Page 116 of Defend Me

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

VON

Grayson and Mr. Sanderson arrive around three o’clock in the morning.

For an old man, he’s remarkably sharp at this early hour. He’s a stout, hearty sort of guy, with thinning gray hair and keen blue eyes. He stomps into the house and gazes around the foyer.

“Last time I was here was at that party,” he says. When he looks at me, I see the sincerity in his gaze. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say.

“Oh please, call me Bob. Where’s Noah?”

“In the sunroom. This way.”

Noah is dozing on the couch but leaps to his feet when he sees Mr. Sanderson. The two of them embrace as Grayson hands me a USB drive.

“It’s all there,” he says triumphantly. “This gentleman has officially saved Noah’scute little butt.”

“If I had known, I would have come back sooner,” Mr. Sanderson is saying to Noah.

“You’re here now,” Noah says. “That’s what counts.”

“How could anyone think you had anything to do with that awful business?” Mr. Sanderson says as I open my computer and plug in the drive. “The sheriff trained you himself!”

Noah shrugs. “People will believe what they want to believe, I guess.”

Mr. Sanderson scoffs. I click on the folder that appears on the screen and find the file with the correct date. June twenty-second. With my heart in my throat, I open it.

There’s Magnolia Bay, glittering in the early morning sun. I can see the prow of a little boat, as well as the banks of the bay, lined with trees. Mr. Sanderson keeps zooming in on various spots. I fast forward a bit, then Grayson says, “Stop.”

I click play and the camera zooms out. I can hear Mr. Sanderson saying, “Darn, thought I saw it.” Then he pans across the trees and zooms out a bit more. “Looks like Noah Patterson is up early too,” he says as the camera lands on Noah, standing at the end of his dock, just like he said. His hands are in his pockets, and he gazes across the water with a thoughtful expression. His clothes are neat, his posture relaxed. He doesn’t look like he’s just come running from a crime scene, that’s for certain.

I check the timestamp on the video.

6:22 am.

There is simply no way whatsoever that Noah could have been at Everton to shoot my mother at 6:24.

And now we’ve got the cold, hard evidence to prove it.

We enter the courtroom the next morning and I walk over to the prosecution table.

“I have a new witness,” I say, handing him a slip of paper.

Wilbur glances at it and frowns. “Robert Sanderson?”

“All rise,” the bailiff says, and I return to the defense table. I see Wilbur turn to his second chair, obviously confused as to who Mr. Sanderson is and what testimony he might have to offer.

Judge Warner takes his seat and nods in my direction. “Miss Everton, you may call your first witness.”

“Thank you, your honor. The defense calls Robert Sanderson.”

The gallery erupts in whispers. Mr. Sanderson was a beloved member of the community—Noah was telling me last night how sad people were when he moved away. Jake is grinning, seated beside Mrs. Greerson who clearly knows something is up as she nudges him hard with her elbow. My family is giving me a range of looks, from stern (Dad) to confused (Finn) to hopeful (Daisy).

Mr. Sanderson takes the oath and settles into the witness box.

“Mr. Sanderson, how long did you live in Magnolia Bay?” I begin.

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