Faded yellow-brown shadows of deep-tissue contusions mottled my upper arms.

A sharp gasp echoed from the gallery. Not sympathetic horror—terror. It came from Vivian. Marissa clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with the sudden realization of the perjury trap she’d walked into.

Evan stared fixedly at the polished floor, as though he wished it would open and swallow him.

I turned slightly, offering my shoulder to the judge, and pointed with clinical detachment to a specific linear scar.

“I direct the court’s attention to this injury,” I began, my voice ringing with academic authority. “This laceration was caused by a narrow, cylindrical object, swung with extreme velocity from an elevated position, slightly behind the victim.

The impact geometry indicates a downward strike angle of approximately forty-five degrees. Biomechanically, it is impossible for a body to sustain this striation pattern by falling forward down a carpeted staircase.”