“So did you talk to your aunt and express concerns about him?”

“Just once. After that I changed my opinion of him.”

“There were no further disagreements?”

“No.”

When the defense’s questions are over, I feel a fraction calmer. It’s hard to tell, but I think it went okay. I try to imagine myself as a member of the jury: What would I be making of it all?

The prosecutor is on her feet, striding forward. The pace picks up. She asks her questions at speed, one after another, making waves in the courtroom.

“Why did you change your medication, Miss Fielding?”

“Because it was making me feel sick.”

“Not because Mr. Wood died from a reaction to that particular drug?”

“I-I didn’t even know that was what he’d died from. Not then.”

“You had no inkling?”

“How could I?” Becca’s tugging at her ponytail. “I had no idea he’d even taken them.”

“You didn’t try to cover up the fact that they were your pills?”

“Well, it wouldn’t cover it up, would it?”

“You tell me.”

“I mean, it hasn’t.”

“So your plan didn’t work?”

“No—no, it wasn’t my plan. But if it had been, it would’ve been a pretty stupid one.”

“I see.” The prosecutor arches one eyebrow. My head is reeling from the quick-fire questions. Becca looks like they’re having the same effect on her.

“Why did you lie to the police about what medication you were taking?”

“I’ve already said, I just got muddled.”

“So, if I’ve got this right, you thought you hadn’t packed any pills for your stay at your aunt’s flat? Because you were, as you said originally to the police, ‘between medications.’”

“That’s what I thought—”

“Even though, as you’ve just confirmed, they were in your cousin’s bedroom, where you were also sleeping, so you would’ve seen and taken them every day?”

“Of course I remember that now.”

“But when the police asked—twice—if Mr. Wood might’ve had access to carbamazepine around the time he died, you said no.”

“I got muddled.”

“You weren’t trying to cover anything up?”

The judge interrupts: “Please move on. The witness has already answered these questions.”

“Of course, m’lord. I’m merely trying to get everything clear. I don’t want the jury to be muddled also.”

She’s having a joke now. Doing a victory jig even before the end. Tears prod at the backs of my eyes, but I force them away: It’s not over yet.

Hold it together, I want to tell my cousin, who’s visibly shaking on the stand. I remember what happened in my nightmare and a stream of cold air wafts down my back.

“Did Mr. Wood make sexual advances toward you?”

“Um, no.”

“So why did you tell your aunt that he did?”

“I didn’t. Not in so many words.”