Oh, sure, he started bringing in the prize money, but how much is enough for a young man with dreams of founding an empire? And isn’t that exactly what he did? Isn’t Damien Stark now one of the wealthiest men on the planet?

And how did he get that way? How did he earn that first million?

Did he take out a patent as a young man while still on the tennis circuit? Did he convince his father—who had control over his income as a youth—to invest his tennis winnings?

Or did he inherit that first million from the coach who had trained him? Nurtured him? Doted on him?

And how did Damien repay that attention and affection? He saw dollar signs—and he killed Merle Richter. That first million was blood money, the prosecutor is arguing. Blood money for which the German people now want Stark to pay.

That is the story, and without Damien testifying in counter to it, I am afraid that it is a good one.

The prosecutor seems to speak forever. I watch the faces of the judges. They do not look sympathetic.

When it’s over, I realize that I have drawn blood on my knees. I don’t remember taking a pen out of my purse, but I must have, because I have been digging the point into my flesh.

“Nikki?” Ollie’s voice is sharp beside me.

“I’m fine,” I snap. I lick my finger and try to rub out the spot of blood and ink. Damien will see it, and he will worry about me more than he worries about himself.

As I watch, I see Maynard whisper to Herr Vogel, who is reputed to be one of the best defense attorneys in Bavaria, if not Germany. He’s a polished, practiced man, and I have been impressed with him so far, but now that we’re in court, I’m going in blind and I’m nervous. He rises, readying himself for his chance to speak, when the tallest of the professional judges accepts a piece of paper from his clerk.

He reads it, frowns, and then speaks in rapid-fire German before standing. He aims a hard look at the prosecutor and then at Herr Vogel. Maynard turns to face Damien, and from where I sit I can see the deep lines of his frown.

I have absolutely no idea what is going on, and I don’t think Damien does, either. As if he can feel my thoughts upon him, he turns. What? I mouth, but he only shakes his head, not in dismissal, but in confusion.

At the bench, the professional judges stand and the lay judges follow suit. They don’t look happy.

The tall judge points to Herr Vogel and the prosecutor, and says a few more words in German. Again, I’m left clueless, but considering how quickly the two move to follow him through the heavy wooden door to the court’s inner sanctum, I can tell that something important is going on.

Tense moments pass. Maynard leans over and says something to Damien. Damien shakes his head. The observers in the courtroom shift and mumble, and I know that all eyes in the gallery are on Damien. I am clutching the bench upon which I’m sitting, terrified that if I don’t hold on I will go spinning off into space. And equally afraid that I will dent the wood from my fingers pressing in too tightly.

Time has no meaning to me until the door finally opens again. The bailiff steps out. He speaks to another of the German attorneys, who then bends and whispers something to Maynard. I try to read his lips, but of course I cannot. I see Charles stiffen, though, and my own body tightens as well. Charles reaches for Damien, his hand closing over his elbow. He speaks low, but I am only one row behind and I make out the words. “They want to see us in chambers.”

I swallow as Damien stands, and without thinking, I reach for him. I don’t see him move. I don’t see him reach for me. But for the briefest of moments, his fingers close over mine. Electric shocks whip through me. He squeezes my fingers, his eyes meet mine.

I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what to say. I am scared, so scared. But I don’t want Damien to see that. He knows it, of course, but I want to be strong. I need to be as strong as he believes me to be.

And then he is walking away, moving through the heavy wooden door to the judges’ chambers. Going where I cannot follow into a world I don’t understand.

All I know is that trials are not usually interrupted in this way.

All I can see is the stern expression on the judges’ faces and the blank control in the eyes of Charles Maynard.

All I know is that they have taken Damien from me.

All I feel is fear.

Chapter Four

Ollie has moved to the defense table to sit with the legal team. I know he is trying to find out what is going on, but his absence makes me feel even more at loose ends. It has been over an hour now. I am alone and desperate for information. For the first time since I came to Germany, I truly feel what it is like to be in a foreign country, because I have no understanding of what is going on around me.

It’s not the language, though. The fact that I do not speak German only exacerbates the illusion. The German attorneys all speak fluent English, and I can hear what they are saying to Ollie. And what they are saying is that they do not understand any more than I do. We have all stepped through the looking glass, and I’m afraid that what we will find on this side is something even worse than the spectacle we anticipated.

I press my hands to the bench beside me, preparing to lever myself to my feet. But I force myself to remain seated. Pacing will only call attention to me, and I have already noticed how many of the people in the gallery are staring at me, whispering among themselves. In the absence of Damien, I stand as his proxy. It is not a role that I would mind under normal circumstances, but today I do not want to be in the spotlight.

When I am certain that I will go completely mad if even one more minute passes without any word, the door to the judges’ chamber opens and the group files out. The professional judges come first, their expressions unreadable. Then Maynard, then Herr Vogel. The lay judges follow, and Damien brings up the rear.

I’m not sure when I stood up, but I’m standing when my eyes meet Damien’s. My hands are fisted in my skirt, and I’m silently screaming at him to tell me what happened. He remains silent, and though I search his face, I can find nothing helpful in his expression. It is completely blank.

He slips in behind the counsel table, and he is only inches from where I stand. My heart lurches, because he is no longer looking at me, and a cold wave of fear settles over me. Then he shifts, his eyes once again meeting mine. I blink away tears and reach out for him. He takes my hand in his and squeezes it.

It’s bad, I think. Whatever it is, it must be very, very bad.

Damien releases my hand, and my sense of foreboding increases. He sits at the defense counsel table, and I take my seat, as well. There is already one witness—a janitor—who saw him arguing on the roof with Richter before Richter fell to his death. Could there be another witness? It is the only thing I can think of, and worry consumes me.

Then the judges are back at the bench and Ollie returns to the gallery. The bailiff calls the proceedings to order just as Ollie sits beside me.

“Do you know what’s happening?” I whisper.

“No.” His forehead is creased, and he looks as confused as I feel.

The tall judge begins to speak in slow, controlled German, and although Herr Vogel and Maynard and Damien stay perfectly still, the other attorneys at the defense table begin to shift in their seats. They weren’t privy to what was said behind closed doors, and from my perspective, they look like men about to explode.