Leah’s heart visibly skipped—anyone close enough could see it in the way her shoulders tensed. “What does he know, sweetheart?”
Norah’s eyes lifted for the first time. They moved slowly across the courtroom and landed on the defense table. Darren Kessler sat there in a tailored navy suit, hands folded, expression carefully neutral. He met her gaze without blinking.
Norah didn’t point. She didn’t cry. She simply leaned back toward Atlas and said, more clearly this time, “He’s the loud one.”
The words hit harder than a shout.
Martin Halpern jumped to his feet. “Objection! Leading and prejudicial.”
“Sustained as to form,” Judge Calder said, though she didn’t look convinced. “The jury will disregard the characterization.”
But anyone who has sat on a jury knows that some things, once heard, don’t evaporate just because a judge instructs you to let them go.
Leah didn’t push. She knew better than to chase a toddler’s fragile courage. Instead, she asked, “Norah, do you remember the night Mommy got hurt?”
Norah’s lower lip trembled. She shook her head once—no, not in denial, but as if trying to clear a fog. Then she reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Camille looked surprised; she hadn’t known Norah had brought it.
Norah unfolded it carefully. It was a crayon drawing. A crooked table. A tall figure with long, jagged red lines around its arms. A smaller figure under a scribbled square that might have been a countertop.
