The atmosphere in the courtroom was hushed and angry. Expectant. Cally wiped her sweaty hands on her skirt. She was ready but still frightened. She knew how important the next few minutes would be. She'd been prepared. Had gone over her testimony more than once with the nervous, young prosecutor who seemed to look through her, not at her.

She looked to her left. Her father's face was hard and set. His arms were folded in front of him. His fingers, clasped tightly around his elbows, were digging into his flesh. His knuckles were white. He didn't acknowledge her at all.

She felt a light squeeze on her shoulder. She turned to her right and looked up into Lily's cool, blue eyes. Lily smiled at her and winked. Her manner gave Cally the courage she was looking for, partially driving away the fear that pounded in her chest.

The prosecutor rose. "Your honor, the state calls Cally Jo McAllister."

She stood up and walked toward the front of the courtroom. The prosecuting attorney guided her gently up to the witness stand. She sat down, trying as hard as she could not to look at the man sitting next to the defense attorney.

"Cally, do you know what the truth is?" the prosecutor asked.

"Yes, sir." The words squeaked out, small and full of the weakness she felt.

"You'll have to speak up, young lady," the judge said from the bench.

"Yes, sir," she said again, louder this time.

"Do you promise to tell the truth today?" The prosecutor's voice was strong and confident, but his eyes betrayed his fear that Cally would destroy their chance to send a murderer to his deserved punishment.

A fire rose up inside her. She wouldn't mess up. She was determined to do this right. She was eight years old. Not a baby any longer. "Yes, sir," she said strongly.

The prosecutor looked at the judge, who nodded.

"Cally, in your own words, tell us what happened that night four years ago. The night you found your mother's body."

"Well, I…" Her voice cracked, and her eyes grew wide with fear. She looked to Lily for help. Her smile gave her the strength to go on.

"I got up because I heard a noise."

"This was after you'd gone to bed? It was dark out?"

"Yes. It was dark. Past my bedtime."

"What was the noise you heard, Cally?"

"I - I don't know. But when I woke up, I heard screaming."

"You heard someone scream?"

"Yes." The sound lived within her head. Even her sessions with Lily hadn't been able to tame it and drive it away. It was caged, but still had the power to startle her with its ferocity. It jumped out into her mind. Teeth bared and fangs drawn. She fought against it, bringing herself back to the present.

"What did you do, Cally, after you woke up?"

"I went to find my mother and father."

"Did you find them?"

"No. They weren't in their room."

"What did you do then?"

"I went looking for them."

"Did you go downstairs?"

"No."

"Why not?"

She could almost feel the evil that had permeated her home that night. Something obscene. Something wicked. "I was afraid," she whispered. The prosecutor frowned. She realized her mistake. "I was afraid," she said again. Louder this time.

"Why were you afraid?"

"Because of the screaming."

"You could still hear screaming?"

"No. I was afraid because the screaming stopped. The house was too quiet. I couldn't hear any voices at all." She hesitated. "Everything felt wrong."

"Okay." The young attorney went over to his table and shuffled some papers. Cally knew that if she turned her head just a little she would see the monster. Would see the face from her nightmares.

The prosecutor walked back to where she waited. "What did you do next, Cally?"

"I - I sat at the top of the stairs." She remembered the darkness that had hidden her - shielded her from evil. The sound of the TV, muted and indistinguishable. Like an animal growling a warning to anyone who might come too near. The lights dancing off the walls, giving the downstairs rooms a feeling of life and movement.

There was a heavy silence in the courtroom, as if everyone were holding their breath at the same time.

"And did you see anything from the top of the stairs?"

"Yes." Her voice sounded childish to her. Scared. Her long, dark hair felt heavy and itchy on her head.

"Tell us what you saw." He said it simply, but she knew that this was what she had come to do. It had to be done right.

"I saw something red on the carpet. I thought it was strawberry pop. I thought someone had spilled strawberry pop on the carpet." She paused, but the attorney only looked at her. She made herself continue. "Then I saw my mommy…I mean my mother." Mommy was a baby word. She was trying not to use it anymore. "She was lying on the floor." Her voice was shaky.

"Cally," the attorney asked gently, "was your mother alive?"

"No."

"How did you know that?"

"Because her eyes were open, but she wasn't moving. And I could tell that she couldn't see me. I didn't know she was dead then. But I know now."

"Did you see anything else?"

"Yes."

"Take your time, and tell the court what you saw."

"I saw a big knife lying next to my mother. And then I saw a man."

"You saw a man in your house?"

"Yes."

"What was the man doing?"

"I think he was crying."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because I heard him."

"Did the man do anything else?"

"Yes. He picked up the knife and put it in his pocket."

"Did the man see you?"

"No. At first, I thought he did. He looked up at the top of the stairs, but it was so dark, he couldn't see me."

"Cally, did you see the man's face?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"Is the man you saw in this courtroom?"

This was the moment she had been dreading. The thing that made her hands sweat and her body tremble. She had to face the monster. She had to stare him in the face. She slowly turned her head to look at the man sitting to her left. When her eyes met his, his face melted into her nightmares. She felt as if she was dreaming. Sitting in a courtroom. Dreaming. Her hand seemed to lift on its own. Her finger pointed without her consent. And her voice spoke without her will. "That's the man. Right there."

The prosecutor breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Let the record show that the witness is pointing to the defendant, Albert Boone. "

Cally's gaze was locked into Boone's. His eyes were wide and full of terror. Trapped. Caged. She had caged him at last. She felt a sense of relief. And confusion. Why did something still feel wrong? As if she had forgotten something. As if the thing she'd forgotten was hidden somewhere in the eyes of Albert Boone. She searched for it for a moment and then drew back into her own world again. And out of his forever.

As she turned her attention back to the prosecutor, she glanced at Boone's wife and son sitting behind him. His wife was sobbing, and his son sat silent, his face frozen and pale. She realized that he was now thrust into the nightmare she had fought so desperately to escape. She had passed it on. It hadn't died. It had just moved on to its next victim.

"One last question, Cally." The prosecutor brought over a paper from his table. "Did you draw this?"

That horrible picture. She'd never wanted to see it again. "Yes."

"Let the record show that the witness is referring to exhibit D." He laid the picture down in front of her. "Who is the person in this picture, Cally?"

"The man who killed my mother." She sensed a movement from the defense table.

The judge shot a look toward the defense attorney. "I will not entertain any objections, counselor. You know the rules. You will get a chance to ask your own questions in a minute."

"What is the name of the man in your picture?"

"Albert Boone," Cally answered.

The door to Boone's cage swung shut tightly behind her.