“The state calls Clay Quill to the stand,” the prosecutor said.

Clay rose, walked to the witness box, and sat.

He held his head up, though his eyes looked hollow and worn out.

“Mr.

Quill,” the prosecutor said.

“When your mother called you from the hospital on the night of November fourth, what was your first reaction?”

“I didn’t believe her,” Clay said.

His voice echoed faintly off the high plaster ceiling.