Page 67 of Cuckoo

‘Bullshit,’ I agree feebly, with a nod.

‘And then we are called in by the clerk and I close off and that’s it, it’s out of our hands. We’ll have done all we can, and it’s down to the jury.’

I’m so scared I think I might genuinely wet myself, my stomach unbearably twisty-turny, my breath coming out short and sharp.

‘You’re not a murderer, and you are not going to be convicted as one. Not if I can help it,’ Grosvenor tells me.

I nod, but it’s because I want to believe her, rather than that because Idobelieve her.

‘Claire? I have to ask you… why did you not tell me you were working in Morrisons when you met Noah in the wine aisle?’ She’s watching me carefully.

I swallow. ‘I didn’t really think it was relevant, I suppose. It happened how I told you, aside from the fact I was an employee.’

She says nothing, and I can’t read her expression. Her eyes are watching me so intently, I feel like she’s reading my soul. I stare back, entranced, until she blinks, and the moment is over, and she’s barking orders to her junior.

I resist the urge to vomit and get ready to go back into that courtroom, knowing that, perhaps as soon as tomorrow, I will either walk free or be sent behind bars for at least the next decade of my life.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Noah Coors

My breath catches in my throat when Noah walks into the courtroom. He is so devastatingly handsome, his suit cut perfectly to flatter his broad shoulders and chest, the lines of his cutaway shirt collar mirroring his chiselled jawline. I realise, with a shock, that I have not seen my fiancé in person for many months and yet I can see no change in him. I reach for my glass of water with a shaking hand. Grosvenor nudges me under the table and hisses, ‘Don’t look at him,’through gritted teeth, and I fight with every instinct in my body to wrench my gaze away from him. Then I feel a pang because he isn’t looking at me. He has avoided my gaze for the entire walk through the room, and as he seats himself at the podium he stares ahead as though I don’t exist. A strangled sound escapes me, somewhere between a cry and a gasp, and Grosvenor nudges me again, harder this time. I take another shaky gulp of water. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. It’s too hard. It’s too hard seeing my boyfriend up there and having so many questions I’m unable to ask him.

I should be angry, should be consumed with rage, but instead all that emotion is manifesting as panickeddesperation, a feral need to know what the fuck is going on. Why did he do this to me?

‘Mr Coors, have you met this woman before?’ Dodgson asks.

I straighten slightly in my seat, and my left index finger twitches in anticipation.

‘Yes, I have. We met at Morrisons.’ His voice is raspy, drained by exhaustion and filled with such bitterness that it hurts me to hear it.

‘And what was the exchange?’

‘She was working there, I was shopping. I asked her for a wine recommendation. She gave me one, I bought what I had gone there for, and left.’

‘And that was the entire exchange when you first met?’

‘Yes.’

‘You did not invite her for a coffee afterwards?’

‘I certainly did not.’

I feel my blood boiling. My fingers tighten around the sides of my seat as I try to retain my composure. I focus on my breathing but I’m so angry, solet downby the lies, lies,lieshe is telling. Why? And for what? To retain his already-dashed credibility as a one-woman man?

‘How would you describe the interaction?’

Noah does not even pause before answering, as though this question has been rehearsed with Dodgson a thousand times. ‘Fleeting.’

I breathe in slowly, letting all the memories of us flash before me, reminding myself of why I love him, of what we have. Pouring me hot coffee in the morning, the crooked smilethat I would wake up to when the smell of roasted beans grew too strong to resist. Laughs and easy conversation at our dinner table each night, often followed by whispered sweetness in the evening, his arm wrapped around me in bed. There was nothing contractual or professional about our relationship; nothing fleeting about us. Something must have happened to Noah that I don’t know about, to make him go back on all of this so cruelly. There has to be a logical reason for his about-face.

‘And what happened after you left Morrisons? Was that the end of your contact?’

‘No. She sent me a friend request on Facebook a few days later. I recognised her from the profile photo.’

‘How did she have your name?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t give it to her.’

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