Chapter 25 Depositions Begin

Chapter 25 Depositions Begin
Amelia Noah POV

The Manhattan law office smells like expensive leather and legal precedent. I've been here for six hours, answering the same questions in three different languages through three different video connections, and we're not even halfway through.

Barcelona's prosecutor, María Santos, glares at me through the screen with the particular hostility of someone who's tired of victims who don't perform victimhood correctly.

"Ms. Noah, let me understand your timeline." Her English is perfect, her contempt unmistakable. "You discovered concerning information about Mr. Thornton on day four of your relationship, yes?"

"Yes. I found the newspaper article about the Mediterranean Strangler—"

"Yet you continued seeing him for two more days. Had dinner with him. Allowed him to photograph you. Went to his suite willingly. Why?"

My lawyer, Rebecca Klein, starts to object, but I stop her. "Because I was scared. Because refusing would have revealed I suspected him. Because I needed time to plan escape—"

"Or because you weren't actually afraid?" María's interruption is surgical. "Because this was a consensual relationship that you're now reframing as assault because he rejected you?"

"He tried to murder me."

"So you claim. But the evidence shows you pursued this relationship enthusiastically. You accepted his gifts. You posed for intimate photographs. You initiated physical contact on multiple occasions."

"I was being manipulated—"

"Or you were a willing participant who changed her story when the relationship ended badly?" María leans forward. "Ms. Noah, how much is your book deal worth?"

Rebecca objects sharply. "That's irrelevant to—"

"It speaks to motive. Financial gain from portraying herself as victim rather than jilted lover."

My hands clench beneath the table. Six hours of this. Six hours of my trauma being dissected, questioned, reframed as attention-seeking or profit-motivated.

"The book deal came after his arrest," I say steadily. "After he confessed to eight murders. After Detective Mateo identified his pattern—"

"A pattern you conveniently fit perfectly. Almost like you researched his previous victims and tailored your story to match theirs." María's smile is cold. "Tell me, Ms. Noah—did you know about Carmen Rodriguez before you met Mr. Thornton? Did you study his victim profile and present yourself as ideal target?"

"That's outrageous," Rebecca snaps. "You're suggesting my client deliberately put herself in danger—"

"I'm suggesting she's an intelligent marketing executive who recognized an opportunity. Romance with dangerous man. Dramatic rescue. Bestselling book. Quite profitable for someone recently unemployed after failed relationship."

I want to scream. Want to throw something. Want to demand how she can look at eight dead women and suggest I'm the one lying.

Instead, I breathe. Count to five. Use every technique Dr. Chen taught me for maintaining composure under attack.

"I have a recording of him confessing to murder," I say quietly. "On my phone. His voice admitting he killed Carmen, Isabella, Ana, Sophie, Nina, Mei, Grace, Lucia. Explaining his 'artistic process' of documenting their deaths. Are you suggesting I fabricated that?"

"I'm suggesting relationships involve complicated dynamics. What you interpreted as confession might have been roleplay, fantasy, consensual exploration of dark themes—"

"He tried to push me off a terrace."

"Security stopped an argument. You've characterized it as attempted murder. But witnesses say you were both agitated, both near the railing. Perhaps you grabbed him, he defended himself, and you're now claiming he attacked you?"

This is the defense strategy. I can see it clearly now. Reframe every piece of evidence. Make his confession sound like kinky roleplay. Make the photographs consensual documentation. Make eight murders look like relationship drama blown out of proportion by an "unstable" woman with financial motive.

The Barcelona deposition finally ends after eight hours. María's final statement: "We'll be investigating your claims thoroughly, Ms. Noah. If we find evidence of fabrication, we'll pursue charges for filing false reports and obstruction of justice."

The screen goes dark. I sit trembling, exhausted, violated in ways that have nothing to do with physical touch.

Rebecca puts her hand on my shoulder. "You did well. She's trying to rattle you, establish aggressive prosecution stance that makes defense look reasonable by comparison. But you stayed calm. That matters."

"She called me a liar for eight hours."

"She's setting up for trial. Making sure her questions are on record so defense can't claim she went easy on you. It's strategy, not belief. Barcelona wants conviction—they're just proving they vetted you thoroughly."

Kate appears in the doorway, and I collapse into her arms.

"One down," I whisper. "Two more tomorrow."

Rome is gentler. Prosecutor Giovanni Russo asks about David's isolation tactics, his pattern of separating me from potential help. He wants to understand the psychological manipulation, not attack my credibility. His questions help me see the pattern—how David positioned himself between me and every potential ally, how he monitored my movements, how he used photography as cover for surveillance.

"Did he ever physically restrain you?" Giovanni asks.

"Not overtly. But he'd position his body to block exits. Stand too close so moving away felt aggressive. Touch me in ways that looked affectionate but functioned as control."

"And you recognized this as concerning?"

"Not immediately. That's what made him effective—everything felt romantic until I looked back and realized it was predatory."

Giovanni nods. "This aligns with testimony from Ms. Rodriguez's sister. Carmen described feeling 'watched' by her new boyfriend but said it felt flattering at first. Only became frightening when she tried to end things."

Hearing Carmen's experience validates mine. We weren't stupid. We were hunted by someone who spent decades perfecting his technique.

Prague's prosecutor, Katerina Novak, focuses on technical evidence. She wants details about the tracking apps, the surveillance, the way he knew my location constantly.

"Did you give him access to your phone?"

"Not explicitly. But he could have installed tracking software when I wasn't looking. He had access to my suite—he could have accessed my devices there."

"Our technical team found tracking software on three victims' phones. Same program. Purchased from vendor who sells specifically to stalkers and abusers." Katerina's anger is controlled but visible. "Mr. Thornton was systematic. This wasn't crime of passion. This was calculated predation using sophisticated tools."

Throughout all three depositions, David's defense team lurks on video—three lawyers who object constantly, take notes on everything I say, clearly building their case.

Lead attorney, Charles Pemberton QC, is exactly what you'd expect David's family to hire—expensive, British, oozing contempt for "emotional" prosecution witnesses like me.

His final question, delivered with practiced sympathy: "Ms. Noah, I understand you've signed a six-figure publishing deal for a book about your alleged experience. Isn't it true that financial compensation depends on maintaining victim narrative, regardless of truth?"

Rebecca objects. "Asked and answered. Relevance?"

"It speaks to witness credibility and potential bias—"

"My credibility is established by the recording on my phone. His voice. His confession. His admission to eight murders." My voice doesn't shake. "The book deal came after. I'm writing it because he doesn't get to control my narrative. Because eight women can't tell their stories, so I'm telling mine. If that makes me financially biased in your opinion, I can't stop you. But I recorded him admitting to serial murder. That's not narrative. That's evidence."

Pemberton smiles. "We'll see what the jury thinks about your 'evidence' and your motives, Ms. Noah. Thank you for your time."

The depositions end. Two days. Eighteen hours total. Three legal systems. One defense strategy becoming crystal clear: destroy my credibility, reframe murder as misunderstood relationship, suggest I'm profiting from lies.

"They're going to crucify me at trial," I tell Rebecca on our way out.

"They're going to try. But you have the recording. You have the laptop. You have eight victims matching the same pattern. You have physical evidence and technical forensics." She stops, turns to face me. "Amelia, defense's job is making you look unreliable. Prosecution's job is making the evidence undeniable. You're prepared. You're steady. You'll survive cross-examination just like you survived him."

Kate drives me home in silence. Only when we're in my apartment, door locked, does she speak.

"That Barcelona prosecutor—"

"Was doing her job."

"By calling you a liar?"

"By proving she investigated thoroughly. So defense can't claim Barcelona rushed to judgment." I pour wine neither of us will drink. "This is what justice looks like, Kate. It's not clean or kind. It's brutal interrogation followed by waiting to do it again in person. In front of David. In front of cameras. In front of a jury deciding if I'm victim or opportunist."

My phone shows message from Lily: Heard Barcelona was rough. You held up. That's what matters. Next week: Margaret Thornton interview. She wants to apologize for creating him. Prepare yourself.

David's mother. The woman who paid off his victims. Who ignored psychiatric warnings. Who funded his decade of killing through trust fund deposits while claiming ignorance.

She wants to apologize.

As if "sorry" resurrects eight dead women.

But if her testimony destroys his defense, I'll sit through her apologies.

For Carmen. For Isabella. For Ana. For Sophie. For Nina. For Mei. For Grace. For Lucia.

For every woman who deserves justice more than I deserve comfort.

Kate finds me staring at my closed laptop where the deposition transcripts wait—permanent record of my trauma, typed by court reporters who transcribed my pain like it was just another case.

"Ready for tomorrow?" she asks.

Tomorrow: more meetings with prosecutors. More evidence review. More preparation for trial where I'll face David's cold smile and Pemberton's sharp questions and jury's judgment about whether I'm telling truth or seeking attention.

"No," I admit. "But I'll do it anyway."

Because that's what survival looks like now: doing the unbearable thing over and over until justice finally catches up to the man who thought charm and trust funds made him untouchable.

Frame 217 showed me vulnerable.

These depositions show me relentless.

The difference is everything.