In 27 Days

by Alison Gervais

  I hadn’t realized Archer had backed me up against the nearest wall until I felt myself slump against it when he pulled away, his hands falling to his sides.

  We stared at each other for several moments, tension wavering between us.

  “I’m . . . sorry,” he finally said, sounding winded. “I didn’t . . .”

  “No,” I said. “Don’t be.”

  There was no denying that kiss hadn’t just complicated everything a thousand times over. I didn’t regret it, though.

  “I shouldn’t have . . .” Archer released a shaky breath, turning away from me.

  “Archer.” I grabbed his forearm and tugged him around to face me. “I kissed you back, didn’t I?”

  Archer stared down at my hand gripping his arm for a few seconds, then gently shook himself from my grasp, bending down to grab his fallen cell phone.

  “I’m going to head back to Carlo,” he said, not meeting my gaze as he spoke. “If you’re here, I’m guessing my mother is too?”

  “Yes, she’s—”

  “It’s getting late. You don’t need to stick around. You should probably go home now.”

  I didn’t even get the chance to say anything in response before Archer started off down the hallway toward Carlo’s room. He didn’t once look back.

  CHAPTER 24

  Clearing the Air—6 Days Until

  The next morning, I woke an hour before my alarm was set to go off, after only getting two hours of fitful sleep during the night. I padded my way down the hall, through the living room, for the kitchen. I wasn’t surprised to see two empty coffee cups in the sink, along with the morning’s newspaper spread open at my mother’s chair at the dining room table. I’d heard my parents come in the night before, but I had been too exhausted to get out of bed to greet them. I smiled a little when I saw a sticky note on the fridge in my mom’s handwriting that said “Have a great day!” next to a lopsided smiley face I knew was from my dad. They were still as busy as ever, but I could tell they were trying.

  I got a fresh pot of coffee brewing before sitting down at the dining table in front of the newspaper. I nearly spat out a mouthful of coffee when I saw the small article tucked away toward the end of the current events section, barely fifty words. The first line read:

  James St. Pierre, 36, previously convicted of first-degree homicide, is appealing his sentencing.

  Archer’s biological father, the man who killed Chris Morales almost six years ago, was requesting an appeal for his case. Now, I wasn’t even remotely an expert when it came to how American government worked, but even I knew enough to know that this couldn’t be good.

  For the hundredth time since I’d gone to bed last night I replayed the events of yesterday evening, going over the discussion I’d had with Regina at Mama Rosa’s and then the events at the hospital with Carlo and Archer. And not once did it seem as if Archer or his mom had received life-altering news like the fact Regina’s ex-husband, a convicted murder, was trying to get out of prison.

  Because maybe they didn’t know.

  I took a deep breath. Contrary to my mom’s note, this was not going to be a great day.

  There were a few early birds wandering the halls when I arrived at school an hour later. I marched to my locker and pulled out the texts I would need for the day, along with leftover homework. Homeroom wasn’t set to start for another half hour or so. At the very least, I could look over my lab write-up for chemistry or review my notes for American Government for the surprise quiz I knew was coming. That was the one good thing about traveling back in time. I could prepare for pop quizzes I’d already taken.

  I hunkered down in the library, going over my homework, and was the first one to make it to homeroom. It was a struggle to keep focused when the whole time I was wondering if Archer had seen that article in the paper yet. And if he hadn’t, if I would have to be the one to tell him.

  Despite my own concerns, I paid extra attention in American Government during fourth period. Mr. Monroe’s lecture on the amendment process was somewhat interesting, if you took into account the changes the United States had undergone over the centuries, but I had something a little more pressing on my mind. When the bell rang, signaling the start of lunch, I didn’t race out the door like I normally would have. I took the extra time to pack my bag carefully, and then approached Mr. Monroe, seated at his desk, a little warily. He was perfectly aware that I held little interest in his class, but I thought I had been doing a better job of trudging through his lessons.

  “Um, excuse me. Mr. Monroe?”

  He looked up from a test he’d been marking up with a red pen and seemed startled to see me standing in front of his desk. “Miss Jamison,” he said in a crisp voice. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Actually, I had a question,” I said. “And I was wondering if you would be able to help me.”

  Mr. Monroe’s eyebrows shot up his forehead, and he looked even more baffled now. I rarely, if ever, asked questions in his class. “Of course,” he said after he composed himself. “I’d be happy to assist in any way I can.”

  I decided to lay it right out on the table. “What are someone’s chances of being granted an appeal after their trial?”

  “Well, that depends,” Mr. Monroe answered carefully, taking off his glasses and setting them on his desk. “The circumstances of the trial matter, and also on the severity of the crime. However, every person has the right to appeal their sentence. Whether or not they’re actually granted that appeal depends entirely on whether or not new evidence has been found to even warrant a new trial. Besides, double jeopardy goes into play after their sentencing as it is. Does that answer your question?”

  It took a moment to absorb what Mr. Monroe had said. I didn’t know the exact details of St. Pierre’s trial, but surely someone convicted of first-degree murder wouldn’t be taken lightly. Mr. Monroe had said that every person had the right to appeal his or her sentencing, but why had St. Pierre waited six years to do so? What was so important about right now?

  My first thought was Havoc. Could he be behind this too? Since he and I had talked in Mama Rosa’s, everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. I was starting to believe nothing was a coincidence anymore.

  “Yeah,” I said, finally remembering to answer Mr. Monroe. “That did answer my question. Thanks.”

  It was with caution that I approached Mama Rosa’s, anxious about what was waiting for me on the other side of the door. I was thankful I had another shift this evening before my day off tomorrow; otherwise, I wasn’t sure if I would have been able to muster up the courage to come to the coffeehouse on my own. Archer managed to avoid me at school—if he’d even been there, that is. Maybe it was because of our kiss, or maybe it was because he’d likely seen that little story in the paper by now. Either way, he might need someone to talk to. I was that someone.

  The drapes on the front windows were pulled back, the open sign was lit and flashing, and all appeared as if it were business as usual. The front counter was currently unmanned, and there were only a handful of customers seated at the tables and on the couch in front of the fireplace.

  I made my way around the counter and into the kitchen, intent on hanging my stuff up in the back. Archer was at the industrial-sized sink, rinsing dishes, but he didn’t look up as I entered.

  I cleared my throat loudly to make my presence known, not wanting to startle him, and said, “Hey, Archer.”

  For some reason, all I could think about was how he’d kissed me in the hallway at the hospital. And yet that didn’t even come close to being at the top of the list of what was important right now. Archer had probably forgotten about the kiss already, and I couldn’t deny the fact that it might be better that way. He had bigger things to worry about than me.

  Archer glanced over his shoulder as I spoke, and unless it was a trick of the light, his cheeks looked a little pinker than usual. He set down the bowl he’d been scrubbing out and grabbed at a dishtowel, turning to fa
ce me.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice oddly quiet. “Is, uh . . . everything okay out there?”

  “Yeah,” I said as I slipped out of my jacket and hung it and my bag on a hook by the back door. “There’s no line at least.”

  “Okay. Cool. You can help me with the dishes, then?” He said it more like a question than a statement.

  I grabbed a clean apron and slipped it on, rolling up my shirtsleeves as I went to the sink. We worked in amiable silence for a few minutes as he scrubbed the dishes clean, and I rinsed them and stacked them in the dishwasher.

  “How’s Carlo doing?” I asked, trying to make conversation.

  “Good,” Archer said briskly as he washed another bowl. “He had a mild concussion, so they kept him overnight just to make sure he was fine. He was discharged this morning.”

  I began to breathe a little easier hearing that. “That is good, then. I’m glad.”

  He gave a noncommittal grunt as he passed off a plate to me.

  “And, um . . . how are you doing?”

  Archer dropped the plate he was holding into the sink with a loud clatter, turning to me with a tight expression on his face. “You know, don’t you?”

  I was taken aback at his rather abrupt outburst. “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “You know,” he repeated forcefully. “Don’t you? You know about the appeal. Of course you know. How?”

  I let out a defeated sigh, grabbing the plate Archer had dropped and cleaning it myself. “There was an article in the newspaper this morning.”

  “What?”

  “And when you weren’t at school today, I figured that’s why you were probably here, with your family.”

  I knew enough without asking that both Archer and Regina weren’t in the best of conditions right now. I would tell him everything was going to be fine, that St. Pierre’s chances of actually being granted the appeal were slim, but it wouldn’t have meant anything to him. I only knew what Mr. Monroe had briefly told me. My dad was one of the city’s top defense attorneys, but I knew shockingly little about law.

  “Just . . . can you just go stand at the counter or something?” Archer said, returning to the pile of dirty dishes, not meeting my concerned gaze. “I’m sure you know the drill by now.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I can do that.”

  I left him in the kitchen, even though I wanted to stay exactly where I was. We didn’t need to talk or even acknowledge each other’s presence. I just wanted him to know that I was there. He didn’t always have to be alone—especially now. After spending the past two weeks with him, it was becoming easier and easier to tell when he needed space.

  Business picked up at about five o’clock, as people began to make their way home from work, and Archer was forced to join me up front, though he didn’t say a word. I took the orders and made change while Archer worked with smooth efficiency, making drinks and warming up sandwiches and soup for customers.

  We were five minutes from closing, and I had already begun the routine of shutting down for the night, when the door swung open and someone strolled inside, bringing with them a flurry of unexpected snow.

  I looked up from wiping down a table, beginning to say, “Hi. Someone will—”

  My voice trailed off into nothing as the man who’d just walked in unwrapped the scarf from around his neck, shaking snow out of his stylish, graying hair.

  “Mr. Van Auken?”

  My father’s business partner glanced in my direction at the sound of his name and broke into a surprised smile. “Hadley? Wow! Look at you! How long’s it been?”

  “Um . . .”

  I had no idea what to say. I’d seen Rick Van Auken only a handful of times since he’d made partner with my dad back when I was thirteen. I was surprised he even remembered Kenneth Jamison had a daughter. From what I knew of the man, he had more money than King Midas. And yes, Mama Rosa’s was in Manhattan, but in a considerably less posh part than what Mr. Van Auken would have been used to. I had no idea what would bring him to this neck of the woods.

  “You work here?” Mr. Van Auken said, approaching me.

  “Um, yes?” I said awkwardly.

  “Great, great,” he said, sanding his gloved hands together. “Is Regina Morales here by chance?”

  I found this even more confusing than Mr. Van Auken coming into a place like Mama Rosa’s. How did he know Regina? People like Mr. Van Auken and Regina Morales lived in circles that usually never touched unless the universe decided to throw humanity a curveball.

  “Uh, yes, I think so,” I said slowly. I didn’t actually know. I hadn’t seen her since the night before. “Hang on a second, would you? Hey, Archer? Archer!”

  “Yeah, in the kitchen!” I heard him shout back.

  “You think you could come out here for a second?”

  Archer came walking out of the kitchen a moment later and frowned when he saw Mr. Van Auken.

  “Is your mom around by chance?” I asked him nervously.

  “Who’s asking?” he said bluntly.

  He didn’t look all that happy to see someone in the shop so close to closing, asking for his mother, no less.

  “Rick Van Auken,” Mr. Van Auken said, striding forward with an outstretched hand. “You probably don’t remember me, but I used to work for the district attorney’s office. I prosecuted your father.”

  I stood there with my mouth open, wide enough to catch a few flies. Rick Van Auken, my father’s business partner, had prosecuted Archer’s father for first-degree murder.

  “I heard about the request for an appeal. I know it’s a little unusual for me to be making a follow-up with you,” Mr. Van Auken continued, “but I remember this case. It wasn’t . . . easy. I’d like to speak with your mother about possibly representing you if need be.”

  Archer took a deep breath, opening his mouth as if to speak, but all that came out was this huffy sort of noise. Instead, he gestured behind him toward the kitchen. Mr. Van Auken seemed to understand that Archer was having difficulty speaking and made his way around the counter, following him into the kitchen and up to the apartment.

  I flopped down onto the couch, feeling clammy all over. I closed my eyes, wishing my mind would stop swarming with thought for just one second. I gave a jolt of surprise as Archer sunk down on the couch beside me a few minutes later, looking as surly and stone-faced as ever. I wondered how long I’d been sitting there.

  I knew better than to ask, “Is everything okay?” so instead I settled for, “How is Regina?”

  “Surprised,” Archer said stiffly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, hands clasped beneath his chin. “Fine. I don’t know. I’m pretty sure we’d all forgotten Van Auken was in charge of the case. But I think she’s relieved to see him,” Archer continued. “Somebody to clear everything up. He even said he would do the case pro bono. Guess he needs to do a certain number of hours or whatever, but still.”

  “Then that’s good,” I said slowly. “Good.”

  Archer glanced over at me, a frown tugging at his mouth. “You look like you’re about to puke.”

  “No, no, I’m fine.” I shook my head. “I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, you don’t look fine. What’s eating you?”

  “Rick Van Auken is my father’s business partner. They’ve co-owned the firm Watson & Bloomfield for the last couple of years, ever since the original owners retired.”

  If Archer was shocked, he kept his face a perfect mask of indifference. When he spoke next, his voice was just as monotone. “You’re joking.”

  I shook my head, holding in a heavy sigh. “No,” I said. “I never knew that Mr. Van Auken used to work for the district attorney. He comes from old money. I guess I always thought that he’d been as high up as he is now. It’s . . . odd.”

  “Odd,” Archer repeated. “Odd that your father’s business partner just so happened to be the one who prosecuted my father in his murder trial? No, that’s just freaky. How could you not have known?”

&n
bsp; I shrugged. “It’s not like I spend quality time with Mr. Van Auken, and my father certainly doesn’t discuss any of his cases with me. I didn’t even know about your dad until you told me the other week.”

  “Do you trust this Van Auken guy?”

  I barely knew him. “All I can tell you is that he’s one of the best. Your mom is in good hands.”

  Archer sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “I hope so. The last thing my mother needs is to hear is something bad about the appeal.”

  “Every person convicted of a felony crime is allowed the right to appeal his case, but that doesn’t mean he’ll get out, let alone actually get his case heard by the courts.”

  Archer stared over at me with a baffled expression on his face. “Since when do you pay attention in American Government?” he asked incredulously.

  “Since I decided I wasn’t happy with my B in that class,” I said, also thankful that I’d stopped to talk to Mr. Monroe after class earlier. I’d thought about talking to my dad, too, but I couldn’t think of a way to bring up the subject of the appeal without having to bring Archer and his family’s past into the mix. “And look how useful it’s proving to be.”

  Thinking back, I probably could’ve asked my dad for extra help, but that would have been one insanely awkward tutoring session. I was scraping by well enough on my own.

  “People find ways to manipulate the law all the time,” Archer pointed out. “Who’s to say my father won’t get lucky?”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

  Archer and I both jumped at the sound of Mr. Van Auken’s voice and turned to see him standing in the kitchen doorway, Regina beside him.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Archer said, somehow managing to keep the cynicism out of his voice.

  “St. Pierre won’t be getting out. I’ll make sure of it.”