Smaller somehow, deflated. But when his eyes met mine, that spark of control flickered—the same man who believed he could talk his way out of murder.

A small, poisonous smile.

My attorney leaned close.

“Don’t look at him unless you have to.”

I looked anyway.

Once. Facing a monster is part of killing it.

The prosecution spent days unraveling the evidence: the storage unit, the texts, the recordings, the recipes, the pesticide bottle, the duffel bag, the phone call I overheard.

Mrs. Ellery testified anonymously, behind a screen—her voice shook but didn’t break.

The defense tried to paint Ethan as stressed, confused, “not in his right mind.”

Harper produced the notebook. Silence swallowed the room.

No one writes three years of detailed poison notes by accident.

Then it was my turn.

I stood, palms sweating, throat trembling—but my voice held.

I told the jury everything: the dinner, the numbness, the fall, the phone call, the bathroom, the fear… Caleb’s small hand squeezing mine.

When I described whispering, “Don’t move yet,” several jurors flinched, as if they had felt the terror themselves.

Ethan didn’t flinch.

He just watched me, like I was a puzzle he could still solve.

When I stepped down, my legs gave out.

My attorney caught my elbow. “You did it,” she whispered.

But it wasn’t over.

The verdict came after three long days.

Guilty on all counts.

Attempted murder in the first degree.

Attempted murder of a minor.

Conspiracy.

Premeditation.

Ethan stood rigid as the words fell around him, bricks of truth he could no longer escape.

No remorse. No panic. Just a tightening of his jaw.

A crack in the armor.

As they led him away, he turned one last time.

“*You should’ve stayed down,*” he hissed quietly.