“I stayed for a little, thinking that maybe Scott would change his mind if he saw that I wasn’t leaving. Then he sent me another text telling me to ‘beat it’ with an emoji of a finger across a throat. It scared me … and—I left,” said Harris.

Alkins asked Harris to read the text messages that Scott had sent that night. After Harris read the messages out loud in a trembling voice, Alkins moved into a series of questions to show the jury that Scott had planned to rape Kelly Moore that night. That it wasn’t done in the heat of passion, or out of drunkenness. It was premeditated.

“Did you see Scott on your way home?” Alkins asked.

“I passed Scott’s car. When he saw me, he put his hand out the window to fist bump me. I fist bumped him back. Once I crossed the road to my house, I turned and saw him get out of his car. I should have gone back and stopped him,” said Harris. “I’m sorry I didn’t do anything. Although I’m not sure it would have helped. Scott always gets what he wants. That night he wanted Kelly.”

When Alkins was done with his witness, Harris scrambled to his feet, his relief visible. He seemed about to bolt from the witness stand when the judge leaned forward to his microphone.

“It’s just a wild guess here, Mr. Wilson, but I’m thinking there’s a chance Mr. Quinn might have a few questions for you.”

“What did you and Kelly do for so long? Were you stargazing?” Quinn asked, his tone friendly, his right hand casually tucked inside his front pant pocket. Rachel could tell this was a precursor to a brutal cross-examination. She’d spoken with Harris on the phone. Talked to his dad, too. He was a good enough kid but not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Rachel almost felt bad for him. He wouldn’t know what had hit him once Quinn really got into his stride.

“We talked. And drank,” said Harris. “I had a flask and we shared it.”

“What was in the flask?”

“It was bourbon.”

“Where did you get that bourbon from? You’re too young to buy it legally.”

“It was my dad’s bourbon.”

“When I was your age, if I asked my daddy for bourbon he would have said, ‘No chance.’ What did your dad say when you asked him for liquor?”

“Nothing,” Harris muttered.

“Is it possible that you didn’t ask your dad?” Quinn asked. “Did you perhaps take the bourbon without your father’s permission? Did you steal the bourbon, Mr. Wilson?”

“I guess I did,” he admitted.

“Mr. Wilson, I notice that you’re flushed. Are you hot? Should we ask for the air conditioner to be turned up? Or tissues to wipe the perspiration off your forehead?” Quinn asked, with barely concealed sarcasm.

“Your Honor, Mr. Quinn is badgering the witness.” Alkins’s voice thundered across the court.

“I am merely being solicitous,” said Quinn.

“Move it along,” snapped Judge Shaw.

Quinn did just that, asking Harris about why he’d changed his testimony since he’d first spoken with police on the day Kelly disappeared.

“Isn’t it true that you told the detective who came to your house in the hours after Kelly disappeared that you thought Kelly had walked home from the playground that night?”

“Yes.”

“Did you lie to the detective that morning? Or are you lying here in court today?” Quinn asked.

Harris stuttered, lost for words. Quinn went through each and every one of Harris’s lies when he was first questioned by Detective Cooper about Kelly’s disappearance. Harris’s credibility was in shreds by the time that Quinn was done.

“One last question, Mr. Wilson.” Quinn swiveled around dramatically, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. “Have you received anything for your testimony today?”

“Uh, what do you mean?” Harris mumbled.

“Isn’t it true that you agreed to testify today in return for pleading guilty to a lesser charge, a charge that comes with a more lenient sentence?”

Harris stuttered, “Y-y-yes,” into his microphone.

“And how much time will you be spending in jail on that lesser charge?”

“Uhm,” said Harris. “I don’t think I’ll be going to jail.”

“To clarify, in return for your testimony today, you’ve been given a get-out-of-jail-free card. Is that correct?”

Alkins stormed to his feet.

“Objection.”

“Sustained,” said Judge Shaw, allowing Harris to finally step down.

As Harris stumbled off the stand, red-faced and trembling with a combination of fear and sheer relief, Rachel could tell the jurors were divided over his testimony. Several jurors sat with their arms crossed. They wouldn’t look his way. It was obvious to Rachel that they simply didn’t believe Harris. A few others, mostly the older women in the jury, watched him with some sympathy as he left the stand. It was clear that his life was in shambles from the consequences of that night.

Rachel had spoken briefly to Harris’s dad, Bill, before court that morning. He’d said that they’d lost their house because he couldn’t cover the mortgage payments and pay the lawyers representing his son when he was fired from his job. His boss, a cousin of Dan Moore, had retrenched Bill after Harris was charged, claiming it was part of a restructuring. The family was now living with Bill’s parents an hour’s drive from Neapolis while Bill looked for a new job.

When court adjourned for lunch, Rachel watched through the hall window as Harris’s dad walked across the southern courthouse lawn to his car, his hand on his son’s left shoulder to comfort him. The lawn bore no sign it had been the scene of live news broadcasts across the country other than a few muddy indents in the grass in the shape of broadcast-van wheels.

After Harris and his dad were out of sight, Rachel stood for a moment watching people scatter across the plaza for the lunch recess. There was a line forming outside a food truck across the road. Others headed to cafes down side streets or sat on benches to eat packed lunches.

Rachel spent the lunch recess working on a bench in the hall outside the courtroom. She’d packed a sandwich but didn’t have a chance to eat it as she typed up the notes from that morning’s testimony. When she was done, she posted the notes on the website and closed her laptop as people started filing back into court for the afternoon session.

Rachel used the remaining time to slip into the ladies’ restroom. When she came out of the stall and approached the sink to wash her hands, she saw a small envelope propped against a hand soap dispenser. It had her name on it. The restroom door swung backward and forward as if someone had just left.

26

Hannah

I heard your message for me at the end of the podcast, Rachel. You want to meet me. I get it. I want to meet you, too. I’ve been a fan for a long time. But trust me, right now is not the best time. One day, you’ll understand. It really is in your own best interests. What’s that expression? “Plausible deniability”?

That doesn’t mean we haven’t met, incidentally. If you can call two strangers passing by each other in a crowded courthouse plaza a meeting. Among other places where we’ve virtually rubbed shoulders.

In fact, you looked right at me this morning when I was in court today. I came in just before the guard closed the doors for the morning session. The only seat available was in the last row. I was stuck staring at the balding head of the man in the row in front of me, listening to Harris Wilson recount his role in Kelly Moore’s rape. Harris tried to sound unwitting. I didn’t buy it. He knew what he was doing when he followed Kelly from the party that night.

Still, I thought Harris’s testimony was damaging. I bet Scott Blair never imagined his loyal wingman would turn on him once the prosecutors offered him a plea deal.

I didn’t stay for long. I found the testimony too upsetting. Nothing has changed. Everyone is still up to their same tricks. I was so disgusted that I came out and scribbled this note for you instead.

Yesterday I went back to see our house. Of course, it no longer exists. Stupid me to have imagined that it was still there just as I remembered it. I’m sure the locals were happy to see it gone. The last trace of the Stills family erased.

We moved to Neapolis when Jenny was eight. I was a toddler. Too young to remember our momentous arrival in a brown station wagon where we had to sleep for weeks until the house was habitable. Mom’s grandfather hadn’t cleaned the house in the fourteen years since his wife died. Her name was Hannah, too. Mom never talked about her grandfather, but she kept a photo of her grandmother on her dresser.

Jenny told me once that Mom ran away as a teenager and only returned once her grandfather died because she’d inherited his house, along with the surrounding land. Jenny said it was her first permanent home. It was all she ever said about their life before we moved to Neapolis.