Page 257 of The Rules
His eyes lift, finding hers across the courtroom with predatory precision. No smile touches his lips, but something flickers in his gaze—recognition, challenge, a silent promise that makes her stomach clench with dread.
She forces herself to hold his stare, refusing to break first.
Her fingernails dig crescents into her palms, the sharp pain grounding her. Crawford's confidence isn't just arrogance—it's certainty. And that terrifies her more than any outburst could.
Because men like Crawford don't panic when cornered.
They spring traps of their own.
Katherine watched the prosecutors pore over the open file. No dramatic reactions. No whispers or gasps. Just the quiet, surgical turning of pages. The evidence was there. The trap was sprung. And yet—nothing broke.
Crawford didn’t flinch.
He sat with one leg crossed over the other, fingers tapping the armrest in that same patient rhythm.Tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap.Not anxious. Not defensive. Just...present. Like a man following a rhythm only he could hear.
Kath’s breath caught. This wasn’t surprise. This was recognition. He was playing his part perfectly, just as she knew he would. Her eyes found his again—because of course, he was already watching.
Still no smile. Still no smugness. Just the unshakable calm of someone who knew exactly where this would land. Like he’d built it to end this way.
Not threat.
Certainty.
Katherine watched as the witness took the stand. Her breath caught high in her chest, refusing to go deeper. The courtroom felt colder now, like someone had turned the air conditioning to a punishing chill. The silence that followed wasn't the hushedanticipation from before—it had transformed into something calculating. Predatory. The kind of quiet that cut slow and deep.
She didn't move. Not when the bailiff called the next name. Not when the witness -Reeves- stepped up to the stand.
He looked smaller today. His shoulders hunched forward as if carrying an invisible weight. His eyes were dull, unfocused. Katherine recognized that look—it was the expression of someone already grieving a decision they hadn't yet made.
The judge watched him closely, brows furrowed slightly.
"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
A beat. The witness hesitated. Just for a second. But it was long enough that every person in the room felt it—that momentary suspension, that crack in certainty.
"Yes," he said finally. His voice was tight. Shaky. Barely above a whisper.
Katherine's spine went rigid. Ben didn't look at her. He didn't have to. The tension between them was a living thing, coiled and waiting.
The first few questions came. Routine. Foundation. Ben's voice remained steady, professional, giving nothing away.
Then came the real ones. The questions that mattered. The ones they'd prepared for. The ones that would bring Crawford down.
And the witness? He said nothing. Not technically.
Words left his mouth. But they were empty. Useless. Carefully noncommittal. Designed to say everything and nothing at all.
"I don't recall the specifics."
"That wasn't my understanding at the time."
"I can't be certain of that sequence of events."
Nothing that would stick. Nothing Crawford wouldn't survive.
Her gaze drifted to him, whose fingers had stopped their tapping. His expression remained unchanged, but there wassomething in his eyes now. Something that looked dangerously close to satisfaction.
They were prepared for this. They knew he wouldn't talk.
