Rachel could see the spring in Dale Quinn’s step as he arrived in court, brimming with confidence. He would be presenting the first defense witnesses that day: character witnesses to shore up Scott Blair’s bona fides as a card-carrying saint.

The trial had taken an unusual turn. Kelly Moore’s sudden departure from the stand and her failure to return to finish her testimony put Judge Shaw in a quandary. He couldn’t hold up the trial indefinitely while waiting for Kelly. In the end, he ruled the defense would present its case and Kelly would return to the stand later in the trial. It was unorthodox, but judges had some leeway in sexual assault cases.

Alkins looked grim when he walked into the courtroom. Rachel thought that he had good reason to be concerned, if there was any truth to the rumors that Kelly Moore had suffered a breakdown and might not return to the stand at all. That would be a death blow to the prosecution’s case. Without Kelly’s testimony, it was hard to imagine a scenario in which Scott Blair did not go free.

While Rachel waited for the court session to start, she checked her messages. There was a text from Dave, an old boyfriend, telling her he’d be in Philadelphia the following week for work. He asked if she was free to meet for dinner. Rachel found it charming that Dave didn’t listen to the podcast and had no idea that she was away covering the Scott Blair trial. She responded asking for a rain check. There were several other texts from close friends telling Rachel how much they loved the new season.

Finally, Rachel reached a text message from Pete, saying that he’d gone through the podcast’s clogged inbox and found an email from Hannah, sent two days earlier. He’d just forwarded it to her. Rachel was about to open the email when the bailiff called on them to rise for the judge. She had no choice but to turn off her phone and drop it into her handbag as she stood up.

Dale Quinn’s first witness was Pastor Mark Fleming of the First Southern Baptist Church, which the Blair family attended. Quinn’s questions stuck to the guidelines set by Judge Shaw, who had ruled that character witnesses could testify only about Scott Blair’s truthfulness, his general morality, and his past treatment of women. Quinn was not allowed to ask the character witnesses whether they believed Scott Blair had raped Kelly Moore, or whether they thought he was capable of such an act.

Pastor Fleming told the court that he’d known Scott since he was a child. He described Scott in glowing terms and insisted there had never been any suggestion that he behaved inappropriately with girls, including when he was the water polo coach for the girls’ team while in high school. “Those girls couldn’t say enough good things about that boy,” said the pastor.

The second character witness, Tom Tarant, had been a coach at Neapolis High for well over nineteen years. He was a well-known figure in the town. He had the heavyset build of a former athlete who’d beefed up in middle age with a head so bald that it reflected the lights above the witness stand. “I wish all the kids I coached were like Scott. He was a pleasure to teach,” he told the court. “Believe me, I’d have a lot more hair on my head if they’d all been like him,” he said, prompting titters from the jury.

“Mr. Tarant,” Alkins said when it was his turn to cross-examine the coach. “From your testimony it sounds as if the defendant was an exemplary student. If I may say, he sounds almost too good to be true. Surely the defendant wasn’t perfectly behaved all the time? He must have done something wrong at least once in the time you knew him?”

“Can’t think of anything,” said Coach Tarant.

“What about hazing?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” said the coach hesitantly.

“Was the defendant ever suspended from school for hazing another swimmer?”

“There was a prank that went a little out of control,” the coach admitted. “Don’t think it can be called hazing.”

“Can you tell the jury about this prank?” Alkins asked, sitting on the edge of his table with his arms crossed.

“It was some t-t-time ago,” the coach stammered. “I’m not sure if I recall it clearly.”

“Let me refresh your memory,” said Alkins. “Isn’t it true that the defendant brought a pair of scissors into the pool and, while two other swimmers held the arms of a freshman swimmer behind his back, the defendant cut the boy’s Speedo off his body? He and his friends then lifted the boy, stark naked, out of the pool, and they called over girls to see the boy’s genitals.”

“Kids do dumb things,” said the coach. “Look, everyone apologized and there were no hurt feelings.”

“Do you recall what happened to the swimmer in question?” Alkins persisted.

“He left the school,” said the coach stiffly.

“Indeed,” said Alkins. “He did leave the school. After he tied a weight around his feet and tried to drown himself in the school pool. I believe you were the one who pulled him to the surface and gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. You saved his life, Coach. I’m surprised you don’t remember.” Gasps rippled across the courtroom as heads swiveled toward Scott Blair.

During the midday recess, Rachel bought a sandwich and a coffee at a food truck across the street from the courthouse. She ate it while on a bench in the shade of a giant oak on the southern lawn as she read over the email from Hannah Stills that Pete had forwarded her that morning.

When she was done, Rachel walked back across the plaza immersed in thought about how she could get a few minutes alone with Alkins to ask him again about Jenny Stills. It took her a moment to register that her name was being called. She spun around to see Detective Cooper standing in the middle of the plaza with his hands in his pockets and an amused expression on his face as he watched her walk, oblivious to his presence. “You were calling my name, weren’t you?” Rachel said, embarrassed.

“You literally walked right past me,” he joked.

“I’m so sorry. I was thinking about the trial. It’s not looking great for Mitch Alkins right now.”

“Is it that bad? I haven’t been following it that closely. I’m going to listen to your podcast tonight. I heard that Nath Shaw is riled up about it. Figure it has to be good if it got him all steamed up.”

“Nath?” Rachel said. “I didn’t know you were on nickname terms with the judge.”

“I’ve known Nath since I was a kid. We lived next door to each other,” said Detective Cooper.

“I thought you were from Rhode Island.”

“I lived there for a long time, but I grew up here,” he said.

“If that’s the case then you must have known Mitch Alkins when you were growing up,” Rachel said, spotting an opportunity to get information. Ever since the morning she’d seen Alkins lay flowers at Jenny’s grave, she’d wanted to push her way into his orbit and demand that he tell her about his connection to Jenny.

“Mitch is a few years younger than me, but, sure, Mitch and I go way back,” Detective Cooper said, his tone cryptic. “Why the interest?”

Rachel hesitated over how far she should push it but figured she had nothing to lose. “I heard that when Mitch Alkins was young, he was close to a girl who was murdered.”

Detective Cooper looked at her oddly. “Where did you hear that from?”

“The murdered girl’s sister sent me a letter,” said Rachel.

“And she named Mitch in the letter?” Cooper asked, a catch in his voice.

“No, she didn’t,” Rachel admitted. “But I heard from an old-timer here that Alkins knew the girl.”

Detective Cooper was about to say something else when his phone rang. He took the call, moving away from her as he spoke while gesturing with his hand that she should wait. He obviously wanted to continue the discussion. His call dragged on and Rachel reluctantly went up the stairs into the courthouse.

Court was already in session by the time that Rachel slipped in and made her way to her assigned seat. She didn’t pay any attention to the witness who was being sworn in on the stand until she was settled into her usual place. When she did, she gasped.

It was the man who had frightened her at the Morrison’s Point jetty. In the bright light of the courtroom, Rachel was able to see him clearly for the first time. Jagged scars slashed across his cheekbone and forehead, marring what might have been a pleasant face for a man his age, which Rachel put in the mid-to late forties. His muscular arms and the hint of neck tattoos peeking out of his collar seemed out of place against his formal court attire. He wore a pressed suit, a white shirt, and a striped tie that looked a tad short as it hung over his protruding belly, which chafed against the tight fabric of his polyester shirt.