Page 3 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

A ripple moves through the gallery. Eyebrows lift. His attorney glances sideways, but Travis?

He rises like he’s heading to a job interview—cocky, polished, dripping with confidence.

He buttons his jacket like he’s about to close a deal instead of lying about raping my client.

I let him settle. Let him soak in the attention.

He raises his right hand, swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.

And sure enough, he lies before he even sits.

“And the night of April twelfth, you claim you were at Chase Ellison’s apartment, watching the Knicks?”

“Got there around eight. Watched the game. Crashed on the couch.”

I nod like I’m humoring a toddler with finger paint. “Big fan?”

“Lifelong.”

“So you remember that game well? They played the Heat, right?”

He puffs up. “That’s right. Knicks took it.”

“Final score?”

“I don’t recall exactly. Something like one hundred to ninety.”

“Close,” I smile. “It was one hundred four to ninety-seven.”

He shifts like he has somewhere better to be.

“You watched every play?”

He leans forward. “Every second.”

“Then I’m sure you remember Reed’s ankle injury in the third? Or Sanford’s block in the final seconds?”

“Best play I’ve seen in years, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.Someone’s confident today. I narrow my eyes a moment, letting that last comment brew.

“You and Chase are close. Best friends since high school. College roommates. Do you have a key to his apartment?”

He nods. “Of course. We’re like brothers.”

I pause, let the silence stretch.

“How would your ‘brother’ feel about you using his apartment as an alibi for the hour you spent raping Mariela Castillo?”

“Objection!”

“Sustained,” Judge Carter says, but the jury already heard it.

“So, you say you never saw Mariela Castillo before she accused you—and you’ve never been near her building?”

“Correct.”

“Even though she lives a ten-minute walk from Chase’s?”

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