by Shelly Bell
She shouldn’t have cared. He’d already paid the price for his crime. Guilt and innocence were irrelevant at this point. She was exhausted after the long day and she needed to go home to soak her sore muscles. But Cash’s words had made her curious.
So for the next fifteen minutes, she buried herself in the past of Cash Turner, first rereading his file and then perusing some local news articles online.
The night of the accident, witnesses had seen Cash’s car veer left into the concrete wall of the highway, flip over twice, and eventually land upright. The vehicle had been so crumpled, the fire department had needed to use the jaws of life to rescue him.
Unconscious and bloody at the wheel when EMS had arrived, he’d awoken minutes later having no memory of the moments leading up to the accident. Cash had passed out once again upon learning that his pregnant wife and unborn baby had died at the scene. Before being wheeled into the ambulance, a policeman was able to rouse Cash just long enough to give him a Breathalyzer test.
He had pled guilty to involuntary manslaughter, forgoing a trial. The judge had sentenced him to ten years and Cash had served eight.
Dreama thought back to the man she’d met that morning.
He’d had a wife.
They were having a child.
At thirty, he’d gone through more than most went through in a lifetime.
Dreama shuffled the papers in his file, searching for the results of the breath test from the scene of the accident. She found it in the arresting officer’s notes.
She frowned, reading the information over twice just in case she’d misinterpreted it. Cash’s blood alcohol level was well below the legal limit. In fact, his results seemed to indicate he hadn’t been drinking at all.
Weird.
She thumbed through the rest of the paperwork, looking for a toxicology report that would have come from the standard blood test, a test that was protocol in cases like Cash’s.
If there had been one performed that night, it wasn’t in his file.
She read through the court transcript of him accepting the plea bargain of involuntary manslaughter and the sentencing for it, and neither mentioned any specific test, just that there was evidence Cash had driven while intoxicated.
What evidence were they referring to?
Within the transcripts were the names of the prosecutor and Cash’s court-appointed attorney, Stephen Browner. His name wasn’t familiar, but there were dozens of public defenders and the office had a high turnover. Plus, it had been eight years. Even if he was still working there, it was doubtful the guy would remember the case, but maybe he could locate some additional records for her and fax them over.
Using the online attorney database, she looked him up.
Sure enough, there was a Stephen Browner now working for the law firm of Williams, Beck, and Browner in its private equity division.
Huh. She didn’t even know what private equity meant, but she did know the average attorney at that firm earned about five hundred dollars an hour. Unless there was another Browner at the firm, Stephen Browner was a partner, which meant he earned even more.
Browner had come a long way from a paltry salary of the public defender’s office.
Although it was late, she picked up the phone and dialed his number, figuring a guy at that firm would probably be working for another couple of hours.
After going through the phone tree, she waited for either Browner or his voice mail to answer.
A voice came through the line. “Stephen Browner.”
“Yes, good evening, my name is Dreama Agosto, and I’m calling from the Michigan Corrections office. I have a parolee by the name of Cash Turner. He was your client about eight years ago, and I have some questions about his case.”
Silence.
Did they get disconnected?
“I’m sorry, Ms. Agosto. I had a lot of clients while I worked there. I’m afraid I don’t remember him.”
“Oh, I definitely understand. After all, it was a long time ago, but if I could just take a couple minutes of your time, I’m sure I can help jog your memory.”
“I’m in the middle of something. Perhaps—”
“One minute of your time, then,” she said. “And then I can tell my good friend Ryder McKay how much you assisted me in this matter. Maybe recommend he use your services in the future.” She had no idea what private equity attorneys did, but she figured mentioning her best friend Jane’s billionaire husband would be just the right bait for a shark like Stephen Browner.
There was another beat of silence before he spoke. “Of course. Whatever I can do to help.”
“As I said, it was eight years ago. Cash Turner was a college student when he’d gotten into a car accident after leaving an event at the Detroit Zoo. The state charged him with involuntary manslaughter in the death of his wife because he’d allegedly been intoxicated. You negotiated a deal for him to plead guilty to involuntary manslaughter. The problem is I can’t find any evidence proving he was intoxicated at the time of the accident in his file, and he claims he wasn’t drinking that night,” she said, embellishing that last part. “Does any of this ring a bell?”
“You’re a parole officer. You know as well as I do that they all say they’re innocent.”
“Yes, but his Breathalyzer was—”
“I arranged hundreds of plea deals during my time as public defender. I probably spent no more than a total of two hours working on the case. I don’t remember anything about Cash Turner or the evidence involved. Maddie Turner was just one more victim in a long line of them while I worked for the state. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”
She froze in her chair. He was lying to her. “If you don’t remember the case, how do you remember Cash’s wife’s name?”
“You just mentioned it a few moments ago,” he said smoothly.
She wasn’t the type to let a man gaslight her. She hadn’t mentioned Maddie by name. He had to know more than he was saying. “I think you and I should meet in person. Perhaps we could—”
“I’m a very busy man, Ms. Agosto. I don’t have time to waste on an eight-year-old case I don’t remember. If you have any more questions, I’m sure someone at the public defender’s office would be happy to assist you. Goodbye, Ms. Agosto. And do remember to mention me to Mr. McKay.”
He hung up before she could get another word in.
Dick.
Yeah, she’d be mentioning his name to Ryder. She’d tell him to avoid Stephen Browner at all costs.
It was clear to her that Browner remembered more about the case than he claimed and that he didn’t want to talk about it. The question was why. Was it because he was too busy and pompous to give her more than sixty seconds of his time or was he hiding something?
She stood from her desk, the fatigue in her body making her stiff and unsteady on her feet. Her doctor had insisted she use a cane, but she’d discovered early on that it only led to additional pain in her arm and back. Not to mention, she felt as if she was advertising her disability with it and the last thing she wanted to do was give the impression that she was an easy target.
She could just imagine what Meg would do if Dreama came into work with a cane in her hand. No doubt she’d pull her entire caseload.
Without her parole officer salary, Dreama couldn’t afford her apartment.
She’d have to go back to living with her parents and deal with her mother hovering over her as if she were a toddler.
Therefore, there were no canes in Dreama’s future other than the candy ones.
Dreama put her coat on and closed her office door behind her. Thankfully, she wasn’t the last one to leave and was able to walk out to her car with a couple other employees. An inch of snow had fallen since she’d parked that morning and temperatures had already dropped below freezing.
Neither did her mended bones any favors. Twenty-seven years old and she felt like an old arthritic woman with a dull nagging ache all over her body. Plus, the walk from her office had
knackered her out. She couldn’t wait to get home and get under the blankets with a steaming hot mug of cocoa. Driving like this was uncomfortable, but at least her injuries and the associated pain no longer prevented her from being behind the wheel. Before her doctor had cleared her to drive last month, she’d had to rely on her parents to get around.
A half hour later, she walked inside the lobby of her apartment building. It was a far cry from the one she used to share with her best friend, Jane, with its minimal security and rickety stairs. This one came with extra security, including an armed guard in the lobby and an elevator. It was considered a “luxury” property, which wasn’t a term she would’ve thought she’d ever apply to herself. Luxury to her was taking a bath rather than a shower.
But there was no way she could live on her own anywhere without security. Not since the attack. Hell, she still hadn’t managed to sleep in her bed.
Ironically, it was because of her attack she was able to afford her apartment. At first, she hadn’t wanted the settlement money, but Jane, who now controlled the entirety of her family’s vast fortune, had insisted. After all, it had been Jane’s grandfather who’d sent the attacker to their apartment. Now that he was in prison for all his crimes, including the murder of Dreama’s attacker, she was supposed to be able to put the past behind her. She kept waiting for the day that would happen.
At her apartment, she used her key to open the door and noticed immediately that her lights were on.
Her heart shot to her throat. She always turned off the lights when she left for the day.
Someone had been inside her apartment. Maybe they were still there, but she wasn’t going to stay to find out. She backed up a step and pivoted to leave when a familiar voice called out to her from inside her apartment.
“Welcome home. I made dinner for you.”
She should have guessed. Dreama might have moved out, but she couldn’t escape her mother.
Dreama took a deep breath and stormed inside, dropping her coat and purse on the couch. “You scared the crap out of me, Mom. I thought someone had broken in.” Now that Dreama was inside, she smelled the oregano and basil.
Wearing an apron stained with tomato sauce, her mother came out from the kitchen. She picked up Dreama’s coat and took it to the closet by the front door.
Dreama had only lived there two weeks, but one of the allures of living alone was the ability to come home, strip out of her clothes, and not be accountable to anyone for her mess. She was tired and cranky, and had been looking forward to eating a Hot Pocket and drinking a glass of wine while she took her bath. But in typical form, her mother had thrown a monkey wrench in her plans.
“I left a message on your cell and you didn’t call me back. I was worried. Then I remembered you were starting back at work today and I thought you’d be too tired to make yourself dinner, so I decided to come here and make you a home-cooked meal.”
Her mother was always worried about her. She worried about what she ate and how often, and how much she slept. Nothing was off-limits to her mother.
God, if her mother knew the kinds of kinky shit Dreama used to do, she’d probably lock Dreama in the house and throw away the key.
“Mom, you can’t just come over here whenever you want. I told you when I gave you your key and added you to the approved guest list that you had to ask first.”
Her mother sighed. “I know what you said, but you need to eat healthy. I looked in your refrigerator and it’s all processed food. You should let me do your grocery shopping for you. I know it’s hard for you to stay organized with your ADHD.”
Dreama flopped onto her couch and put her head in her hands. Her mother was going to drive her insane. “I’m plenty organized and I have no problem doing my own grocery shopping. I just so happen to like processed foods.”
Her ADHD diagnosis gave her mother yet one more reason to worry about her. Dreama had never suffered from the hyperactivity component of the disorder, which was why she hadn’t been diagnosed until she was a teenager. Before that, she’d struggled in school, especially with reading, and had suffered low grades because of it. Eventually, it became easier to stop trying. It hadn’t helped that her mother babied her and treated her as if she wasn’t capable of making decisions for herself. In rebellion, Dreama fell into a bad crowd, skipping school, drinking alcohol, and smoking cigarettes, all by eighth grade.
It wasn’t until her high school social worker had ordered Dreama be tested for ADHD that she’d gotten her diagnosis. Between medication and some behavioral modification, she’d gone on to graduate in the top 10 percent of her class. But her mother had never accepted that ADHD no longer ruled Dreama’s life and still treated her as if she were a helpless child.
“Fine, fine,” her mother said, waving her hands in the air. “Eat what you want. But since I’ve already cooked, why don’t we sit down and talk while you have dinner.”
Dreama groaned. That was the last thing she wanted to do. “Mom, I’m tired. It’s been a long day and all I want to do is take a bath and go to sleep. Thank you for making me dinner and for checking in with me, but I’m a grown woman. I can take care of myself.” She felt as if she’d spoken these same words to her mother more than a hundred times. When would the woman finally believe her?
Her mom removed her apron. “You don’t want me here? Fine, I’ll go. Just promise you’ll call me back when I call you.”
“I always do…eventually,” Dreama mumbled, getting up from the couch. “But you can’t expect me to call you back while I’m at work, and no more dropping in unannounced.”
Coat now on, her mother opened her arms wide and crossed the room to take Dreama into her warm embrace. “I can’t help worrying about you, not after I almost lost you.”
Dreama gave in, hugging her back. “I know, Mom.”
“Jane told me she hasn’t heard from you in two weeks. Maddox misses his auntie. You should go over and see them.”
Dreama’s chest tightened at the thought of the toddler who’d once been a huge part of her daily life. She’d been Jane’s birthing coach and had been there when Maddox was born. She’d lived with Jane and Maddox for those first few months, essentially co-parenting Maddox with Jane. But things were different now. Maddox and Jane now lived with Ryder.
And Dreama was all alone.
She pressed a hand to her lower abdomen. In addition to several surgeries to repair all her broken bones, she’d also required a hysterectomy as a result of her attack. Someday she’d see a child and not feel the loss. “I’m not ready. But I’ll call her, okay?”
“I love you, Dreama. Don’t forget that.” Her mother kissed her cheek.
Dreama swallowed down the onslaught of emotions her mom’s words brought. “I know. Love you too.”
After her mother left, Dreama stripped out of her clothes and warmed up the lasagna her mother had cooked for her. She had to admit her dinner was much tastier than the frozen meal she’d planned on eating. One bubble bath and two glasses of wine later, she sat on the couch in her pajamas and turned on the television.
On the coffee table in front of her, her cell phone seemed to glow as if taunting her to pick it up and call her friend. She reached for it, but immediately drew her hand back. Things between her and Jane had been so strained since the attack at their shared apartment. Even though her attacker had broken in to search for an item in Jane’s possession, she’d never blamed Jane. It was just that every time Dreama spoke to her or saw her, she was reminded of the woman she’d been a year ago.
Fearless.
There hadn’t been a thing she wasn’t willing to try. Life was one big opportunity and she’d wanted to sample it all.
Now she couldn’t even pick up the goddamned phone and make a simple call.
Hours and another half a bottle of wine later, the light of the television flickered in the darkened living room as she rewatched last season’s episodes of Game of Thrones. She kept thinking about Cash and her bizarre conversation with Stephe
n Browner. Was it possible Cash hadn’t been intoxicated the night of the accident? It was true that people took plea bargains all the time for things they didn’t do, but usually there was evidence to suggest their guilt. Why wasn’t the evidence in Cash’s file? And why had Browner lied to her when he said he didn’t remember the case? She needed to talk to Cash again and it couldn’t wait until his next appointment. Perhaps tomorrow she’d check in on him at his place of employment. Kill two birds with one stone. Cross off the required employment check for his parole and get some questions answered at the same time.
It was late—coming up on one in the morning—but she couldn’t seem to take herself to bed even though she was so tired, she could barely keep her eyelids open.
Her bedroom should have been a place of sanctuary and peace for her, rather than the source of all her nightmares. Every time she slid under the covers and closed her eyes, all she saw was the man in the mask who’d broken into her old apartment and beaten her within inches of her life with her own baseball bat.
He was dead now.
But the memory of him lived on.
She shivered as a creepy sensation slithered down her neck.
She felt as if someone was watching her.
As if she’d summoned a ghost with her thoughts.
Okay, she’d better turn off the show because, obviously, all the violence and bloodshed were getting to her tonight.
There was no such thing as ghosts.
She was alone, safe and sound, in her apartment.
Still, maybe it was better that she slept on the couch.
After all, nothing good ever came from sleeping in her bedroom.
FIVE
On his way to his first day of work at the animal shelter, Cash stared out the side window of Rebecca’s car. He’d gotten his driver’s license reinstated the previous afternoon, but he’d decided it was more convenient to hitch a ride with Rebecca this morning rather than taking two cars to the same location.