Page 11 of Secrets of the Past (Secrets of Mustang Island #3)

T he courtroom was humming with quiet tension, the kind that settled beneath your skin like static.

Tripp sat at the defense table, reviewing notes, his pen tapping a silent rhythm against the legal pad in front of him.

Judge Price had called for a short break before their next witness took the stand.

Nicole was across the aisle, conferring with her second chair, a crease between her brows as she gestured toward the autopsy report.

God, she was laser-focused. And brilliant.

He hated how much he still admired that about her.

Seeing her at her best gutted him. Not because she was dazzling, he’d always known that, but because they belonged together.

He’d always recognized she was smarter than him, but to see her now made him remember all the good times they had together.

And soon, he was going to learn who had ripped them apart.

The courtroom door creaked open, and Tripp glanced up, more out of habit than curiosity, and then he saw her.

His mother.

Suzanne Masterson entered with her signature posture: spine straight, chin slightly lifted like she was inspecting the gallery for dust. She was dressed in a tailored ivory suit and pearl earrings, her silver-gray hair swept into a neat twist. Not a strand out of place.

Her gaze swept over the room, found him, and she smiled as if she were walking into a charity gala, not a murder trial.

Shit.

He hadn’t invited her. He hadn’t even told her which courtroom he’d be in. And yet, here she was, taking a seat in the second row with that same regal grace she'd weaponized his entire childhood.

Tripp sighed and looked down at his notes again, but his grip on the pen tightened.

Perfect—that makes it sharper.

The trial resumed, and Nicole called her next witness, Bianca’s best friend, a young woman with wary eyes and a voice that trembled as she swore the oath.

Nicole stood. Calm. Controlled. Every movement deliberate.

“Tell us about Bianca’s last days. Did she fear for her life?”

“Yes,” the young woman whispered. “Bianca was afraid of Derrick’s family. They told him she wasn’t the kind of woman he should be with.”

“Was the pregnancy planned?”

“Oh, no. But Bianca used to say there were no accidents. She believed what happened was meant to be. She said she wasn’t going to let a baby stop her from going to law school.”

“Did Mr. Reddick support the pregnancy?” Nicole asked, her tone sharp enough to cut glass.

The witness shook her head. “He pressured her to get an abortion.”

Nicole tilted her head. “But abortion is illegal in Texas, isn’t it?”

“He said it didn’t matter. He offered to pay for her to fly to Colorado. He even bought the ticket. But Bianca refused. After that, she told me she was thinking of ending things. She said she’d need child support, but she couldn’t stay with a man who didn’t want their baby.”

“And did Mr. Reddick know she was ending the relationship?”

The young woman’s hands twisted in her lap. “Yes. The night before she died. She called me right after he left. Said he was furious, accused her of cheating. Said it wasn’t his baby. He told her he’d demand a DNA test once the child was born.”

“How did Bianca sound?”

Her voice cracked. “She was crying. She said she loved him, but she never thought he’d act that way about their child. She told me she felt crushed by Derrick, by his family, by life. She didn’t know if she could trust him anymore.”

The courtroom was hushed, Nicole’s questions landing like hammer blows. Every juror’s gaze was locked on the witness. Every word carried weight.

Tripp sat at the defense table, jaw tight, his gaze fixed on Nicole. She wielded the testimony like a scalpel. Precise. Ruthless. And his mother, seated two rows back, was watching, studying Nicole, and analyzing him. He could feel it like heat on the back of his neck.

When the judge nodded his way, Tripp rose. He buttoned his jacket and stepped toward the witness stand. His shoes clicked on the polished floor, loud in the silence.

“You were Bianca’s closest friend, correct?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not friends with Derrick?”

“No. I’m beneath his social class.”

Tripp let the answer hang, then clipped his words. “Just answer the questions, please. Did you like Derrick?”

The young woman hesitated, flicking her gaze toward Nicole. Nicole gave the faintest nod, almost imperceptible, but Tripp saw it. A signal.

“No,” the witness said.

“Why not?”

“Because I thought Derrick was using my friend. She was smart, beautiful. He wanted her to help him through college, with sex on the side.”

“You didn’t believe he loved her?”

“No.”

“Did Derrick cheat on Bianca?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did Bianca cheat on him?”

“Never. She was crazy in love with him.”

Tripp narrowed his eyes. “Did she want his money?”

Nicole was on her feet in an instant. “Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained,” the judge said.

Tripp pivoted, unruffled. “Bianca didn’t come from wealth, did she?”

“No.”

“How was she paying for college?”

“Loans and scholarships.”

“And yet she lived in a house?”

“It was her grandmother’s.”

Tripp moved a step closer, voice firm. “Isn’t it true that Derrick paid the overdue property taxes on that house?”

Nicole shot up again. “Objection. Relevance.”

The judge considered, then waved a hand. “Overruled. The witness may answer.”

The young woman exhaled sharply. “Yes?—”

Tripp cut her off with a raised hand before she could elaborate. “Just yes or no.”

“Yes.”

He turned, facing the jury, making sure his voice was steady, commanding. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

He walked back to the defense table, every step deliberate. From the corner of his eye, he caught his mother leaning forward, her lips pressed tightly, her gaze flicking between him and Nicole. Judgment in her eyes. Judgment, and something else he couldn’t quite read.

And Nicole, she didn’t even glance at him. She just slid back into her seat, pen poised, expression carved from stone.

The air between them was thick with unfinished history.

When the jury was dismissed for the day and Judge Price gave his usual admonishment—“Ladies and gentlemen, remember: do not speak about the case with anyone, and do not consume any media coverage.”

Tripp was already shoving his files into his briefcase, praying he could slip out before…

“Darling.”

He closed his eyes for one beat too long. When he opened them, there she was at the edge of the bar. His mother. Standing tall, smiling like she’d just watched him win the Super Bowl.

“Mother,” he said evenly, tamping down the groan rising in his throat. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see my brilliant son in action.” She leaned in, kissed his cheek, her perfume a heady mixture of roses and memory. “You haven’t taken a high-profile trial in ages. How could I resist? And what an exciting one.”

Of course. To her, murder trials were cocktail party fodder.

He studied her face, but as always, the armor was flawless. No cracks in the perfectly polished exterior. “You tracked down my schedule.”

“Of course, I did,” she said smoothly. “I’m your mother.”

“Meaning you called Lorraine at the office and bullied her into telling you.”

She fluttered her hand, dismissing the accusation like lint on her jacket. “Details, darling. You were magnificent, by the way. Calm. Measured. I’m proud of you.”

That word still stung. Proud. Always conditional. Contingent on obedience.

They walked into the hallway, where the hum of fluorescent lights softened against the blue wash of dusk outside the windows.

“I don’t have time to chat,” he said, adjusting his pace, hoping she’d fall away.

“I won’t keep you long,” she promised, falling in step anyway. “But I do have thoughts.”

“Of course, you do.”

“This girl,” she began, and he stiffened at her tone. That same cloying disdain she’d once used for Nicole. “This Bianca Laurent, she reminds me far too much of her.”

Tripp stopped cold. “Nicole?”

“She practically cloned her. Pretty. From the wrong side of town. Ambitious in all the wrong ways.”

His jaw clenched. “Bianca was shot in the chest, Mom. She and her unborn baby were murdered.”

Her eyes narrowed, disdain cutting sharper than grief. “Don’t be dramatic. I’m saying she had an agenda. Girls like that always do. Just like Nicole. Always angling for more than they deserve.”

The words hit like a fist. More than they deserve.

“More than they deserve?” His voice was raw, low. “What exactly do you think Nicole ‘deserved,’ Mother?”

“Oh, come now, Dustin. You were about to start college. You had your future mapped out. And she—you were both just children. She tried to trap you with that ridiculous wedding. Do you really think she would’ve waited for marriage unless she had a bigger plan in place?”

The air thickened. Tripp turned to her slowly, heat building in his throat. “You knew.”

Her smile faltered, just slightly.

His voice dropped, dangerous. “You knew about the wedding?”

A beat of silence. Too long.

Then her chin tilted, recovering, her expression smoothing into practiced denial. “Don’t be ridiculous. Paige told me after it happened.”

“No,” Tripp said, his chest tight, the realization dawning like a storm. “You said Nicole tried to ‘trap’ me. That’s not how Paige described it. That’s your word. You knew before. You knew exactly what we were doing that night.”

Her lips pressed into a thin, brittle line.

For once, she had no ready dismissal.

She hesitated, eyes flicking away for just a second, then back. “Fine. Yes. I suspected. Paige’s mother figured it out, and we pressured your friend until she told us. You were being foolish, Dustin. Someone had to stop you before you threw away everything.”

The air went still. Cold. Lifeless.

“You meddled,” he said. “You didn’t just interfere. You manipulated everything. My father put me on a plane. You had my bags packed. And Nicole, she never got my calls, Mom.”

His voice broke.

His mother’s eyes softened for just a moment, like a chink in armor. “We were trying to protect you.”

“From what?” he demanded. “From loving someone? From choosing a life that didn’t fit your mold?”

“She wasn’t right for you. She was never going to fit. You had everything ahead of you, and she would have dragged you down.”

“You never gave her a chance,” he said. “You made that decision for me. For us.”

And then it hit him.

The email. The annulment papers. The silence.

He stared at her, horrified. “It was you. You sent that email from my account. You deleted the voicemails. You—God—did you forge her signature on the annulment?”

Her mouth twitched.

“I never meant for you to hate her,” she whispered.

“But I did,” he said, voice like gravel. “For twenty years.”

He turned and walked away, the courtroom doors closing behind him like the end of a sentence. His mother called after him, “Dustin!”

But he didn’t turn around.

The truth wasn’t clean. It wasn’t noble. It was wrapped in manipulation and dressed in pearls.

And now, the woman sitting across the aisle from him in court, the one he’d loved with his whole stupid heart, had suffered just as much as he had because of the same person.

His mother.