Page 47 of Beautiful Evidence

I try not to look at them. I try to keep my eyes on the carafe of water and the single sheet of paper they’ve placed in front of me—my oath, my name, the date. There’s nothing special about this room. There’s a vent hissing softly near the door and a clock that clicks every six seconds. There are no cameras watching, no juryseated behind a partition. Only the three of them across the table—and me, sitting alone under the full weight of their scrutiny.

The judge looks up and clears his throat, lifting his chin in my direction. “Let’s begin,” he says. His voice is brisk and unaffected. The court reporter’s fingers begin to fly.

The first questions are simple. My full name. My title. My professional background. I answer them like I’m still a functioning part of the system. Like I haven’t compromised the database. Like I’m not here lying by omission.

“Where were you assigned at the time the evidence in question was submitted?” the judge asks, looking up from his file, his voice still even.

I meet his eyes and answer clearly. “The Rome forensic pathology unit.” My voice is steady. That surprises me.

“What was your role in processing the sample?” he continues, tapping a pen lightly against the desk.

I take a breath before answering. “I was responsible for DNA extraction and preliminary database alignment.”

“And was that done according to protocol?” he asks, one brow lifting slightly as if testing for a crack.

I nod once, letting my hands rest flatter on the table. “Yes.”

Dr. Bernardi doesn’t look up. Greco’s pen scratches faster. The sound is constant, like a metronome driving the pace.

“And your final determination?” the judge prompts, glancing down at the file. “Was the blood found on Matteo Vescari's clothing linked to any known individuals in the criminal database?”

Here it is. The line I’ve rehearsed a hundred times in the mirror, the line Vincenzo coached me to deliver without flinching.

I sit up straighter and say, “No. It was not." But a shiver of shame runs across my spine like a drag racer.

He shifts slightly in his seat. “And is that the final conclusion submitted in your report?”

“Yes.” I meet his gaze head-on, not blinking. “That conclusion was recorded and filed in accordance with our protocols.”

The silence that follows is measured—heavy without being dramatic. The judge leans back in his chair, slowly folding his hands. Bernardi folds his as well, fingers interlaced. Greco is the one who speaks next, and she narrows her eyes at me as she does it. She's trying to make me crack.

“Ms. Leone, were there any irregularities in the sample collection?” she asks, her tone clipped but polite, her posture sharper than it was a moment ago.

I sit up straighter and answer. “No.”

Greco leans forward, her pen still in hand. “No issues with the chain of custody?”

“No,” I repeat, keeping my voice flat.

She sets her pen down and lifts her gaze to mine, her eyes narrowing even more. “And to your knowledge, has this sample been altered or interfered with in any way since its collection?”

I hesitate, just long enough to register the trap in her phrasing. A breath barely fills my lungs. The truth presses forward in my mouth, like a cracked filling I can’t chew around without bleeding.

“No,” I say again, quieter this time, letting my eyes fall briefly to the table.

They shift tactics. Greco leans in, elbows on the table, her expression unreadable. “Why were you the one to complete the analysis?”

I keep my hands flat and my voice level. “I was on shift when the request was entered.” I'm not sure why they're asking this. I want to say it was just my job, but I realize they're trying to push me. They want me to confess that I took it because I knew it was connected to my father.

“Were you aware of the implications at the time?” she asks, fingers laced over the folder in front of her.

“I was aware the sample was relevant to an ongoing homicide investigation,” I say, my pulse ticking up. "Nothing more."

“Were you aware that the Costa family had been implicated in the murder?” she presses, eyes steady on mine. The chill on my spine sweeps across my arms, to my fingertips, down to my tiptoes. I won't crack.

“Yes,” I answer, forcing my voice to remain even.

Greco’s tone softens, but the edge remains. “And that your father, Gordo Costa, was affiliated with their organization?” The hammer hits the nail right on the head.

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