My sister stole my grandmother’s silver bracelet, attacked me when I demanded it back, then smiled outside the courthouse and whispered, “Enjoy prison, Laurel”...

The law allows the defense to depose listed state witnesses before a felony trial begins.

Isaac Vance did not schedule Eleanor Holloway’s deposition in a formal conference room. He scheduled it in the windowless deposition suite in the county courthouse basement—the room where the walls were covered in soundproofing acoustic foam and the air smelled of ozone from the heavy-duty legal copiers.

Isaac wanted Eleanor in an environment where she could not perform for an audience.

Prosecutor Karen Cross sat beside Eleanor. Cross looked uncomfortable. Word had leaked through the courthouse grapevine that the defense had obtained digital evidence from Google, though Isaac had filed the audio file under seal with the presiding judge, refusing to give the State an advance copy until the deposition commenced.

Eleanor was sworn in by the court reporter.

She wore a dark navy Chanel suit with pearl earrings. Her posture was erect, her hands rested elegantly on her alligator-skin handbag. She looked like a woman who chaired hospital charity galas, not a woman who had orchestrated the destruction of her own flesh and blood.

"State your full legal name for the record," Isaac said, settling into his chair.

"Eleanor Beatrice Holloway."

"Mrs. Holloway, you are the mother of the defendant, Laurel Holloway, and the alleged victim, Annabelle Holloway?"

"I am," Eleanor said, her voice dropping into a tone of quiet sorrow. "And this entire process has been the greatest heartbreak of my life."

"I have no doubt," Isaac said dryly. "Mrs. Holloway, I want to direct your attention to the afternoon of October twelfth. You have previously stated under penalty of perjury that Laurel entered your home in a violent rage. Is that correct?"

"That is correct."

"And that she initiated physical violence against Annabelle?"

"Yes. She grabbed Annabelle by the arms, shoved her against the wall, and took a pencil from my desk."

"From your desk," Isaac repeated. "Which desk?"

"The antique roll-top desk in my home office."

"Where were you standing when this happened?"

"I was standing in the doorway of the office," Eleanor said, looking directly at Isaac without blinking. "I saw the entire sequence of events clearly. Annabelle was cowering. Laurel raised the pencil. Annabelle reached up to protect her throat. In the ensuing struggle, Laurel fell and impaled herself."

"Impaled herself," Isaac echoed. "And did Annabelle say anything during this attack?"

"She was crying. She was begging Laurel to stop."

"Did Annabelle ever say: *'Die, you selfish bitch'*?"

The room went completely still.

Eleanor’s hands tightened on the strap of her handbag. A tiny muscle in her left cheek twitched.

"Certainly not," Eleanor said smoothly. "Annabelle is a gentle, delicate girl. She would never use language like that."

"And you, Mrs. Holloway," Isaac leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "When you saw your eldest daughter lying on the floor, bleeding from the head, what did you do?"

"I was frozen in shock," Eleanor said, touching her throat with a trembling hand. "I immediately told Annabelle to stay back so she wouldn't be hurt again. Then I went to call nine-one-one."

"Did you tell Annabelle to put the pencil back on the floor near Laurel’s hand?"

Karen Cross frowned, leaning toward her witness. "Mr. Vance, if you have an evidentiary foundation for these specific quotes, you are required to disclose it."

"I am asking the witness a direct question regarding her statements at the scene of the crime," Isaac barked. "Answer the question, Mrs. Holloway. Did you tell Annabelle to stage the weapon?"

Eleanor laughed. It was a light, patronizing sound, though it cracked slightly at the edge. "That is an absurd, insulting accusation. I did nothing of the sort. I was trying to preserve the scene for the authorities."

Isaac turned to Tess. "Tess. Play the tape."

Karen Cross jumped to her feet. "Wait a minute! What tape?"

"The digital recording captured by the smart hub located ten feet from the doorway of Eleanor Holloway’s office on October twelfth," Isaac said, his eyes locked onto Eleanor. "Certified, authenticated by Google LLC, and cleared under Rule 902 for self-authentication."

Tess pressed a key on the laptop.

The small speakers filled the room.

*“Take your hands off my property.”*

*“Everything in this house belongs to family.”*

The struggle. The ripping of the box.

*“ENOUGH!”*

The slide of the ceramic cup. The footsteps.

*“Die, you selfish bitch.”*

The wet, sickening crunch.

My scream.

And then, Eleanor’s unmistakable, crystal-clear voice:

*“Stop talking. Put the pencil back on the floor near her hand. Belle, don't you dare touch that blood. Sit on the sofa and cry. Let me do the talking.”*

The recording clicked off.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Prosecutor Karen Cross had slowly taken off her glasses. She was staring at Eleanor Holloway not as an advocate, but as a prosecutor who had just realized she had been suborned into committing a monstrous fraud on the court.

Eleanor’s pearl necklace seemed to be choking her.

The color had drained from her skin, leaving behind a waxy, grayish pallor. Her mouth was half-open, her manicured fingers trembling violently against the alligator leather of her bag.

"Mrs. Holloway," Isaac whispered, the gravel in his voice scraping across the silence like a scalpel. "Is that your voice on the recording?"

Eleanor could not speak.

"Mrs. Holloway," Isaac repeated, his voice dropping into a register of icy, terrible finality. "Did you, or did you not, stage the crime scene while your daughter lay bleeding on the floor?"

Karen Cross reached out and placed a firm, heavy hand on Eleanor’s arm.

"Do not answer that," Cross said.

Cross looked at Isaac, then at the court reporter.