Page 11 of Jury Woman, Part 3 of 6

McDavid walked Terry through new ground this time—records recovered since his last appearance, a ballistics match connecting the gun used in Horatio Alvarez's murder to a separate firearm seized months later in an unrelated raid, one traced through serial number and chain of custody back to a supplier with known ties to the Blackthorne organization. Terry answered in the same low, unhurried voice as before, laying out dates and evidence.

Then Bryan Stone rose for cross, buttoning his jacket with theatrical slowness.

"Detective, isn't it true this so-called match relies on a database with a documented error rate?"

"The FBI's database, yes. Every forensic database has a margin of error. This wasn't within it."

"But there's a margin of error."

"There's a margin of error on everything, counselor."

A ripple moved through the gallery. I saw McDavid's mouth twitch, suppressing something.

Stone pressed harder, needling at chain of custody, at delays in cataloging, at whether evidence handling protocols had been followed to the letter every single time. Terry's answers stayed even, unhurried, professional—but I noticed his jaw tighten with each question, a muscle working beneath his cheek.

I couldn't decide where the anger was aimed. At Stone, certainly, for the insinuations dressed up as questions. Maybe at Blackthorne himself, sitting untouched and faintly amused at the defense table. Or maybe it had nothing to do with either of them—maybe it was simply exhaustion curdling into something sharper, the accumulated weight of too many crime scenes, too many crooked ties, too many nights that ended with a phone ringing instead of a bed.

September 16, Wednesday

THE CALL connected a few seconds late, the video stuttering into focus on Lily's face already mid-sentence, already furious.

"—and it's insane, Mom. It's actually insane that we can't just tell people the truth."

"Hi to you too," I said, trying for lightness.

"Scott's mom cornered me at pickup and asked, and I quote, 'Is everything okay at home? Is your mother getting the help she needs?'" Lily's voice climbed with each word. "Help she needs. Like you're in some facility somewhere. People think you're in rehab, Mom. Rehab! Or worse—Madison Kapp literally asked if you had a drug problem."

Josh sat beside her on the couch, hunched forward, gnawing on his thumbnail. He didn't look up.

"I'm so sorry," I said, and meant it, the apology feeling thin and useless even as I offered it. "I realize the not-knowing makes people fill in the blanks with whatever's easiest to believe."

"Do you know what it's like at school right now? People look at me different. Like I'm the kid whose mom disappeared."

"Lily, this is temporary. Once the trial ends—"

"When is that? Nobody knows! It's been forever already." She crossed her arms. "You could've said no. You could've gotten out of it like everyone else did."

I let that one pass, unwilling to relitigate a decision that was already six weeks behind me and impossible to undo. "How's school going otherwise? Josh, are you liking your classes this year?"

Silence. Josh's teeth worked at his cuticle, his eyes fixed somewhere past the camera.

"Josh?"

Nothing.

"And soccer, are you still—"

"Can we not do small talk?" Lily cut in. "It's weird pretending everything's normal when it's not."

"I'm not pretending. I'm trying to stay connected to your lives, even from here."

"Fine. Josh, tell her about Tucker," Lily said, flat, almost daring him.

Josh finally lifted his head. "He's fine. I've been letting him sleep in my room."

"That's sweet, honey." Something in my chest loosened, just slightly, at the image of my son and the dog curled up together in the dark.

"You'd need a gas mask to go in there," Lily said. "It smells like feet and wet fur. He never opens his window."