogance in the air. His voice was calm, and it carried across the room.
“Detective,” he began, “you stated that the power anomaly in the house during the alleged time of the burglary lines up with what you believe to be a disabling of the system?”
“Yes,” Harlow replied.
“And that this disruption could’ve been triggered by an external RF source?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re also aware the home in question was originally built near the turn of the century and, aside from a renovation in the 1970s, hasn’t had a comprehensive electrical update since?”
“That’s correct.”
“So, in theory,” Dom said, walking a slow loop, “a power surge, natural or otherwise, could’ve caused the same anomaly?”
“Yes. That’s possible,” he said, easing back from the mic just slightly.
Dom tilted his head as if he was just warming up. “Interesting. Let’s talk about motive. You visited my client in Buffaloberry Hill and questioned her during dinner about a burglary you later said took place in July, yet you brought up a completely different date. September thirtieth. Why?”
“It was an error,” Harlow said flatly.
Dom raised a brow. “That’s a pretty big oversight, don’t you think? Nearly a three-month gap?”
“Mistakes happen, Mr. Powell. I was misinformed.”
