Chapter 41 Anna's Testimony

Chapter 41 Anna's Testimony
Amelia Noah POV
The courtroom feels different today. Yesterday's testimony built the case methodically—evidence, patterns, forensics. Clinical. Devastating but abstract.
Today feels personal.
Andreas stands before the judge. "The prosecution calls Anna de Vries."
The gallery erupts in whispers. David's supporters murmur confusion. Victims' families lean forward, recognizing the name from pre-trial briefings. Kate grips my hand.
"Who is she?" Emily whispers, pen poised.
"Edinburgh, 2009. David's first known attack. She survived."
The side door opens. A woman enters—mid-forties, graying blonde hair pulled back severely, no makeup, wearing a simple black dress that speaks of careful armor. She walks to the witness stand with her shoulders back, chin up, but I see her hands shaking.
I recognize that shake. I wore it myself during depositions.
She's terrified. But she's here anyway.
Anna takes the oath in Dutch-accented English. Her voice is steady despite the tremor in her hands. She doesn't look at David. Not yet.
Andreas begins gently. "Ms. de Vries, can you tell us where you were in August 2009?"
"Edinburgh, Scotland. I was twenty-nine, taking solo backpacking trip around UK before starting new job in Amsterdam." Her accent is thick but her words are clear. "It was my first time traveling alone. I was excited. Proud of myself for being brave."
"Did you meet anyone during this trip?"
"Yes. On my third day, I met a man at a café near Edinburgh Castle. He said his name was James Thornton. Said he was a university student, studying art history. He was charming, British, made me laugh. We spent rest of that day together."
Andreas projects photos Anna provided—selfies from 2009, blurry but clear enough. Anna smiling. And beside her, unmistakably, David. Younger, less polished, but the same eyes, same smile.
The jury stares. Several look at David in the defendant's chair. It's him. No question.
"How long did your relationship with Mr. Thornton last?"
"Five days. We met every day. He showed me Edinburgh, took me to museums, secret gardens, places tourists don't know. He photographed me constantly. Said I was his 'muse.' I felt special. Beautiful. Seen." Anna's voice cracks. "I was falling in love."
"What happened on day six?"
Anna takes a breath. Her hands grip the witness stand rail. "He came to my hostel room in the evening. Brought wine. We drank, talked, kissed. Then he pulled out a silk scarf. Hermès brand—I remember the pattern. He said he wanted to photograph me with it. Wrapped it around my neck gently at first. Said I looked beautiful."
The courtroom is absolutely silent.
"Then he started pulling. Not gently. Hard. I couldn't breathe. I tried to tell him to stop but I couldn't speak. His eyes—they changed. He wasn't smiling anymore. He was just... watching. Studying me. Like I was experiment." Tears stream down Anna's face but her voice stays level. "I fought. Scratched his face, kicked, grabbed his wrists. I was drowning in air. Everything went dark at edges."
"How did you survive?"
"Other people in the hostel heard me thrashing against the wall. They broke down my door. Four backpackers—two Australian guys, British woman, German girl. They pulled him off me. He ran. Just grabbed his jacket and ran." Anna wipes her eyes. "I couldn't speak for three days. My throat was too damaged. But I was alive."
"Did you report this to police?"
"Yes. Immediately. The hostel called emergency. Police came, took statement, photographed my injuries." She pulls documents from her purse—hospital records, police report, photos of bruising around her neck. Andreas projects them.
The jury flinches. The bruising is severe, unmistakable. Handprints and scarf-shaped ligature marks.
"What did police find?"
"Nothing. There was no James Thornton registered at Edinburgh University. The phone number he gave me was disconnected. The hostel's security footage showed him but he'd worn a cap, kept his face partially hidden. No useful ID. The detective said without knowing his real name or having physical evidence linking him to a crime, there was nothing they could do."
"What did the detective tell you?"
Anna's jaw tightens. "He asked what I expected, going to a man's room after drinking. He asked if maybe I'd consented to rough sex and regretted it after. He suggested I was 'confused' about what happened. When I insisted I was attacked, he said filing charges would require me to stay in Scotland for months, testify in court, have my sexual history examined. He said it would be difficult to prove assault when I'd voluntarily invited the man to my room."
"What did you do?"
"I went home to Amsterdam. Tried to forget. Told myself maybe I was wrong, maybe I'd misunderstood, maybe it wasn't as bad as I remembered." Her voice is bitter. "That's what women do. We gaslight ourselves because the alternative is believing someone we trusted tried to kill us."
Andreas lets that sit. Several female jurors are crying. The teacher nods slowly. Even the engineer looks troubled.
"When did you realize you weren't wrong?"
"June 2024. I saw David Thornton's face on the news. 'Mediterranean Strangler Arrested in Greece.' The photo was older—he'd grown into his face, styled his hair differently. But the eyes were the same. The smile was the same. And the article said he strangled women with Hermès silk scarves after five-day courtships." Anna finally looks at David. "I knew. Immediately. That was him. That was James. He'd tried to kill me fifteen years ago and I'd let him disappear because a police detective made me doubt myself."
"What did you do?"
"I contacted Detective Mateo. Sent her everything—photos, police reports, hospital records, witness statements from the backpackers who saved me. I told her everything I remembered about him. His mannerisms, his accent, the way he photographed me, his obsession with 'stillness' in subjects."
"And here you are today. Why?"
Anna looks at Amelia in the gallery. Our eyes meet. She sees me seeing her—two women connected by the same predator, fifteen years apart.
"Because I survived, and eight others didn't. Because I was silent for fifteen years and women died. Because if I'd been louder, if I'd fought the police harder, if I'd insisted on justice—maybe Sophie and Nina and Mei and Grace and Lucia and Ana and Carmen and Isabella would still be alive." Her voice breaks completely. "I should have been louder."
Andreas sits. The courtroom is devastated. Victims' families sob openly. Even Judge Vasiliou looks moved.
Then Pemberton rises.
He arranges his papers slowly, deliberately, letting tension build. When he speaks, his voice is sympathetic. Concerned. Reasonable.
"Ms. de Vries, I'm sorry for what you experienced in Edinburgh. Truly. Whether it was assault or a consensual encounter gone wrong, it was clearly traumatic for you."
"It was assault," Anna says firmly.
"Yes, well. Let's examine that. You identified my client from a photograph fifteen years after this alleged incident. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Fifteen years. That's a very long time. Human memory is notoriously unreliable, especially for traumatic events. Isn't it possible you've misidentified him?"
"No. I know his face. His eyes. His voice."
"You admit you were drinking that night?"
"Two glasses of wine over three hours—"
"But you were drinking. Alcohol impairs judgment and memory formation. Isn't it possible your intoxication affected your recollection of events?"
"I remember perfectly—"
"Do you? Or have you spent fifteen years constructing a narrative that explains a frightening experience? Perhaps consensual rough sex that went too far? Perhaps a panic attack during intimacy? Perhaps any number of explanations that don't involve attempted murder?"
"He tried to strangle me with a scarf. I have hospital records—"
"Hospital records show bruising consistent with strangulation. They don't prove intent to murder. They don't prove my client was the person responsible. They prove you were injured, which I don't dispute. But correlation isn't causation."
Pemberton advances toward her, not threateningly, but with the patience of a professor correcting a student.
"You went to this man's room voluntarily, correct?"
"Yes, but—"
"You drank with him voluntarily?"
"Yes—"
"You kissed him voluntarily?"
"Yes, but that doesn't mean—"
"So you consented to intimate contact. You consented to being alone with him. You consented to activities that could be interpreted as sexual foreplay. Then something happened that frightened you—perhaps he misjudged your boundaries during consensual choking, a common sexual practice—and you panicked."
"That's not what happened!" Anna's voice rises. "He tried to kill me!"
"Or you experienced something frightening and your brain reframed it as attempted murder to make sense of your fear." Pemberton's voice remains gentle, maddening in its reasonableness. "You reported it to police. They investigated. They found no evidence. They suggested alternative explanations. You left Scotland. For fifteen years, you moved on with your life. Then you saw my client's photo in the news and suddenly 'remembered' he was your attacker. Isn't that convenient?"
"I never forgot—"
"Yet you didn't pursue charges. Didn't hire a lawyer. Didn't return to Scotland to identify him through official channels. You just... moved on. Until there was international publicity and an opportunity to be part of a high-profile case."
"I'm not here for attention—"
"Aren't you? You kept those photos for fifteen years. Those hospital records. Almost like you were waiting for an opportunity to use them."
Andreas objects: "Argumentative. Witness-badgering."
"Sustained. Mr. Pemberton, move on."
But Pemberton's done the damage. I see it in the jury's faces—doubt creeping in. Fifteen years is a long time. Memory is unreliable. She was drinking. She went to his room voluntarily.
All the same victim-blaming that silences women. All the same doubts that keep predators free.
Pemberton returns to his seat. "Ms. de Vries, do you have any physical evidence linking my client to your 2009 incident? DNA? Fingerprints? Anything beyond your fifteen-year-old memory and photos that show you were friends?"
"I have my testimony—"
"Which is based on memory that may be compromised by trauma, time, alcohol, and media coverage of this case. I'm asking for physical evidence."
"No. I don't have physical evidence. Because the police didn't collect it properly. Because they didn't believe me. Because I was a woman traveling alone who made the mistake of trusting a charming man—"
"Thank you, Ms. de Vries. That's all."
He sits. Anna looks devastated. She answered honestly—no physical evidence—and now her entire testimony is undermined.
Andreas does redirect, reestablishing that the photos prove David used a false name, that the hospital records prove assault occurred, that the pattern matches his later victims perfectly.
But the damage is done. Fifteen-year-old memory. Alcohol. Voluntary intimacy. No physical evidence.
Reasonable doubt.
Anna leaves the stand. She's crying now, trying to hide it. The bailiff escorts her toward the exit.
Court recesses for lunch. I follow Anna into the hallway, catching her before she disappears.
"Ms. de Vries. Anna. Wait."
She turns. Her eyes are red, face blotchy. "I'm sorry. I wasn't strong enough. He made me look stupid—"
"You were incredible." I take her hands. "You told the truth. You survived him. You're here. That's everything."
"But the jury—they don't believe me. I saw their faces. They think I'm confused or lying or—"
"Some of them do. Not all. And your testimony established the pattern. Fifteen years. Five-day courtships. Silk scarves. The exact same method. That's not coincidence."
Anna squeezes my hands. "I saw your photos in his laptop. After the arrest, Detective Mateo showed me the evidence. Frame 217—you sleeping. I have photos just like that. From 2009. Me sleeping in that hostel room, photographed without my knowledge. The way he framed you—chin tilted, eyes closed, peaceful. Exactly like he framed me. Like we're already dead."
My throat closes. "He's been practicing."
"For fifteen years. Perfecting his method. I was attempt number one. You're number nine who survived. How many others between us? How many women disappeared or died and no one connected them to him?"
I think about Emily's investigation. The Berlin woman from 2018. The Malta missing person from 2022. All the faces in David's "Prospects" folder we haven't identified yet.
"We're going to find out," I promise. "After the trial. Emily and I—we're investigating. We're going to find every victim. Every close call. Every woman he hurt. And we're going to tell their stories."
Anna pulls me into a hug. We stand in the courthouse hallway, two survivors connected by silk scarves and photographs and fifteen years of the same predator hunting women.
"When you testify," Anna whispers, "don't let him make you doubt yourself. That's what he does. Makes us question our own reality. Makes us feel crazy for seeing danger. But you're not crazy. Your instincts were right. Trust them."
"Did yours feel right? In Edinburgh? Did you know he was dangerous?"
"Yes. The last day, before the attack. He showed me photos he'd taken of me sleeping. I didn't know he'd been in my room. He said he'd 'borrowed a key from hostel manager because he wanted to capture me in natural state.' I felt violated but he made it sound romantic. Made me feel silly for being uncomfortable. That's how they work—they make you doubt the very instincts trying to save your life."
Kate appears, pulling me aside. "Court's resuming in five minutes. You okay?"
"Yeah. We're okay." I release Anna. "Thank you. For testifying. For being loud this time."
"Thank you for making them listen." Anna straightens her shoulders, wipes her eyes. "Go get him. For all of us."
She leaves with her police escort. I return to the gallery with Kate and Emily.
Andreas approaches us before court resumes. "Anna's testimony was strong. The jury was moved. But Pemberton did damage. Fifteen-year-old memory without physical evidence is vulnerable. We needed her to establish pattern, but she alone won't convict. Your testimony will be crucial—you're recent, you have the recording, you have Emily's documentation. You're our strongest witness."
"No pressure," I mutter.
"All the pressure. But you can handle it." He glances at his watch. "Two more witnesses this afternoon—forensic psychiatrist about psychopathy indicators, and Emily's testimony about her documentation. Then tomorrow, victim impact statements from families. Monday, you testify. Are you ready?"
"No. But I'll do it anyway."
"That's all I need." He squeezes my shoulder briefly—the only unprofessional gesture I've seen from him—then returns to the prosecution table.
Court resumes. The afternoon is technical testimony—psychiatrist explaining how David's behaviors match psychopathy criteria, how predators select victims, how manipulation tactics work. Pemberton objects repeatedly, trying to keep the expert's testimony narrow and clinical rather than damning.
Then Emily takes the stand.
She's nervous—I can see it in how she grips her notes—but determined. Andreas walks her through her Poseidon Resort documentation: the live-stream footage of David photographing me through windows, the group dinner video showing his micro-expressions, her independent research into Ana Kowalski's disappeared blog.
"Why did you document Mr. Thornton's behavior?" Andreas asks.
"Because something felt wrong. The way he watched Amelia—it wasn't romantic interest. It was surveillance. The way he isolated her from other guests. The intensity that looked like love but felt like control." Emily's voice strengthens. "I've traveled solo for six years. I've learned to recognize danger. David Thornton was dangerous."
Pemberton's cross-examination is brutal: "You're a travel blogger, not a psychologist. You filmed people without consent for content. Your 'instincts' are just voyeuristic speculation dressed up as evidence."
But Emily holds firm: "I documented what I saw. The footage speaks for itself. That's not speculation. That's proof."
When court finally adjourns, I'm exhausted. We escape through the back entrance, avoiding media and protesters. The hotel feels like sanctuary.
That night, I stand on the balcony wearing Isabella's jade bracelet, thinking about Anna's testimony.
Fifteen years. He's been doing this for fifteen years. And Anna lived with guilt that maybe if she'd been louder, eight women wouldn't have died.
Now I understand the weight I carry. If I fail on that stand, if the jury doesn't believe me, he'll walk free. And more women will die. And I'll live with the same guilt Anna carries: I should have been louder.
But I won't fail.
Because I'm not alone.
Anna testified for me.
Emily documented for me.
Eight families trust me.
And in two days, I take that stand and use every weapon they've given me: evidence, documentation, recording, truth.
David's been perfecting his method for fifteen years.
I've been preparing for this moment for six months.
Frame 217 was his documentation of prey.
My testimony will be my weapon of justice.
And I won't fail.
I can't.
Too many women are counting on me.
Living and dead.