Page 19 of Secrets of the Past (Secrets of Mustang Island #3)

N icole rose from her chair, smoothing her jacket with practiced precision. She could feel the press of a hundred eyes on her, the jury box waiting, the gallery buzzing faintly with anticipation. Even Judge Price shifted forward on the bench, sensing this testimony would matter.

Her pulse drummed beneath her ribs, but her voice came steady, measured. She had to keep it that way. No matter what storm raged inside, the jury could never see her falter.

The lead investigator had testified days ago, laying out the facts as he saw them.

But this man was different. He wasn’t here to recap the scene—he was a weapons expert, and Nicole knew his testimony carried a weight that could tip the scales of the entire trial.

The jury would hang on his words. And so would she.

As he walked to the stand, Nicole’s pulse quickened. Her fingers tightened around the pen in her hand until it bit into her skin, grounding her. She forced her shoulders back, spine straight, though tension coiled in her stomach like a live wire.

This moment mattered. The wrong question, the wrong tone, could unravel everything she’d built.

When he raised his hand to take the oath, Nicole exhaled slowly, as though releasing every doubt with that breath. Stay steady. Stay sharp. This is the turning point.

“Mr. Daniels,” she began, “please remind the jury of your credentials.”

The weapons specialist sat tall, a man used to being listened to. “I’m a forensic firearms examiner with the state crime lab. I’ve been working in ballistics for twenty-two years. I’ve testified in over a hundred cases.”

“Thank you.” Nicole angled her body toward the jury, her hands loose at her sides, every movement designed to project calm authority. “You examined the firearm recovered in this case?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Tell us what you found.”

Daniels adjusted his glasses, opened his folder, and launched into his report.

“The weapon was a .38 caliber revolver. Classic design. Well-maintained. Recently fired. The fatal bullet recovered from the victim’s body was conclusively matched to this revolver.

There’s no doubt it’s the murder weapon. ”

A murmur rolled through the gallery. Nicole let the silence stretch, then tilted her head, her voice smooth. “Mr. Daniels, when a firearm is logged into evidence, ownership records are traced, are they not?”

“Yes.”

“And did you trace this weapon?”

“I did.”

Nicole paused. She could feel the moment building like a storm cell gathering in the humid summer sky. She glanced at the jury, letting her gaze move slowly from face to face. She wanted them leaning in before she asked.

“And to whom was this firearm registered?”

Daniels checked his notes, though he didn’t need to. His voice was crisp, certain. “Mrs. Evelyn Reddick.”

The gallery erupted. Whispers, gasps, the scrape of chairs shifting.

Nicole’s pulse spiked, but outwardly she didn’t move. She had known the answer the moment she saw the report, and worried how the jury would react to that information. And justly so.

Judge Price’s gavel cracked like thunder. “Order! I will have order in this courtroom!”

Tripp was on his feet before she could ask her next question. “Objection, Your Honor.” His voice rang sharp across the room. “May we approach the bench?”

Judge Price’s brows lifted, but he gave a curt nod. “Counsel, approach.”

Nicole gathered her notes, then joined Tripp at the bench.

The low hum of the white-noise machine filled the courtroom as Nicole and Tripp stepped up to the bench. Judge Price leaned forward, eyes sharp.

“All right, counsel,” he said in a low growl. “What exactly is going on here? Why is this jury hearing that the murder weapon belongs to someone other than the defendant?”

Nicole spoke first, her voice cool but edged with steel. “It doesn’t matter whose name is on the paperwork. What matters is who kept the gun in that closet, who had the key, who had control. And that was Derrick Reddick. The state arrested him on that basis.”

Tripp braced his hands against the bench, meeting the judge’s gaze. “With respect, Your Honor, the state’s case hinges on tying this gun to my client — and we’ve just heard it’s not his. That fact goes directly to reasonable doubt.”

Judge Price shifted his gaze back to Nicole. “Ms. Reyes, why didn’t the police pursue Mrs. Reddick if the gun was hers?”

Nicole sighed and wondered if they had gone after the wrong person.

“Because the totality of the evidence pointed to Derrick. He had a documented argument with the victim the night before. Witnesses placed him at her house. He had scratches on his hands consistent with a struggle. Add the firearm found in his possession, that’s more than probable cause for an arrest.”

Tripp cut in, his tone sharp. “But fingerprints don’t lie, Your Honor. Derrick’s prints weren’t on that gun. It was wiped clean.”

Nicole’s voice rose, tight with control. “A wiped weapon is consistent with consciousness of guilt. The most logical person to clean it would be the person in possession — Derrick Reddick.”

Tripp narrowed his eyes. “Or it proves the state has been looking at the wrong Reddick all along.”

The judge rapped his knuckles against the bench, the sound sharp even over the hum.

“Enough. This isn’t the time for speeches. The evidence about ownership and prints is admissible; the jury will hear it. What weight they give it is their job, not mine.”

Nicole inclined her head. “Understood, Your Honor.”

Tripp gave a clipped nod, but his eyes burned. “Then let the record reflect, Your Honor, that nothing we’ve heard proves my client ever pulled that trigger.”

Judge Price’s mouth twitched, almost a grimace. “The record will reflect it. Now get back to your tables and keep this trial on track.”

The white noise clicked off. The two of them stepped back, masks sliding into place as though nothing had happened.

But Nicole caught the flicker in Tripp’s eyes. She turned back toward the jury box, pulse still racing.

Behind her, Tripp exhaled slowly. He was defending his client with skill. But she couldn’t shake the question now buzzing in her own mind:

Was he also defending his mother?

From the corner of her eye, Nicole saw Evelyn Reddick in the gallery, seated as regally as if she were hosting a luncheon. Her pearls gleamed under the lights, her expression calm, controlled.

It was like staring at Tripp’s mother all over again. The same cold disdain. The same hunger for control. Different woman, same poison. And that’s when it hit her hard. Had Derrick really killed Bianca or had his mother?

Why did it feel like the woman had more to gain from Bianca’s death?

Nicole turned back to the stand. “Mr. Daniels, where did the police find the pistol?”

“In Derrick Reddick’s apartment.”

Nicole’s throat felt tight. “Was it secured?”

Daniels nodded. “In a locked case.”

The gallery buzzed louder, a low hum of shock.

Tripp shot to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor! The state is insinuating, without foundation, that Mrs. Reddick is implicated in this crime. She is not on trial here.”

Nicole pivoted toward the bench, keeping her voice calm though adrenaline surged through her veins. “Your Honor, this is directly relevant to possession and access — the jury is entitled to hear it.”

Judge Price rapped his gavel again. “The objection is noted. The witness’s answer will stand. The jury will consider it for what it’s worth.”

Nicole inclined her head. “Thank you, Your Honor.” She turned back.

She wanted to press further. To ask the questions clawing at her: Could Evelyn have been the killer? Why was her gun used? Or was this just a red herring to throw her? But strategy held her back. The answers would come, but not yet. Not today.

She drew herself up, her mask of composure flawless. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Masterson, you may cross-examine the witness.”

As she walked back to her table, her legs felt unsteady beneath her. She sat, clasped her hands on the desk, and forced her breathing into rhythm.

Inside, though, her mind spun.

Her gaze flicked across the courtroom to Tripp. He was staring at her, his eyes dark, unreadable. But she knew him well enough to recognize the storm gathering behind them.

All the signs had pointed to Derrick Reddick, not his mother, and yet suddenly she was having doubts. And she’d latched onto Derrick being the killer and had not properly vetted his mother, because the woman didn’t appear to have opportunity. Derrick did.

Nicole’s throat tightened. This case wasn’t just about Bianca anymore. It was about patterns. Families who thought they could control their lives. Mothers who decided whose love was acceptable and whose was disposable.

She forced herself to sit straighter, to face forward. The jury couldn’t see her doubt. They had to see her as steady, unshaken.

But inside, she knew the trial had just changed course.

And Evelyn Reddick’s perfect mask was starting to crack. Had she killed Bianca?