Chapter Two: Cross Examination
1471 Words
It had been thirty-four days since Celeste’s funeral.
Thirty-four days of half-drunk coffee, unread emails, and a home that echoed louder than ever in her absence. Hank Hartley had stopped counting somewhere around week two, but the grief kept its own calendar. It marked time not in days but in details—her scarf still draped over the chair, the mug she always used untouched in the cabinet, the half-used bottle of lavender lotion beside the sink.
He hadn't opened her closet. He couldn’t.
Instead, he threw himself into work, as he always had. Grief needed distractions. Silence was a cruel companion.
The courthouse smelled like disinfectant and paper. It was colder than usual this morning, but Hank barely noticed. His suit was crisp, his tie perfectly knotted, his briefcase organized to the minute—he looked every bit the attorney he’d always been, the man who won impossible cases, who spoke with measured confidence even when the world was falling apart.
But inside, something was splintered.
He stood at the defense table in Courtroom 4B, eyes fixed on the man beside him: Donnie Ray Cutter.
Charged with felony assault and unlawful possession of a weapon. Hank had taken the case before Celeste’s death. Back when it was just another file in a stack. Just another lowlife trying to avoid jail time.
But now—now something about Donnie didn’t sit right. Hank couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe it was the way the man looked at him. Maybe it was how calm he always was, even when facing serious time. Or maybe it was something deeper. Something Hank hadn’t let himself acknowledge yet.
Donnie sat back in his chair, arms folded, smirking faintly as the prosecutor finished questioning a witness. His face was lean, weathered by time and trouble, and a faint white scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his jaw.
Hank had seen worse men. Represented them, even. But none of them made his skin crawl quite like this.
Judge Compton’s gavel snapped him back into focus. “Mr. Hartley,” she said, her tone impatient. “Your witness.”
Hank rose slowly. Smoothed his jacket. Took a step toward the stand.
The witness—Officer Jenkins—sat rigid in uniform, a nervous flicker in his eye as Hank approached. Hank didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“Officer Jenkins,” he began, his tone smooth as silk, “you testified that my client, Mr. Cutter, had a knife on him when you apprehended him in the alley behind McKinley’s Tavern.”
“That’s correct,” Jenkins said, nodding.
“A switchblade, to be specific?”
“Yes.”
Hank flipped a page in his notes. “And you’re certain it belonged to him?”
“I found it in his jacket pocket.”
“After you threw him to the ground.”
The officer hesitated. “Yes, during the search.”
“During the search you conducted after you tackled him. In a dimly lit alley.”
“I followed procedure.”
“I’m sure you did.” Hank stepped closer. “But you didn’t see him holding the knife. You didn’t see him use it. You only found it after the fact. After a scuffle.”
“Yes, but—”
“Just yes or no, Officer.”
A beat.
“Yes.”
Hank nodded. “No further questions.”
He returned to his seat, calm on the outside. But inside, that feeling gnawed again.
He stole a glance at Donnie.
The man was smiling.
Not a smug smirk.
A knowing smile.
Like he’d just passed a test Hank didn’t know he was taking.
_________________
Back at the office, Hank flipped open the manila folder and stared at the name stamped in bold black ink across the top: Donald Cutter. The file was thick—assault charges, bar fights, domestic disturbances. A pattern of violence that pulsed like a heartbeat through the pages. Still, the case he was defending now was supposed to be small, contained. A bar brawl. No weapons, no fatalities. Just another rough night at a dive where the lights were too dim and the whiskey poured too cheap.
Except it wasn’t that simple.
He leaned back in his chair, tossing the folder onto his desk with a sigh. Donnie Cutter had a reputation, but reputation alone wasn’t enough to win or lose a case. What mattered were facts. Testimonies. Footage.
The footage.
He turned toward the laptop perched on the corner of his desk and opened the video file Vanessa had dropped off earlier that morning. She was a junior associate in the firm, sharp as a whip, and as methodical as she was driven. “It’s from the back lot camera,” she’d said. “Time-stamped about ten minutes before the fight broke out.”
The footage flickered to life. Grainy black and white, the lens speckled with what might’ve been rain or dust. The alley behind the Rusty Anchor bar was dimly lit, but a few figures were visible—shadows moving in and out of frame. Hank leaned in, adjusting the brightness. Donnie stood near the dumpster, pacing, his body language volatile. Another man—a bouncer, maybe—tried to talk him down.
Then something shifted in the frame.
A movement, far left.
A woman stepped briefly into view.
At first, Hank barely registered it. Just another passerby caught on camera. But something about the posture, the shape of her coat, the familiar fall of hair...
He froze the frame.
His heart stopped.
It was her.
Celeste.
Not a lookalike. Not someone similar. It was her. Standing across the street, partially hidden by a lamppost, watching the bar. Watching Donnie.
Hank’s breath left him in a rush.
She was wearing the cream-colored coat he’d always loved. The red scarf tied tight around her neck.
The timestamp blinked on the bottom of the screen: 11:42 PM, October 7.
Two days before her body was found in the woods.
He sat back, stunned.
“What were you doing there, Celeste?” he whispered.
His mind raced. She’d told him she was meeting Harper that night for dinner. Had kissed him goodbye, smiled like nothing was wrong. Had she lied? Or had she gone afterward, chasing something she hadn’t wanted him to see?
He played the footage forward, frame by frame. She didn’t move toward the bar. She just stood there for a few seconds, then stepped back into the shadows and disappeared.
A quiet knock broke the silence, and Hank nearly jumped out of his chair.
Vanessa pushed the door open slightly. “Everything okay?”
He minimized the footage instinctively. “Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “Just tired.”
She nodded but lingered in the doorway. “I talked to the DA’s office. They’re not dropping the assault charge. Cutter’s victim still wants to testify.”
Hank nodded, trying to reorient himself. “That’s fine. We’ll work it.”
She gave him a longer look, then retreated.
Alone again, Hank reopened the footage and watched the scene unfold all over again. Celeste. Donnie. The charged air of something more than just coincidence. She had been following him. Investigating.
He rubbed a hand down his face. “You knew something,” he murmured.
And if she had known—if she had followed Donnie and it had led her to whatever had happened in those woods—then this case wasn’t about a simple bar fight.
It was about her.
Suddenly, the rest of the file took on a new weight. Donnie Cutter wasn’t just another client now. He was a connection. A thread. Maybe even a suspect.
Hank didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t. The idea that he’d been sitting across from this man, defending him, while Celeste had been...
He stood abruptly, pacing the room. The walls of his office felt closer now, tighter, like the air had thickened. He opened a drawer and pulled out the handwritten notes he’d taken during his first meeting with Donnie. The man had been cool, even charming in a rough-edged sort of way. Arrogant, sure. But not unhinged. Not at first glance.
But hindsight had teeth.
And now he couldn’t unsee what he’d seen.
Celeste had been watching him.
Which meant she had known.
And now, so did Hank.
He opened the surveillance video again. Watched it once more. Then paused it on her face—just before she turned and vanished into the night.
He stared at it, memorizing the lines of her expression.
Fear. Determination. Something urgent in her eyes.
“I’m listening now,” he whispered.
He didn’t know where this path would lead. But whatever it was, whatever she had started—it wasn’t over yet.
Not even close.
- Writer
