81

There was an unbearably long recess as Troy Wagner was brought from The Tombs, cleaned up, and prepped for his appearance in Judge Bradley Mudge’s court.

By the time we were corralled into the courtroom and took our seats, my residual headache from the attack had bloomed into something that was almost tangible. Dr. Magnifico had said that I didn’t have a concussion, but my skull still hurt like hell.

Matthew, sitting at the defense table with Phil, turned and smiled at me. He mouthed, Love you.

Despite my fear and tension and pain, I felt a thick but invisible cord connecting me to my brother.

“Love you back,” I whispered.

How would the next few hours play out?

Would Troy, the night-shift manager from the restaurant in Matthew’s building, convince the jury that he’d killed Tamara? Would the prosecution’s case disintegrate?

Harry put his hand on my leg to stop me from jiggling it. “I know how you feel, T. But please chill.”

Right. No problem.

Eventually, court convened. The jurors filed in, and Judge Mudge explained to them what had caused the delay.

“The defense has a new witness. Actually, Mr. Wagner was on the stand last week when he testified for the prosecution that he was the last person to see Tamara Gee alive.

“He will expand his testimony in this regard.”

The jurors had questions, and the judge said he would address them again before they were asked to deliberate.

Troy Wagner was called. He came up the aisle, was sworn in, and took his seat in the witness stand.

He sported the same look he’d worn when he’d last sat in that chair and told the court that Tamara Gee had told him she was moving out of their apartment before Matthew killed her.

You can’t imagine how much I hated this man. For what he’d put my brother through, for what he’d put my family through, but most of all, for what he’d done to Tamara and the baby who would have been my first nephew. My fingers balled into fists in my lap, and Harry put his hand over mine.

As before, the short, wiry man with the coarse red hair made a steeple with his hands, highlighting for me and everyone close enough to see him that the pinkie and ring finger of his left hand were shorter than the others.

I hoped and prayed that the print from this self-inflicted deformity would free my brother and indict Troy Wagner.

It would, if Troy told the truth.