by Callie Rose
“Please, Mr. Hollowell. It’s not like I think you and my mom were in love or anything, but you knew her. You talked with her. You have to believe she’s not a murderer. And even if you don’t believe that, doesn’t she deserve a fair chance to prove herself? I know she didn’t do it.”
There’s another long silence, and my body tenses, my muscles straining as if I can physically force him to agree. I can feel him wavering, can tell he wants to help—if for no other reason than that he severely dislikes Scott Parsons.
Hey, if that’s what gets him on my side, I’ll take it.
But then he makes a noise with his tongue. “I’m sorry… Harlow, right? I’m very sorry. I can’t get involved. I truly hope your mom is able to secure better representation. And for the record, I don’t believe she’s a murderer.”
The call disconnects, and I drop my forehead to the steering wheel.
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
He was so fucking close. I could hear it in his voice. He wants to help—whether because he really does like my mom or because he just hates to see someone get screwed over by Scott Parsons, I don’t know, and I don’t really care. He wants to help. And Mom needs help right now like I needed chemo—it could save her life.
When I needed treatment for my cancer, my mother moved heaven and earth to give it to me. She went into massive, catastrophic debt to give it to me. The same debt that’s made it impossible for her to hire better counsel now.
My jaw sets resolutely as I lift my head, and I look back at my phone, searching for an address before typing out a quick text to River.
ME: I’m guessing Linc told you. It wasn’t his dad. I just left the prison. My mom’s a fucking mess. I’m gonna try one more time to get Judge Hollowell to help. I’ll be back later.
I’m not really in a hurry to go back to River’s house anyway. This has to be the most awkward day of the year to be an unwanted houseguest—so I’m all for anything that keeps me away a little longer.
I flick on the windshield wipers and pull out of the parking lot, driving slowly on the snow-covered streets as I follow the GPS’s bland voice commands that take me toward Judge Hollowell’s house. He said he was at home, and if I don’t try one last time to convince him, I won’t be able to live with myself. He’s teetering on the brink, and since he’s not even the judge on Mom’s case, it’s not like I’m asking him to break the law.
And in person, he won’t be able to hang up on me.
It takes me almost twice as long to get to his house as the map app predicts, because I drive like a grandma on the snowy roads. His place is nice, not quite as ostentatious as the Black family mansion and more modern than the Bettencourt house.
Sliding out of the car, I tromp toward his door, shaking the dusty snow off my shoes as I go. I didn’t own a lot of winter wear when I got here, and I haven’t gotten a good pair of boots yet.
My heart starts hammering hard in my chest as I ring his doorbell, but fuck it, I’m already here. The worst he can do is call the cops on me, and I highly doubt he will.
There’s a good minute and a half before I catch sight of movement through the frosted glass panels that run alongside the door. When Alexander Hollowell opens the door, his brows furrow and then rise in quick succession, as he registers my appearance and realizes who I am in the space of a few seconds.
He’s dressed casually, in a dark blue button down with the sleeves rolled up and charcoal slacks. And he’s not wearing shoes, just dark socks.
A stab of guilt twists in my stomach. He really was just trying to have a relaxing day at home, and here I am, about to bust it up.
But even if this ruins his day, it can’t be as bad as what my mom is going through. I let that thought spur me on as I step forward, speaking more confidently than I feel. “Please, Mr. Hollowell. I know you don’t want to talk to me, but can I please have just five minutes of your time?”
He purses his lips, and for a second, I think he really might be thinking about calling the cops.
Then, finally, I see him crumble. That want to help wins out, and he steps back, opening the door wider to usher me inside.
“You’re a very persistent girl, Harlow. Your mom’s lucky to have you.”
“I’m lucky to have her, sir. That’s why I’m here,” I say breathlessly, stepping into the bright, open foyer before he can change his mind. The inside is as modern as the outside, with large window panes and lots of sleek surfaces.
He nods understandingly, then glances at my feet. “You can leave your shoes on the mat. Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? Tea?”
“No, thanks.”
I shake my head as I kick off my shoes, laying them on the mat. I don’t know how much time he’s going to spare for me, and I don’t want to waste any of it on chitchat or beverages if I can help it.
“All right. Come on in.”
He gestures for me to follow him as he heads toward the living room—although it’s hard to tell exactly where the foyer ends and the living room begins. The whole place is so open, there’s not a lot of delineation between rooms.
He holds a hand out toward a wide, angular couch, indicating I should take a seat. As I sink down onto it, he sits in a chair nearby, crossing one ankle over his knee.
“Scott Parsons is, to speak bluntly, an incompetent hack,” he says, grimacing as he rubs a hand over his chin. “I’m not sure of all the details of your mom’s case, but why don’t you fill me in a little, and I’ll see if I can find ways for you to… help him help you. She shouldn’t have to micromanage her lawyer, but in his case, it may be necessary.”
I nod, digging through my memories of what Mom has said about Scott. My gaze flicks around the room as I think, taking in the broad floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall and the large fireplace to my left. There’s an elk head mounted above the mantel and a stuffed fox on a sort of pedestal next to the fire. My brows pull together as my gaze bounces between the two animals.
They seem odd and incongruous in this fancy, sleek house. Those two dead animals look like they belong in a hunting lodge or something.
Judge Hollowell notices my expression and turns his head, tracking my gaze. He smiles indulgently, shaking his head almost like he’s laughing at himself.
“Ah. I’m a bit of a fan of sport hunting. I know they don’t match the decor, but I couldn’t resist showing off a few trophies. That’s a Manitoban elk, and the other is a gray fox.”
I suppress a snort. Well, at least he realizes they don’t go with anything in he—
Before I can finish that snarky thought, a new thought crashes into my mind with the force of a wrecking ball.
She called him her gray fox.
I haven’t considered those words since the day I heard Savannah speak them. At the time, I assumed she was talking about Mr. Black, and the name made perfect sense to me—the streaks of gray at his temples, mixed in with his almost-black hair, could earn him that nickname easily.
My gaze fixes on the small stuffed creature, frozen in time as if it’s standing alert, head raised to sniff the air.
Her gray fox.
My stomach dips and spins, making me feel like I’m on a ship in the middle of a violent storm. Nausea rolls through me, forcing bile up my throat.
The man who killed Iris got her pregnant. He has dirty cops in his pocket, which means he must be powerful and probably wealthy. And he had to have some connection to my mom in order to know it would be possible to frame her.
My eyelids flicker.
I can’t tear my gaze away from the poor, dead fox next to the fireplace, posed forever as if it’s still alive.
Her gray fox.
“Harlow?”
Judge Hollowell’s deep voice nearly makes me jump, and I finally wrench my gaze away from the dead animal and focus on him. His brows are drawn together, his round, handsome face creased with concern.
As I watch, he rises in a smooth movement, and it turns my blood to ice.
The man
in the mask. The man in the dark car who slammed into Iris and then checked to make sure she was dead before speeding off into the night—he moved like that.
If I hadn’t seen the fox first, I might not have noticed it or might have brushed it off.
But I did see it. The fucking thing is still staring at me with its beady, dead eyes. And I know that this time, I’m not wrong.
Judge Hollowell killed Iris.
He strides toward me, his socked feet as silent as a predator’s on the polished hardwood floor. His brows are still drawn together and oh, fuck, does he know that I know?
“Harlow?” he asks again, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Fear claws up my throat with icy fingers.
The night he killed Iris, all I could see of this man’s face were his shadowed eyes and lips. Everything else was covered by a black ski mask.
For weeks—months—that masked face has haunted me, has infiltrated my dreams and turned them into nightmares.
The man standing before me now, still gazing at me with concern, has salt-and-pepper hair, laugh lines around his mouth, and a small dimple in his chin. His face is handsome, his expression warm and kind.
And it scares the fuck out of me.
Because that’s a mask too.
The Risk
1
Breathe, Harlow. Just breathe, dammit.
But I can’t.
Not when all the oxygen has vanished from the atmosphere. Not when the entire world has been turned inside out, the edges raw and exposed.
Not when I’m staring into the face of Iris’s killer.
Judge Hollowell’s brows knit together, and he ducks his head as he takes another step closer to me.
“Are you all right?” he asks again.
No. Jesus, no! I’m not fucking all right.
I willingly walked into a murderer’s house. Hell, I did more than that. I forced my way in, refusing to take no for an answer, so damn certain he could help my mom that I threw caution and good manners to the wind.
And now I don’t know what the fuck to do.
Does he know I’ve recognized him? Can he see it in my eyes? Read it on my face?
Is he about to kill me too?
My mind races as I try to sort through every one of my encounters with this man. He was at Mr. and Mrs. Black’s cocktail party the night Mom was arrested. Was he one of the few party-goers who followed us outside? Did he hear me rant to Detective Dunagan about a man in a black mask who was the real killer?
No. I don’t think so. I’m almost positive he wasn’t out there.
He probably stayed inside on purpose, putting as much distance between my mom and himself in that moment as possible, doing everything he could to make sure there was no notable connection at all between Mom’s arrest and himself.
Breathe.
In. Out.
Don’t let him know you know.
He’s still watching me, his round face pulled into an expression of concern. His hazel eyes look kind, and I find myself staring into them, trying to see past the mask he wears to get a glimpse of the man beneath. He’s such a good liar, such a good actor.
I have to be one too.
Forcing my throat to open, I suck in a slow lungful of air, careful not to let it become a gasp.
I don’t know how long it’s been since he asked his question. It could’ve been a minute, or five seconds, or an hour and a half. Time seems to stretch and contract in strange ways as I wrestle my emotions back under control.
“Yes.” The word sounds almost normal when I say it, and I force myself to continue like that, shaking my head slightly. “I’m… sorry. I shouldn’t be putting this all on you. I’m just so—so scared for my mom. It’s hard to act like everything’s okay, or to have normal conversations, when all the time, in the back of my mind, I can’t stop thinking about how she’s in prison and might never get out.”
That part isn’t a lie. It isn’t the reason for my freak-out at the moment, but I’m hoping the truth of my words will disguise the part that isn’t true.
And maybe it works, because Alexander Hollowell’s face smooths out, understanding taking the place of worry in his expression.
“I’m sure this has been very difficult for you, Harlow. I’m sorry.”
Liar.
I push the thought down, refusing to let it surface long enough to show on my face. Instead, I put on a hopeful look, tilting my head to meet his gaze, trying to remember how I felt about this man before I knew he was a murderer.
When I thought he was my salvation.
“Thanks,” I murmur, twisting my hands together in my lap. “That means a lot to hear. A lot of people at my school just assumed she was guilty as soon as she was arrested. It’s been awful. But it helps to know there are some people who don’t think she’s a killer.”
Sympathy colors his voice. “Yes, I’m sure it does.”
Playing the role of the girl who came here on Christmas day to beg for assistance—the one who had no idea of the truth—I bite my lip and glance up at him hopefully. “Do you really think you can help?”
Judge Hollowell sighs, and something seems to relax in his posture, the concerned pinch of his brows smoothing out. Instead of returning to his chair, he sinks down onto the wide, angular couch next to me, turning his body a little to face me more fully.
“I won’t be able to interfere in the trial directly or to influence the judge in any way. Legal and ethical boundaries obviously prohibit anything like that. We have systems set up to ensure a person is given a fair trial when they’re accused of a crime, and I believe in those systems. However…” He shakes his head, an expression of annoyance curling his lips. “There are instances where people in that system are let down by incompetent lawyers, and I would hate to see that happen to your mother.”
My head bobs up and down quickly even as I tighten the rest of my muscles, holding myself rigid and refusing to scoot or even lean away from Judge Hollowell. My entire body burns with the impulse to flee, to get away from this man—but if I run, it’ll only end badly.
If I run, he’ll chase me.
“I understand,” I say, barely recognizing my soft, eager voice. I sound desperate and grateful. “Anything you can do to help, no matter how small it is, would mean so much to me. And to my mom.”
He smiles, brushing a hand over his perfectly styled salt-and-pepper hair. “I’ll do what I can. Why don’t you tell me what you know about Scott Parsons’ defense strategy, and we’ll go from there.”
This is the second time he’s asked about that. It makes me nervous, and I wonder if there’s some reason he wants to know. If he’s playing me for information that he’ll use to sabotage my mom, to strengthen the case against her. To make sure his frame job sticks.
But I can’t refuse to tell him. It would be a giant red flag.
So I lick my lips and open my mouth.
I speak slowly and haltingly, trying to act like I’m dredging up what I know about my mother’s public defender and his strategy. But my mind zooms ahead at several times the speed of my tongue, weighing and measuring every word before I say it.
“I haven’t been at my mom’s meetings with Scott. So everything I know about his strategy is from what she’s told me.”
Judge Hollowell nods encouragingly, leaning forward a little.
“He doesn’t seem to have much of a strategy, honestly,” I continue. “He seems to be having a hard enough time just remembering all the facts of her case. And the circumstantial evidence doesn’t help her at all. She wasn’t home when the cops say Iris was killed, and she has no alibi.”
Fuck.
I shouldn’t have said that.
I’m brushing too close to the truth right now.
Mom was out on a date with Judge Hollowell the night Iris was murdered. So she has an alibi for the first part of the evening, just like the man sitting next to me does. But her location is unacc
ounted for in the window of time when Iris was hit by a car and killed. According to Scott Parsons, traffic cameras weren’t able to track Mom’s movements fully enough to prove either her guilt or her innocence.
Just like Judge Hollowell.
I might as well be talking about his movements that night, and not my mom’s.
But the man beside me doesn’t react visibly to my words. He doesn’t flinch or give any outward sign of discomfort. He just nods thoughtfully.
“That’s not ideal, obviously. But if most of the evidence against her is circumstantial, that leaves room for doubt in a jury’s minds. And that’s good. What tangible evidence do the police have?”
My body flushes hot, then cold. It takes every bit of self-control in me not to clench my hands into fists.
Not to plant my fist in his fucking face.
He knows. He knows what evidence they have, knows their trump card—because he was the one who had dirty cops plant it.
“They found Iris’s DNA on Mom’s car,” I admit, my voice strained. “Some blood and hair, I think.”
My stomach churns as I have a sudden vision of the dark lump of Iris’s body lying on the street, shadowed and inhumanly still. The kind of stillness that only comes with death.
Someone took little tiny pieces of her and smeared them onto the grill of Mom’s beat-up Nissan. The callousness of it, the injustice of it, makes me want to throw up. Iris deserved better than that. My mom deserves better than that.
Judge Hollowell frowns, rubbing a hand over his freshly shaved jaw.
“That… is trickier. That kind of verifiable DNA evidence looks pretty damning to a jury.” He lets out a noise under his breath and meets my gaze, squinting a little. “Do you have any idea how it could’ve gotten on your mom’s car?”
My stomach turns to ice, cold radiating through me from my core outward.
Fuck. Fuck fuck. Why is he asking that? Is he digging to see if I know what he did? If I know about the planted evidence?
I shake my head, trying to hide the jerkiness of the movement as my whole body quakes with nerves.
“No. I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, Iris and a couple other cheerleaders put trash in my mom’s car and spray painted the windows a couple weeks into the fall semester. Maybe she scraped herself or something then.”