Page 9 of Secrets of the Past (Secrets of Mustang Island #3)

T he courtroom smelled like old wood, tempered by the low hum of anticipation, a breath the room already held before everything began.

Silver beams of morning filtered through stained-glass windows, illuminating specks of dust drifting in still air.

Nicole Reyes stood at the prosecution’s table, fingertips brushing the polished surface, while in the corner of her mind, Bianca Laurent’s face glowed, alive and hopeful, against everything that had taken her away.

Nicole inhaled slowly, grounding herself. Today was more than just another case. It was therapy, reckoning, and a retribution of her own.

Twenty years ago, that could have been me.

She pressed her hands flat, and the belief echoed underneath her skin.

If she’d gotten pregnant that night, would Tripp have reacted the way she believed Bianca’s boyfriend had?

The man came from a wealthy family, and they’d done everything they could to make it appear that Bianca had more than one man in her life.

But it had all been lies. Nicole had found no one. Only some disturbing texts from the man she believed killed her, upset that she had gotten pregnant. Begging her to get an abortion. More texts from the killer’s mother. Upset that she’d trapped her son.

It seemed like an echo from her past. But she wasn’t going to let them win. Nicole would defend this girl’s life like it was her own.

Across the aisle sat Dustin “Tripp” Masterson, calm. Precise. Controlled. He adjusted his cufflinks the way he used to brush wisps of hair from her shoulder. The steel in his eyes she recognized from when he played high school football. He was here to win, but so was she.

They were no longer lovers. They were adversaries. And yet…the memories of their younger lives filled her. She could have been Bianca. He could have been Reddick.

Nicole squared her shoulders. This trial belonged to Bianca now. But ten thousand miles of emotion made every breath personal.

“State of Texas versus Derrick Reddick,” the bailiff announced, voice rolling across polished benches. “All rise.”

The courtroom exhaled as Judge Carlton Price entered, robes swaying, aura commanding. He surveyed everyone with calm authority.

“Be seated,” he said simply. His voice was quiet but full, homely, firm. “We convene the trial of State v. Reddick . Counsel, please state your appearances.”

Nicole inhaled, lifted her chin. She would win this trial.

Nicole rose then. “Nicole Reyes, for the prosecution.”

Their eyes met, an electric collision. Lightning and ice. Everything that had been buried: pain, regret, resentment, past love. It was all right there.

The words tasted like iron and hope.

Tripp stood across the aisle.

“Dustin Masterson, Defense.”

Lightning lanced her chest. She blinked, pushing away memories.

No , she whispered in her mind. This is not about us. This is about Bianca.

Jennifer and Paige, her friends in the gallery, were watching. She gave them a subtle nod.

She began voir dire with a professional edge, crisp, probing.

“Ladies and gentlemen, do any of you know the defendant or the victim, Bianca Laurent? Have you read media accounts?”

Each juror offered a nod or shake of the head. Their expressions were open, eyes earnest, maybe even anxious.

She explained herself:

“Bianca Laurent wasn’t just a victim. She was a law student, someone once full of promise. She was a plaintiff; yesterday, you could have been her.”

She glimpsed Tripp’s gaze flicker, sharp. Skewed. He watched her, questioning whether this was case preparation or confession.

She inhaled again. In the prosecution’s binder rested Bianca’s acceptance letter to law school—Nicole’s dream, too, once. She gently fingered it, breathing courage.

When it was time, Nicole's voice rose before the jury.

“Members of the jury, Bianca Laurent was bright, courageous, and full of dreams, dreams much like some of yours. She anticipated law school; she was planning a life she believed in.”

She paused, heart hammering.

“And yet, her life ended. Not by accident, but by a man she trusted.”

Her voice caught on “trusted.”

“He was a local man from a good family. I’m going to prove he threatened her. Lied. Shot her. Abandoned the life growing inside her. The life together they created. Why? Because Bianca wasn’t in the same social sphere as Mr. Reddick. And his family disapproved.”

Her words tumbled with force, conviction, and pain.

“It wasn’t just her and the baby's lives stolen, it was her future. And the promise of justice depends on you. You will be asked to listen, to decide who killed Bianca.”

She finished, breath steady. No tears. It was the hardest opening she’d ever delivered, because she and the victim had so much in common.

This could’ve been me.

Bianca was her reflection in a mirror she never asked to look into, but didn’t want to look away from either. And she’d do everything she could to bring her killer to justice.

As she sat at the desk, she watched Tripp put his notes down, remembering that night they’d consummated their wedding vows. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she willed the pain away. This was no place for those memories.

Tripp stood, collected himself, and his voice filled the courtroom with stillness.

“Ladies and gentlemen, stories are powerful. They can guide us or mislead us.”

He paused .

“My client…loved Bianca. Not just like any man, but because he believed in her. His grief that night shattered him.”

He referenced her wounds, but not his thesis on the killer.

“I will show you gaps, inconsistencies… reason to doubt the narrative. This is a man wrongly accused of murdering the woman he loved. Of the child he was excited about. This story will not have the conclusion you expect. My client has lost so much, and I will exonerate him.”

She felt something unsheathe inside her, breaking. Because his words were persuasive, and they touched places only she thought were hers.

He sank down, and the judge looked at her.

Her pulse quickened. This was more than strategy; it was personal. Time to prove herself. Time to win. And time to make Tripp lose—no matter how much it hurt.

“The prosecution would like to call our first witness, Officer Reynolds,” she said.

The policeman walked up to the podium, and she glanced down at her notes one final time.

Officer Reynolds, the first to arrive at the murder scene.

After the bailiff swore him in, she walked up to the podium. At first, they talked about how long he’d been with the island’s police force. Once she’d established he was a seasoned veteran, she started to ask her questions.

“When did you receive the call?”

“It was about ten thirty at night, when Ms. Laurent’s neighbor called to say she’d heard a gunshot. The woman was frightened and said that she knew Miss Laurent and her boyfriend had been arguing a lot. She was afraid something had happened.”

“How long did it take you to arrive on scene?”

“About five minutes,” he said.

“What kind of call did dispatch say this was?”

“Possible domestic violence, with shots fired,” he said.

Nicole felt tears behind her eyelids. But she stayed poised.

“When you arrived, what did you find?”

“When she didn’t answer the door, I went around back and saw a body through a window, lying on the floor unconscious.

Blood pooled from the back of her head and also from a gunshot to her chest,” he said.

“Immediately, I called for backup and also an ambulance. Then I entered the house and found that she was deceased.”

She asked her expert to bring up photos. One: Bianca’s class yearbook, laughing, dreams in her eyes.

When that image filled the screen, Nicole’s vision tunneled.

It hurt because she knew that smile.

Tripp caught it too, fleeting recognition in his eyes: her smile.

Nicole swallowed.

“Do you recognize this woman?”

“Yes, that’s Bianca Laurent,” he said.

“Was she the dead person on the floor?”

“Yes,” he said.

She paused, letting the jury feel the gravity.

A calmness came over her as she questioned the witness, and she felt confident that Reddick had killed her victim.

When she thought she was done, she walked toward her desk. “Your witness.”

Tripp stood and walked to the podium. “Thanks for coming in today, Officer. You said when you arrived, the victim was already deceased. Did anyone prevent you from searching other areas of the house?”

The officer blinked. “We were focused on securing the scene until forensics arrived. That’s protocol.”

Tripp nodded. “Did you secure the house?”

“Yes, sir. Officer Hill and I checked the rest of the house and secured it.”

Tripp questioned the officer quietly: “You found the body in the living room. But the back door, left ajar?”

The officer fumbled.

“Odd, right?”

Nicole’s stomach dropped. The crime scene was unraveling even within minutes.

She watched Tripp’s pen hover over evidence charts.

“Did you find a murder weapon?”

“No, sir,” he replied.

“No further questions, your honor,” he said and returned to his chair.

“Call your next witness,” the judge said.

“The prosecution calls Detective Larry Spencer,” Nicole said, her voice steady as she rose.

The detective took the stand, the oath echoing in the quiet chamber.

Nicole approached the podium, heels clicking softly against the polished wood.

For the first few minutes, she walked the jury through his credentials—twenty-five years on the force, homicide division veteran, certified in evidence collection.

Solid. Reliable. Exactly what they needed to hear.

She saw a few jurors nodding faintly, as though reassured this man knew his work.

“Detective, tell us what you observed when you arrived at the scene.”

“The deceased was lying on her side,” Spencer said, his voice even, practiced. “She appeared to be curled in on herself, as if trying to protect her stomach.”