“We also found three rolls of heavy-duty packing tape and a pair of cloth utility straps,” he added.

I pressed my hand against my thigh, feeling the faint, raised scars on my wrists through my trousers.

Leo reached over and put his hand over mine.

His palm was warm and slightly damp.

“Did you perform forensic testing on these items?” Mr. Miller asked.

“We did,” Harris said.

“The straps contained traces of skin cells matching Grace Sullivan’s DNA,” he said.

“And the blue container?”

“It had two distinct sets of fingerprints,” Harris said.

“One set belonged to Melanie Sullivan, and the other belonged to Josephine Sullivan,” he said.

A low murmur rippled through the gallery behind us.

The judge rapped her wooden gavel once, a sharp sound that echoed off the high plaster ceiling.

“Order,” she said.

Josephine sat perfectly straight, her hands clasped in her lap, her chin tilted upward.

She did not look at Melanie, who was now trembling so hard her chair squeaked against the floor.

“Thank you, Detective,” Mr. Miller said. “Your witness.”

The defense attorney, a tall man with thinning hair, stood up briefly.