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the whole crowded courtroom watching me. Some people were actually sketching me as I sat there, losing my cool in inches. “I chose Ben,” I admitted through my teeth. “That time.”

    I could tell Prescott didn’t like that addition. “Now Ms. Trillo, will you share with us what your sister was?”

    What? I narrowed my eyes. “A blonde. An Aquarius. An organ donor. A florist.”

    “I’m referring to her occult interests…?”

    “Objection!” At least that one came from our side. Mr. Jennings stood, saying, “Irrelevant.”

    But Prescott had a way around that, too. “This goes toward the victim’s lifestyle, Judge.”

    “The victim is not on trial here!” Jennings looked as stunned as I felt when the judge allowed it.

    Prescott continued, “Is it not true that Diana Trillo was a practicing witch?”

    “Objection!”

    “Counsel,” warned the judge— to Jennings! “You aren’t playing to a jury, here. Tone it down.”

    I remembered something Diana used to say when people got snarky about her beliefs, and I said it. “Goddess worship is one of the fastest growing religions today.”

    “Nonresponsive,” said Prescott. “Move to strike.”

    I noticed Ben Fisher frowning. He leaned forward and said something sharply to Victor, who shook his head and grinned. Damn, I hated that grin. He’d stolen all Diana’s smiles forevermore. He didn’t deserve more of his own, not a one.

    But by now, I knew the drill. “Yes. Diana was a practicing witch.”

    Prescott smiled evilly. “And as such, with what manner of people did she normally associate?”

    It went downhill from there, despite Jennings’s damage control on redirect. Prescott was lucky I had to go to work so soon after the hearing, while I was still in full temper, or I would have seriously considered doing another curse. On him. The bastard!

    The next day, it was Ben’s turn. Jennings called him up first, to establish that Ben had attended a small gathering of friends that night and that no, he’d never asked around about goddess cups and no, he didn’t know Diana.

    Then Prescott went after him, too. “Mr. Fisher, do you work?”

    “Objection!” protested Jennings. “How is this relevant?”

    “Please, Judge. A little leeway here?”

    And the judge nodded. I saw Jennings’s fingers dig into the table in front of him.

    Ben leaned forward to the microphone. Despite being awkward one-on-one, he seemed far less intimidated by the crowd than I’d been. “I work all the time.”

    “Let me rephrase. Are you currently employed in a salaried position?”

    “No.”

    “Why not?”

    “When would I find the time to work?” Ben seemed startled when some people in the gallery laughed. Apparently, he hadn’t been joking, and he tried to explain. “I’m self-employed.”

    “About how much do you earn?”

    Ben made a guess based on royalties and ad revenue off the radio show and the companion Web site. It was about twice what I earned, so I was particularly annoyed when Prescott said, “Not much, then.”

    “I also have a trust fund.”

    “That you share with your brother, right?”

    “Objection,” protested Jennings. “How is any of this relevant?”

    Again Prescott said, “It goes to credibility, Your Honor, and to motive.” Motive?

    “I’ll allow it,” said the judge.

    “Why?” I whispered, but Jennings just shook his head, his jaw clenched. Aunt Maria—who’d managed to come today—patted my hand in a way she thought was comforting.

    It wasn’t. Hurting something would be comforting. Hurting Victor and Prescott would be even better. Me. Bad guy. Remember?

    I sure as hell did.

    Prescott continued. “You live with your grandparents, don’t you, Ben?”

    If I’d needed proof that Ben Fisher didn’t have a poker face, I was getting it now in his obvious annoyance. “On their property, yes. Not in—”

    “And—” started Prescott, but Ben forged on.

    “Not in their house.”

    “Move