“I think so.”

“You don’t have to pretend you’re not scared.”

“I’m not scared of the courtroom.”

“What are you scared of?”

I considered the question. “Of the whole thing becoming the only story people ever tell about me.”

Andrea took my arm. “Then keep living the other stories. Let them be bigger.”

On Monday I returned to work and signed off on a new training program for apprentices. I approved equipment we’d been planning to buy for months. I called a customer about a small disagreement over a finish and solved it before it became an argument.

I was still going to testify. I was still going to see the word FRAUD on that hood whenever I closed my eyes. But I wasn’t going to suspend my life until strangers decided what I deserved.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN — The Room Without Music

The trial began on a cold Monday in November. The courthouse was made of pale stone and heavy doors, with a security checkpoint that seemed determined to remind everyone that the building belonged to rules rather than personalities.

I’d seen courtrooms in films. They were always dramatic places, full of sudden confessions and speeches that changed everything. This one contained a clerk with a stack of folders, attorneys carrying boxes, and people waiting quietly to do difficult work.

Dylan sat beside his lawyer. The expensive suit he’d worn at the earlier hearing had been altered to fit him better. His mother sat behind him, her face carefully composed. Victor sat at the far end of the row. Brooke was expected later as a witness; she waited outside until called.

The jury heard that Dylan was charged with intentionally damaging another person’s property. They were instructed to decide the case based on admissible evidence, not on my profession, the vehicle’s price, or anything they’d read online. The judge explained that an allegation wasn’t proof and that every witness had to be evaluated carefully.

I was glad to hear it. If I wanted fair treatment for myself, I couldn’t object to a fair process for the person who had harmed me.

The prosecutor opened with a simple account of what the cameras recorded. The defense argued that Dylan had acted recklessly but that the precise amount and intended extent of the damage were disputed. I could see why. A few minutes of paint might seem trivial to someone who had never seen a high-end finish restored.

Then the evidence began.

Arthur testified about his camera, when he’d installed it, how the file was stored, and how he provided it to investigators. He did not embellish. When the defense asked whether he disliked Vivienne, he admitted they’d argued over association matters.

“Then you have a reason to want to embarrass her son,” the lawyer said.

Arthur looked at him over his glasses. “I have a reason to tell the truth about what my camera saw.”

The courtroom remained silent. No one applauded. But I noticed the prosecutor write something down.

Priya testified about the angle of her doorbell camera and the time stamps on her files. Officer Tate described the first encounter, the scene, the physical evidence, and the inconsistent accounts given by Dylan and Brooke. She took care not to describe her impressions as facts.

During a break, Arthur found me in the hallway.

“I feel like I did something wrong,” he admitted.