Shout-out to all the amazing bookstagrammers, bloggers, journalists, readers, booktokers, and reviewers who yeeted about my first book and shared hype for my second—I won’t pretend I haven’t feared that people would pass on this book with it being （or as it feels to me, at least） so experimental in genre, but if you made it this far, know that I am grateful. I love these two, and I hope you did also. （I mean, come on, KNOTS.）
And to my dude of more than a decade—I’m sorry I haven’t made you a househusband yet, but I’m still working on it, never fear.
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Overruled
“Objection. Leading the witness.”
I bite my tongue, quietly seething as I resist the urge to look back at the owner of the deep, honeyed voice calling out in a bored tone.
“Let me rephrase,” I say as evenly as I can manage, keeping my attention on the man in front of me. “You said in your statement that you would often see a visitor coming to the house while Mrs. Johanson was home alone. Is that correct, Mr. Crane?”
The man nods, peeking warily at the woman in question. “That’s correct.”
“And during those visits, where was Mr. Johanson?”
“He was usually at work, ma’am.”
“And this visitor, was it a man or a woman?”
“It was a man.”
I bite back a grin. “I see. How long would this man stay?”
Mr. Crane reaches to scratch at his thinning hair, shifting in his seat. It had taken me a hell of a lot to get him on the stand; in the end it was only the promise from Mr. Johanson that he would keep his gardening job regardless of the outcome of this trial that he finally agreed.
“It varied,” Mr. Crane said. “Sometimes an hour. Sometimes more.”
“So it’s safe to assume that Mrs. Johanson knew this man . . . well, correct?”
“Objection.” I hear a sigh behind me. “Speculation.”
“Rephrase,” I say tightly, still refusing to look at him. “Did you ever see Mrs. Johanson and the man interacting when he would visit, Mr. Crane?”
Mr. Crane shakes his head. “No, ma’am. He always went straight inside the house.”
“But it was always the same man?”
“Yes, ma’am. As far as I could tell.”
“Thank you, Mr. Crane.” I give my attention to Judge Hoffstein. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
I try not to look at him when I return to my table, I really do—but that pull is there, the one I so desperately wish didn’t plague me anytime we’re in the same room together. I can feel his eyes linger on me when I’m finally able to avert my gaze, feel it like the weight of his fingers along my skin as I retake my seat.
He stands slowly, one hand reaching to fasten the button of his suit—a deft, practiced motion that makes the veins in his too-large hands flex—and I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn there, remembering the warmth of them on my body hardly even a week ago. I catch a hint of a smirk when I turn my face to meet his eyes, feeling warmth creep up my neck as I clench my teeth.
Fucking Ezra Hart.
I train my eyes forward, keeping them on the nervous older man on the stand, in quiet support.
“Mr. Crane,” Ezra starts. “Did you know Mrs. Johanson’s visitor?”
“No, sir,” Mr. Crane answers. “I was told that—”
“That’s hearsay,” Ezra cuts him off. “What you heard is irrelevant.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, strolling casually to the side and flicking his gaze to mine for the briefest of moments. “I’m asking if you ever actually met Mrs. Johanson’s visitor.”
Mr. Crane’s eyes dart to mine, looking unsure. “Well, no, I didn’t.”
“So there’s no possible way for you to know the purpose of that man’s visits. Correct?”
Mr. Crane is quiet for a moment, and my heart thuds in my ribs. There’s no way that Ezra can possibly suggest—
“No, sir,” Mr. Crane answers. “I could not.”
“I see.” Ezra’s mouth turns up in the ghost of a smile. “Just as you couldn’t know of Mrs. Johanson’s recent interests in spiritual direction?”
“I . . .” Mr. Crane blinks with confusion, and I can feel the same emotion playing on Mr. Johanson’s and my faces. “No? I didn’t know that.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Ezra practically coos. “It’s not something she advertised. The only people who knew this were her close friends. Well, and her husband, of course.” Ezra looks back at our table. “Although I very much doubt Mr. Johanson would recall this, given that he rarely took note of Mrs. Johanson’s interests.”