The prosecution want to call a woman called Sophie. Becky’s brow looks heavier. It’s an expression I can easily recognize, and I think: Sophie must mean something to her. Though I don’t know what.
Becky wore a similar expression on her first day of nannying. At the time, I’d thought it was attitude. She’d left every job she’d ever had, I had realized the night before the arrangement began. What had I let myself in for?
I look around the courtroom as Sophie is ushered in.
This is what I had let myself in for. This is where it ended.
In death.
In murder charges.
In destruction.
Sophie is young, maybe slightly younger than Becky. Her ankles are slim in skinny jeans and as she takes her place on the stand, her hand flutters at her chest. She must be nervous.
Ellen lumbers to her feet.
“Sophie,” she says. “Can you tell us about the day you saw the defendant?”
“I just saw her. One day.” Her tone is defensive, that of a person who has perhaps said too much, and now she finds herself in a witness box, taking part in a trial for murder.
“And can you tell us a bit more about that?”
She opens her mouth to speak, and then begins.