For the first time since the trial began, Hanna looked at Spencer and met her gaze. Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. It was like a tiny glimmer of sunlight had entered the courtroom. Nick wiped his hand across his forehead. “Uh, no?” He seemed uncertain, like he no longer knew the script he was supposed to follow. “I-I forced it out of her?”
“Ah.” Rubens placed his hands on his hips. “Of course. But, Mr. Maxwell, if Alison truly wasn’t the one to blame in these murders, if Alison was looking for a sure way to prove to these girls that she wasn’t the enemy, wouldn’t she have fed you some incorrect details instead?”
Nick blinked. “Huh?” he said softly.
Reginald stood up again from his seat, but he didn’t say anything, just stared.
“It wasn’t like you’d know if the details were true or not,” Rubens said. “And if Alison was smart—which she is—she would have given incorrect details, so that when the girls read the letter in that bedroom in the Poconos, they would have thought, Huh. This isn’t Ali. They would have been scared, of course—they were locked inside the house, a match had been lit—but they might have wondered what was exactly at play.”
“Maybe Alison isn’t that smart,” Nick said, but he sounded unconvinced.
Rubens shrugged. “Clearly the two of you didn’t bank on the girls surviving and explaining what the letter said at all. But they did, and it seems to me that by Alison giving you specific and accurate details, she could be seen as your co-conspirator, not your captive. Now, tell the truth. Alison willingly fed you that information for the letter. But she did so because she wanted the girls to know the whole, awful truth. She asked you to write it, though, so your prints would be on it if it was found. I bet she praised you for your writing, didn’t she? Made you think you were better suited to write such a letter, that you had a better way with words.”
Nick licked his lips. “How did you know that?” he whispered.
“Objection!” Reginald said, shooting up. But then he just stared at Nick, furious.
“I’ll keep you just a minute longer,” Rubens said. “My last question is about Ms. Marin, Ms. Hastings, and the others’ visit to you in prison last week.” He smiled. “I’m assuming you had a nice talk?”
“Not really,” Nick spat.
“It’s funny, though, that they turned up in Cape May, New Jersey, the day after their visit. It’s also funny that your grandmother, Betty Maxwell, has a vacation home there.”
“Lots of people have vacation homes in Cape May,” the DA called out from his seat.
“That’s true.” Rubens looked at Nick. “Very, very true. But I had some guys do some snooping, and do you know what they found? A witness who can put Ms. Hastings and the other girls at that beach house that day.” He went to the screen and clicked on a new file. Up popped a picture of Hanna, Spencer, Emily, and Aria standing in front of the beach house they’d raided, hugging. Hanna’s heart lurched—she hoped this wouldn’t get them in even more trouble. But by the look on Rubens’s face, maybe that wasn’t where he was going.
“That doesn’t seem like a coincidence, does it?” he said. “And strange—when I questioned the guard at your prison who escorted you out of the room after you spoke to the girls, he said you mentioned your grandmother Betty to them—and Cape May. Now, why would you do that?”
Nick’s lip quivered. “I—”
“Can I offer a theory?” Rubens suggested, lacing his hands together. “I think you wanted them to go to that beach house because you can’t be sure Alison’s really dead. And you’re furious that she pinned all of her crimes on you—you loved her, you thought you two were bound for life. You thought the girls might find her there. And you wanted them to bring her in once and for all.”
“That’s not true,” Nick said.
“Why else would you have hinted that your grandmother has a house there?” Rubens raised his hands in the air. “Surely you weren’t offering the place so the girls could get some R & R. Will you honestly sit up here and tell me that you really and truly think Alison is dead? In front of all these people, after swearing on the Bible, with the risk of perjury on your record, you want to tell me that you really and truly believe Alison isn’t alive?”
There was a deathly hush in the courtroom. Hanna peeked at Reginald. His face was pale, his mouth slack. Nick ran his hands down his face, his eyes darting back and forth. Finally, the judge shifted. “Answer the question,” he demanded.
“I-I don’t know.” Nick’s voice cracked. “She could be out there. I mean, probably not, but . . .”
“But she could.” Rubens looked at the jury, his expression triumphant. “She could. And that’s because Alison is the mastermind here, not Nicholas. He was a pawn in her game, not the other way around. And may I remind all of you that we are convicting Ms. Hastings and Ms. Marin—and Ms. Montgomery, when she returns—based on one hundred percent certainty that they not only killed Alison, but that Alison is indeed dead. And maybe, just maybe, she’s not. She’s been presumed dead before, after all—after the Poconos, when Nick himself saved her. She knows how to lie low. She knows how to evade the law. It’s not unthinkable that she’s doing the same thing here.”
Then, dropping his hands to his sides, he looked wearily at the judge. “No further questions, your honor.”