“I just have to say . . . that I saw the boys shouting and arguing. And then I saw the car. And the man in the car. And I saw him hit the boy. That’s it. That’s all I have to say. That’s all . . .”

Her voice caught as she saw once again the phone whipping through the air, heard the hideous clunk of Kai’s head on the concrete.

“Yeah,” said Cormac. “You can do that. You can tell the truth. Telling the truth should feel easy.”

“I saw . . . I saw the car come round,” said Lissa again, her voice still wavering. “I saw it come round too fast. I saw the color of it. I saw it.”

“Yeah,” said Cormac, more encouraging now.

“I saw it hit . . . I saw it hit the boy. I saw it. I saw him. I saw him hit the boy, and Kai . . . Kai’s . . . the boy’s . . . Kai’s phone. Went up. In the air. I saw it. And he went up, he was thrown up, and . . . and he killed him. I saw it. I did. I saw it. I was there.”

“’Scuse me.”

Cormac blinked, the spell broken, and looked up. A large girl with a lot of straw-colored blond hair and a crop top that seemed slightly unusual in a court situation was glaring at him.

“Need to use this loo.”

She didn’t seem obviously disabled, but Cormac knew better than to judge that. On the other side of the door, Lissa had gone totally silent, just, Cormac thought, as she needed to speak up.

“There’s just someone in,” said Cormac. “Is it urgent?”

“Fuck off,” said the girl.

There was a slightly awkward standoff. Cormac stood up carefully. “Could you just give us a minute?”

“No,” said the girl. “I’m gluten intolerant?”

“Oh,” mumbled Cormac. “Oh, okay, I see . . .”

On the other side of the door, Lissa struggled to hear what was going on outside. She had been so caught up in the moment. She stood up and threw some more water on her face.

Oddly, she felt better. She’d said it. Aloud. She’d said it, seen it in her head as she spoke aloud.

Even talking to a stranger—or perhaps exactly because she had been talking to a stranger—had let her say the words out loud, the words she needed to say; to prepare to point the finger she needed to point, to get justice for the Mitchells, to see justice be done without letting anyone down.

She decided to open the door, thank the odd chap who’d been there, start to move back . . . Roisin must be wondering where she was; she’d left her phone on the table. And her bag. She couldn’t decide if your handbag would be safer in a crown court or much less safe.

She took a deep breath and moved toward the door. Which was the precise second the fire alarm went off.

Chapter 64