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innocent, which she did. Her hair was gathered back in a neat but trim ponytail. No wanton-woman looks here. Those lush chestnut highlights were carefully restrained by a plain rubber band. She wore no jewelry, no makeup. The pallor of those cheeks came without the artifice of face powder.

    On her way to the defendant’s table she looked once, and only once, at the crowd. Her gaze swept the room and came to rest on Chase. It was only a few seconds of eye contact, a glimpse of her brittle mask of composure. Pride, that’s what he saw in her face. He could read it in her body language: the straight back, the chin held aloft. Everyone else in this room would see it, too, would resent that show of pride. The brazen murderess, they’d think. A woman without repentance, without shame. He wished he could feel that way about her. It would make her guilt seem all the more assured, her punishment all the more justified.

    But he knew what lay beneath the mask. He’d seen it in those eyes two days before, when they’d gazed out at him through a one-way mirror. Fear, pure and simple. She was terrified.

    And she was too proud to show it.

    From the instant Miranda walked into the courtroom, none of it seemed real. Her feet, her legs felt numb. She was actually grateful for the firm grip of the bailiff’s hand around her arm as they stepped in the side door. She caught a kaleidoscopic glimpse of all those faces in the audience—if that’s what you called a courtroom full of spectators. What else could you call them? An audience here to watch her performance, an act in the theater of her life. Half of them had come to hang her; the other half were here to watch. As her gaze slowly swept the room she saw familiar faces. There were her colleagues from the Herald: Managing Editor Jill Vickery, looking every bit the sleek professional, and staff reporters Annie Berenger and Ty Weingardt, both of them dressed à la classic rumpled writer. It was hard to tell that they were—or had been—friends. They all wore such carefully neutral expressions.

    As her gaze shifted, she took in a single friendly face in the crowd—old Mr. Lanzo, her next-door neighbor. He was mouthing the words I’m with you, sweetie! She found herself almost smiling back.

    Then her gaze shifted again, to settle on Chase Tremain’s stony face. The smile instantly died on her lips. Of all the faces in the room, his was the one that most made her feel like shrinking into some dark, unreachable crevice, anywhere to escape his gaze of judgment. The faces beside him were no less condemning. Evelyn Tremain, dressed in widow’s black, looked like a pale death’s mask. Next to Evelyn was her father, Noah DeBolt, town patriarch, a man who with one steely look could wither the spirit of any who dared offend him. He was now aiming that poisonous gaze at Miranda.

    The tug of the bailiff’s hand redirected Miranda toward the defendant’s table. Meekly she sat beside her attorney, who greeted her with a stiff nod. Randall Pelham was Ivy League and impeccably dressed for the part, but all Miranda could think of when she saw his face was how young he looked. He made her feel, at twenty-nine, positively middle-aged. Still, she’d had little choice in the matter. There were only two attorneys in practice on Shepherd’s Island. The other was Les Hardee, a man with experience, a fine reputation and a fee to match. Unfortunately, Hardee’s client list happened to include the names DeBolt and Tremain.

    Randall Pelham had no such conflict of interest. He didn’t have many clients, either. As the new kid in town, he was ready and willing to represent anyone, even the local murderess.

    She asked softly, “Are we okay, Mr. Pelham?”

    “Just let me do the talking. You sit there and look innocent.”

    “I am innocent.”

    To which Randall Pelham offered no response.

    “All rise for His Honor Herbert C. Klimenko,” said the bailiff.

    Everyone stood.

    The sound of