Chapter 2 The Ghost in Court

# Chapter 2: The Ghost in Court

The courtroom feels too bright, too cold. My wrists chafe against the handcuffs as I sit at the defendant's table, the orange jumpsuit scratchy against my skin. My court-appointed attorney, Ms. Reeves, shuffles papers beside me, occasionally patting my arm in what I assume is meant to be reassurance. It doesn't help.

The past week has been a blur of psychiatric evaluations and legal proceedings. Despite Dr. Matthews' theories about my "unique psychological state," the district attorney decided I was competent to stand trial. The evidence against me seemed overwhelming: my fingerprints on the murder weapon, my DNA under Rowan's fingernails, and most damning of all, my own confession.

But the drawings haunt me. Each night at Blackwood, before they transferred me to county jail, I continued to sketch Rowan's face while asleep. Dr. Matthews said it was my subconscious trying to communicate something my conscious mind couldn't accept.

"All rise. The Honorable Judge Eleanor Wilson presiding."

The judge enters, a severe woman with silver hair and piercing eyes that seem to look straight through me as she takes her seat. After the formalities, the prosecutor begins his opening statement, painting me as a brilliant but unstable woman who murdered her equally brilliant husband in a fit of jealous rage.

"The evidence will show," he says, pacing before the jury, "that Faye Harlow meticulously planned to kill Dr. Rowan Harlow, using a scalpel he had given her as a gift—a twisted perversion of his affection."

Ms. Reeves looks ready to object, but I squeeze her arm. Let them think what they want. Nothing feels real anyway.

The prosecutor calls his first witness: the detective who found Rowan's body. He describes the scene in clinical detail—the blood-soaked sheets, the position of the body, the scalpel found on the floor nearby. As he speaks, I close my eyes, trying to match his description with my fractured memories. Some details align perfectly, others feel wrong, like puzzle pieces from different sets forced together.

"And the defendant's whereabouts when you arrived at the scene?" the prosecutor asks.

"Ms. Harlow was found in the master bathroom, washing blood from her hands. She was non-responsive at first, then became hysterical, repeatedly stating, 'I killed him.'"

I don't remember that. I remember the blood, the scalpel, Rowan's eyes—but not the bathroom, not being found by police. Another missing piece.

The morning drags on with forensic experts and neighbors who heard screaming. I barely listen. Instead, I watch the gallery, studying the faces of strangers who came to witness my downfall. Most look morbidly fascinated, a few disgusted. One woman keeps dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

Just before lunch recess, something changes. A commotion at the back of the courtroom draws everyone's attention. The bailiff moves toward the disturbance, and the judge calls for order.

"Your Honor," the prosecutor says, suddenly looking flustered, "may we approach the bench?"

The judge waves both attorneys forward. They speak in hushed tones, the prosecutor gesticulating wildly while Ms. Reeves stands stock-still, her face draining of color. I strain to hear their conversation, catching only fragments:

"...impossible..."

"...identification confirmed..."

"...complete mockery..."

When they return to their tables, Ms. Reeves grips my arm so tightly it hurts.

"Don't panic," she whispers. "Whatever happens next, just... don't panic."

Before I can ask what she means, the judge clears her throat.

"In light of... unusual circumstances, this court will take a thirty-minute recess. The jury is instructed not to discuss this case during the break."

As the jury files out, the courtroom erupts in whispers. Ms. Reeves tries to lead me toward a side door, but the judge stops her.

"The defendant will remain seated."

The courtroom empties slowly, curious onlookers lingering until the bailiff ushers them out. Finally, only the judge, the attorneys, two bailiffs, and I remain. The judge nods toward the back door.

"Bring him in."

The door opens, and I forget how to breathe.

Rowan walks in.

My dead husband, the man I stabbed through the heart, walks into the courtroom looking exactly as I remember him—tall, slightly disheveled, with those intelligent eyes that always seemed to see right through me. He's wearing a charcoal suit I don't recognize, his dark hair slightly longer than in my memory.

"This is outrageous," the prosecutor sputters. "We verified the victim's identity. The medical examiner—"

"May have made an extraordinary error," the judge interrupts. "Which is why we're addressing this privately before continuing."

I can't speak. Can't move. Can only stare at the ghost of my husband as he approaches the bench.

"Your Honor," Rowan says, his voice exactly as I remember, "I can provide DNA samples, fingerprints, whatever you need to confirm my identity. But I assure you, I am very much alive."

"And where have you been while your wife stood trial for your murder?" the judge asks, skepticism evident in her tone.

"Research sabbatical. Remote location in Switzerland. No phone service." He looks at me for the first time, his expression unreadable. "I returned as soon as I heard what was happening."

"Convenient," the prosecutor mutters.

Ms. Reeves finally finds her voice. "Your Honor, if this is indeed Dr. Rowan Harlow, the charges against my client must be dismissed immediately."

"Not so fast," the prosecutor interjects. "Someone was murdered in the Harlow home. If not Dr. Harlow, then who? And why has the defendant repeatedly confessed to killing her husband?"

The judge sighs. "We'll need to verify Dr. Harlow's identity before proceeding. In the meantime—"

"If I may, Your Honor?" Rowan interrupts, pulling a tablet from his briefcase. "I have something that might help clarify matters."

He approaches me slowly, as if I'm a frightened animal that might bolt. Perhaps I am. He places the tablet on the table before me, his fingers briefly brushing against mine. His touch feels real. Warm. Alive.

"Our honeymoon video," he says softly. "Watch."

He presses play, and the screen fills with sunlight and ocean. A private beach somewhere tropical. The camera pans to reveal me, laughing, wearing a white bikini and large sunglasses. I'm running toward the water, glancing back to tease whoever is holding the camera—Rowan, presumably. As I turn, the camera zooms in on my upper body.

There, curling across my left collarbone, is an intricate tattoo of a snake—black ink with hints of emerald green, its head resting just above my heart.

I touch my collarbone instinctively. There's nothing there. No tattoo. No scar from a removed tattoo. Nothing.

"That's not possible," I whisper. "I'm allergic to tattoo ink. Severely allergic."

Rowan's expression doesn't change. "You've never had an allergic reaction to anything in your life, Faye."

"The tattoo artist in Bangkok," he continues, addressing the room now. "You designed it yourself. Said it represented transformation."

I shake my head violently. "No. No, that's not right. I've never been to Bangkok. We honeymooned in..." I trail off, realizing I can't remember where we spent our honeymoon. Another missing piece.

"Your Honor," Ms. Reeves interjects, "this proves nothing except that videos can be altered. My client clearly doesn't have this tattoo."

"Keep watching," Rowan says quietly.

The video continues. Now I'm sitting on the beach at sunset, the tattoo clearly visible as I smile at the camera. Behind me is a small cabana with a calendar hanging on the wall. The camera zooms past me briefly, focusing on something in the background before returning to my face.

I freeze the video, rewind, pause. The calendar on the wall shows July 2023.

"That's not possible," I say again, my voice barely audible. "It's September 2022."

The courtroom falls silent. I look up at Rowan, searching his face for answers, for some sign that this is all an elaborate trick. But all I see is sadness, and something else—determination.

"Your Honor," the prosecutor finally says, "I move for an immediate recess until we can verify Dr. Harlow's identity and investigate this... situation."

The judge nods. "Granted. Court is adjourned until tomorrow morning." She looks at me with something like pity. "The defendant will remain in custody."

As the bailiffs lead me away, I can't stop staring at Rowan. He watches me go, standing perfectly still, his expression unreadable again. Just before I'm taken through the door, he mouths something to me.

It looks like "Remember."

Back in my cell, I trace my fingers over my collarbone repeatedly, as if a tattoo might suddenly appear under my touch. I've never wanted a tattoo. Never been to Bangkok. Never seen that beach cabana.

And the date on the calendar—2023. A year that hasn't happened yet.

None of it makes sense, yet Rowan seemed so certain. The man I thought I had killed stood before me, alive and well, presenting evidence of a life I don't remember living.

I close my eyes, trying to focus on what feels real: the cold concrete beneath me, the distant sounds of the jail, the lingering image of Rowan's face as he watched me being led away.

If he's alive, whose blood covered my hands that night?

If the video is real, why can't I remember any of it?

And how could a calendar show a year that hasn't arrived?

I dream of snakes that night, of ink bleeding beneath my skin, spreading through my veins until I'm drowning in it. And somewhere in the darkness, Rowan watches, whispering "Remember" over and over until the word loses all meaning.