It’s morning when I open my eyes. My head is thick with exhaustion. I don’t even remember falling asleep, but the couch is damp with sweat and bright rays of sunlight are hot on my face.

Somehow, for the first time in days, I slept through the night.

Immediately I sit up and reach for my phone. This full night’s sleep was a blessing. It sped up time. I’ve survived another dreadful day of waiting. It’s time to move.

The second I light up my phone, every ounce of readiness drains from my body. The screen is empty. Nothing.

It’s 7:30, and still nothing from Claire.

I close my eyes and fall back into the couch.

It’s Thursday. It’s been over 48 hours now since I spoke with Claire. Nearing 72. My heart sinks into my stomach.

I can’t handle another day of this.

By the time I finish feeding Sherlock his breakfast it’s only 7:45. It’s like the silence in my house is slowing everything and causing the clocks not to tick. But another day of waiting means yet another day closer to the trial, which makes every second even more excruciating.

I drift back to the couch and flip on the TV, but I can’t bring myself to turn on the volume. I’m hardly watching anyway. There’s nothing able to distract from the thoughts hammering at my forehead.

I roll onto my side and crunch a pillow under my neck. My angst is making me nauseous. I need some sort of substance but I’m too tense to eat. Coffee is out of the question.

I turn over and stare blankly up at the ceiling, guiding myself through several deep breathes before growing restless.

At some point I find myself pacing.

I venture into the kitchen. Even a glass of water is unappealing, but I slowly gulp it down anyway.

It’s 9:00 when I wander back into the living room, stopping to stare out the window. The neighborhood looks entirely normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. No sign of danger—no visible danger, anyway.

Leisurely, I reassemble the couch pillows that I kicked off during the night. I boil a pot of water and force myself into a cup of tea. Whatever was on TV has changed. My phone hasn’t made a sound. The seconds keep ticking.

I’m going insane.

If Claire had ordered the test right away we likely would’ve had the results by the end of yesterday. And she isn’t the type to be careless with something like this, which makes me worry that her order was interrupted. All it takes is a random intrusion, a few whispers that make their way to the sheriff. Game over.

I can’t take this. I can’t keep sitting here.

I don’t know how the hell people do it. It’s so much easier to be out on the forefront, out in the heat of the action. At least there you’re confronting the beast. Taking that ability away from a cop is like putting a flower in a dark room. I’m wilting by the second, and the thought of Noah helplessly awaiting his trial only intensifies the pain.

His face hasn’t left the back of my mind. Neither has Grayson’s or Savannah’s. I couldn’t force them away even if I tried. And though it’s something I haven’t ever seen, I find myself picturing Noah with Grayson in his arms. The two of them happy and healthy. And free.

But we’re losing time.

I desperately want to go back asleep until my phone finally rings, whenever that is, but I feel like if I close my eyes for a second too long then I’ll wake up at Noah’s trial. I’ll open my eyes and it will already be too late.

I may be relying on Claire right now, but it’ll be my fault if Noah goes to prison. My fault if Grayson loses his uncle. My fault for not acting when I had the chance.

My phone rings the instant I stand to get another glass of water, its loud chiming shattering the silence. I spin around so fast that I almost trip as I race to scoop it off the table.

“Claire!” I exclaim in something between an exhale and a shout.

“Sophia!” She doesn’t hesitate, though her voice becomes low and hurried. “I have the results. We need to talk as soon as possible. In person.”

Anticipation erupts in my chest. “When and where?”

“The coffee shop on 10th and—”

“Brews and Bagels?”

“Right. Get us a table and give me ten minutes,” she says. “I’m leaving the department now.”

“I’ll be there.” I’m about ready to punch off the call when I throw my phone back up to my ear. “Wait, Claire, you still there?”

“What?”

“Does anyone outside of the lab know about the results?”

“No,” she mutters. And this time I punch off.

* * *

I take a minute to survey the coffee shop before selecting a table in the back corner. Nothing sticks out, certainly nothing suggesting a threat, but I remain alert even after taking a seat. Threats don’t often wear nametags, and I’m quite sure the threat that Noah is involved with is far from sloppy. It’s professional. And it’s probably nearby.

I’m still scanning the coffee shop and the adjacent street when Claire’s face appears in the window. It takes me a second to realize it’s her. She’s wearing a Braves hat pulled low over her face. Her eyes find mine from under the brim as she steps through the door.

She strides toward me without looking away.

“I hate sitting with my back to the room,” she says, slipping into the seat across from me.

“It’s better this way. I’ll keep an eye out and your face will stay out of sight.”

Claire doesn’t respond to that. She drops her purse between her feet and slowly pulls out a folder. She fixes me in a wordless stare before setting it flat on the table.

“You were right.”

“Let me see,” I say, hastily spinning the folder around and flipping it open.

“They found traces of latex in his sample,” Claire says. “It was positive for condom trace evidence.”

I look up at her. “And no one recovered a condom left anywhere at the scene?”

She only shakes her head. I want to celebrate but the feeling that overtakes me is one of sober urgency.

Claire leans in. “Tell me what the hell is going on, Soph.”

I peer down at the edge of the table, pretending to put everything together for the first time. For Claire, this will be the first time. And I’m going to need to do a damn good job of convincing.

Eventually I meet her gaze again, which hasn’t moved.

“Okay, let’s start at the beginning,” I say. “The victim was killed around 9:00 p.m. last Thursday night, that’s exactly a week ago. Her body was discovered that night at 11:00.”

Claire nods.

“But she wasn’t killed there,” I continue. “There wasn’t a single report of commotion at any point that night. No blood splatter whatsoever. The poor girl’s body was dumped, which means she was killed somewhere else, which also means transportation. I assume they impounded Noah’s car, did the victim’s blood turn up anywhere inside?”

“No,” Claire whispers.

“Did the coroner find any signs of struggle?”

She shakes her head.

“Her guard wasn’t up, she probably knew her attacker.” I pause but Claire doesn’t even twitch. “That means that the most tangible evidence of Noah’s involvement is the murder weapon and his semen. But the lab found traces of latex in the sample and no condom at the scene, which confirms that it was planted, especially considering that Noah was with me during the entire window, before and after her TOD. We can then assume the same for the revolver. It was probably planted as well.”

I bite my lip and stare at her.

There’s several long seconds of nothing but silence. “Tell me again who first found the body?” I finally ask.

“Sheriff Vernon did.”

Even as she says the words, even as the reality sinks in, every part of my being feels hot with furious disbelief.

I lean in. “You’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you, Claire. But in order to prove it, I’m going to need your help.”