Indefensible

by Pamela Callow

  Tony is wondering if I did it.

  Randall’s face flushed. “I’m not privy to the police investigation, Nina. I can, however, assure you that if I am charged with a crime, I would step down as managing partner to fully focus on clearing my name.”

  “I’m calling the vote right now, Randall.”

  Randall looked around the table at his partners. “Is this what you want?”

  “Randall, it’s not that we want to replace you,” Tony said. His eyes beseeched Randall. “We just want someone to take over the management of the firm until you are able to return. Nina is correct—the firm is just getting back on its feet. We can’t afford another setback.”

  He knew Tony was right. He knew that. So why was he fighting this?

  Because it’s the last thing you’ve got, Barrett.

  He pushed away from the table. “No need to vote. I’ll step aside.” He strode to the door, then paused. “Who, may I ask, will be filling my shoes during my absence?”

  Nina smiled. “I’ll be taking over.”

  On a permanent basis, if you can convince my partners, right, Nina?

  Did they have any idea what they had just unleashed on themselves?

  “You reap what you sow,” he muttered, giving Nina one last look.

  Just as he was closing the door behind him, he heard one of the partners murmur, “So do you, Randall.”

  Lucy’s phone rang. The ringtone, which had been funny and quirky when she downloaded it before her trip, jangled in her ear. “Hello.”

  “Lucy.”

  His voice was not unexpected after what Grandma Penny had told her. What surprised her was how welcome his call was. A huge, shuddering sob escaped from her chest. She pressed the cell phone against her cheek and burrowed deeper into her bed. “Dr. Jamie?”

  “Hello, Lucy.” His normally light, crisp voice was heavy. “Your grandmother called me. Asked me if I could talk with you.” He cleared his throat. “I know your mother would want me to make sure you’re all right.”

  “It’s been awful,” Lucy whispered. She shook her head, staring at the ceiling.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  No. Yes. There was something about Dr. Jamie that just made her want to confide in him. “It was so horrible…” Words burst from her throat, fleeing from the battering ram of memories: Nick, running down the stairs. Her mother, lying on the ground in a glimmering pool of blood.

  The look of hatred in her brother’s eyes.

  The phone, ringing endlessly in her ear as she tried calling her father.

  He hadn’t come. Not until the early hours of the next morning. And then, as he pulled her into his arms, murmuring his apologies, all she could smell was the whiskey in his skin. He’d been drunk while her mother had died.

  He’d tried to make it up to her.

  But she didn’t think he ever could.

  A sob built in the back of her throat, escaping in a weird, embarrassing hiccup.

  “Lucy.” Dr. Jamie’s voice was quiet but steady. “It’s all right.”

  Lucy had wanted her father to say it was all right. She’d needed him to say those words after…after… Instead, Nick had attacked him. And accused him of something so horrible she didn’t want to think about it.

  She missed her mother so badly. It was like a big hole where her chest had been. She wanted to bury her face in her father’s shoulder, share her grief with her big brother, silently cry in Charlie’s fur.

  Instead, Charlie was fighting for her life. And if she survived, the vet said she’d be given to another family. One that didn’t hurt her.

  Her brother had transformed into a violent, scary monster that she didn’t know existed. Had he always been like that and she’d never known? He’d been her best friend. Had she missed something? Could she have stopped him from turning on their family? Pain at his abandonment stabbed her.

  And her father. She curled tighter into a ball. Her brother said her father was a murderer. That he had brutally taken the life of the person she loved with all her heart.

  She had no one left. Except her grandparents. But it wasn’t the same. They were trying. But it wasn’t the same.

  Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Nicky tried to kill my father,” she whispered.

  There was a silence. “Why?”

  “He says my father killed my mother.” She couldn’t believe she was saying those words. Three days ago it wasn’t something she could ever have imagined. Then, she was looking forward to riding camp, getting her own mare, hoping she’d clear the second jump. She’d been thinking about that jump all winter. Determined that this was the year she’d do it.

  And hoping that her father would forgive her brother. And that her mother would feel better.

  There’d been a lot of hope in her heart.

  “Where’s your father now?”

  “He’s at a hotel.”

  “And your brother?”

  “He’s here. At my grandmother’s.” But not here. Not anymore. He was just a scary pale shell of the boy she’d grown up with. A sob built in her throat. She gulped hard. She never usually ever cried. But the tears just kept coming. Like the sea pounding on the rocks. Wave after wave.

  “Do you feel scared of him?”

  Yes. No. She didn’t want to feel scared of him.

  He was her big brother.

  Her protector.

  He tried to kill her father with a baseball bat.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. The tightness in her throat eased a tiny bit. Dr. Jamie was the only person right now who demanded nothing from her. He had a way of listening that calmed her down. She remembered that feeling of peace she had after she’d visited Dr. Jamie’s office in Toronto. She had been too embarrassed to tell her friends she was going, but her mother really wanted her to go. She told her that Dr. Jamie thought she might be able to help them understand what was going on with Nick. At first, she resisted. She didn’t want to go behind her brother’s back. But when her mother told her how worried she was about Nick—and about how he stole from Dad’s bank account—she agreed. She was worried about him, too.

  When she and her mother walked into Dr. Jamie’s office—which was on the main floor of an old brick house—she immediately relaxed. Sun poured in through the windows. His office was like a big den, lined with books. A collection of wooden monkeys perched on a shelf. Warm, soft sofas with bright pillows in African batik clustered around a coffee table. A zebra-skin rug lay on the floor. The space was cheerful, yet calm and peaceful. Not like her house, when every night Mummy and Nick would argue about his homework.

  Her mother had seemed different in his office. More open, less anxious. And Dr. Jamie had let Herbert, his big marmalade cat, sit with them. Then they talked about her family.

  “How is your brother?” Dr. Jamie asked her now.

  A big sigh escaped her. Grief had taken over her body and she couldn’t control it anymore. “He’s really mad. He’s changed.” She thought of Nick’s defiant eyes. He’d shut her out. He’d abandoned her. She pressed Oscar, her threadbare stuffed giraffe, harder against her chest. “It’s really awful, Dr. Jamie,” she whispered. “I miss my mother so much.” Tears ran down her cheeks.

  “I know, Lucy, I know.” His voice was so soothing. She felt as if he’d wrapped her up in a warm blanket and hugged her. She wished her father would do that, but she couldn’t let it happen now. Not when Nicky attacked him and accused him of things she couldn’t let her mind think about and now he was in a hotel.

  Did he really kill her mother?

  Fear gripped her from the inside out. She pulled the quilt tighter around her. She didn’t want to talk anymore. “I’m tired, Dr. Jamie.”

  “Of course. You rest. And remember, you can call me whenever you need to talk.”

  He hung up. Lucy closed her eyes. His voice had drowned out the ocean, but now the sound drummed in her ears again. Cold and unrelenting.

  45

  Tuesday, 9:25
a.m.

  You made your bed, Kate Lange. And at the rate you’re going, it’s going to stay empty for a long, long time.

  Curtis Carey had barely looked at her since he walked into the discovery. He settled in his client with a lumbar support and a cup of coffee, opened his file and locked his gaze on Dr. Mercer.

  Here’s my cue for the comics, Kate thought. But she wasn’t going to engage in petty tactics. Although if she’d had a newspaper, she would have been tempted to bury her face behind it so Curtis could not see the flush in her cheeks.

  “Dr. Mercer, tell me why your opinion was solicited for this file,” Curtis began without preamble.

  It only took ten minutes for Kate to figure out Curtis’ strategy. He was systematically burying Dr. Mercer’s opinion under insinuations of bias.

  It was exactly what she would have done.

  The sad thing was that there wasn’t much she could do to deflect the dirt. Dr. Mercer was a hired gun. He had to wear it and believe that his opinion was unbiased enough to be considered reasonable by the judge.

  Which, based on what Kate had seen, it wasn’t. But that was a battle to be fought on another day.

  The questions continued for hours. Kate drank four cups of coffee and tried to keep a calm facade. Curtis was doing a thorough job of poking holes at every recommendation by Dr. Mercer that was unfavorable to his client’s claim.

  Finally, Curtis closed his file folder and said, “I have no further questions at this time.” He stood, stretching his back. Mike Naugler raised himself from his chair, gingerly, glaring at Dr. Mercer.

  “Where’s the men’s room?” Mike Naugler asked.

  “Just down the hall,” Kate said, holding the door open for him.

  Dr. Mercer packed up his briefcase but pulled out his laptop. “Can I use the boardroom for a bit? I’ve got some work to catch up on.”

  “Sure.” Kate grabbed her stuff and hurried to the door, glad to be away from this man who had said nothing this morning to change her opinion of him. Curtis followed her.

  She strode into the foyer. Curtis caught up to her. “He’s a quack, Kate. You guys don’t have a hope in hell. I’m not going to let Great Life snowball Mike.”

  Good was what she wanted to say. “I’ll send the transcripts as soon as they are ready.”

  Mike Naugler headed toward them.

  Curtis turned his back so that their conversation was private. “Kate, I’m sorry about what happened.” He stood only inches from her, so close that the memory of his bare skin on hers flared in her blood.

  Her face turned hot. As did a few other parts. “I should be the one to apologize. I was shocked by Randall’s news.”

  His eyes had softened, no longer a steely gray. “So was I.” He hesitated. “How’s he doing?”

  She wouldn’t reveal what she knew, no matter how much she liked Curtis. “Under the circumstances, he’s holding up remarkably well.”

  He glanced around him, then said quickly, “Are you still interested in going for a run sometime?”

  Kate shifted back on her heels. “I don’t know if that’s wise.” She jerked her head in the direction of his client, who walked haltingly in their direction. Although it wasn’t the client that was the obstacle in the relationship. It wasn’t even Randall.

  It was her.

  Curtis’ eyes searched hers. What he found must have mollified him, for he said, “Why don’t we revisit this when the case is over.”

  She took in his warmth, his interest in her, his willingness to forgive her brusqueness the other morning. Why was she even hesitating? She should give him a chance. Especially since he was willing to give her another one. She certainly didn’t feel she deserved it.

  She smiled. “I can live with that.”

  His dimple flashed. “Do you want to talk about a settlement now? Or over dinner?”

  46

  Tuesday, 8:12 p.m.

  It was a sign. The front door of Kate’s house was wide open.

  Randall shook his head. He was being ridiculous. He never believed in signs or omens. Or luck or lotteries. He made his own luck.

  He climbed the faded wooden stairs to the porch, pulling his collar up around his neck. Kate had seen the marks already. But he didn’t want her sympathy.

  What did he want?

  The sound of her belting away off key to a Taylor Swift song saved him from dwelling on the question. Her voice cracked on the final, quivering note. He smiled. His swollen cheek pressed up into his eye, protesting at the unfamiliar motion.

  Jesus, he looked a mess.

  He brushed a hand through his hair. It was still damp. He’d taken a quick shower at his hotel, then gone to his favorite wine boutique and bought a chilled bottle of pinot grigio. He needed a drink. And he longed to have someone to talk to.

  Kate seemed like the logical choice. She had been involved in this from the beginning. He wouldn’t have to give her all the background.

  Be honest, Barrett. This isn’t a fucking legal briefing. You just want to see Kate.

  Kate’s dog rushed to the door. The husky eyed him with suspicion, pacing back and forth.

  “Finn, is that you?” Kate called.

  Finn.

  Who the hell was Finn?

  “It’s Randall.” His voice was still hoarse. He doubted Kate could hear him over her dog.

  She appeared in the hallway, an anxious expression in her eyes, brandishing a paint roller. Her arm lowered when she saw him. “Oh.”

  “May I come in?” No welcoming smile from her, he noted. Had she heard about the partners’ meeting? He hadn’t thought she would care. Maybe he was wrong. He stifled his disappointment and held out the bottle of wine. “I wanted to thank you.”

  Her brows lifted. And then he remembered she’d used a bottle—the same label, in fact—to hit Nick’s head.

  His face burned.

  “That’s not necessary.” Her gaze held sympathy in it. But he sensed something else. Something that was holding her apart from him.

  “I saw Charlie today,” he said. “She’s doing all right.” Not great. But not getting worse, either. The lick of her tongue on his hand had almost been his undoing. This animal had risked her life for him. And now she was paying for it.

  Would Kate end up paying for helping him, too? Nina Woods wouldn’t put up with anyone she sensed threatening her territory. And Kate, although her junior, could be perceived that way.

  He knew he should just leave. Why was he dragging Kate into this mess? Hadn’t she had enough disasters in her own life? He should walk away. He’d given her the wine. He’d said thank you.

  He should just go.

  Kate watched him, holding the doorjamb. He had an overwhelming urge to pull her against him. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and just feel. Not think. Just feel. He wanted to feel every bone, every curve, every breath until it was imprinted deep inside him.

  “I’m glad to hear Charlie is holding her own.” Her smile seemed forced.

  Go. Go now. “May I come in?” he asked. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  She stepped back. “Of course. I’m sorry, Randall.” He didn’t know if she was apologizing for not inviting him in or if she was sorry for the fact his son had tried to kill him. Or if she was sorry his firm had literally thrown him out on his ass. Or if she was sorry his bad blood with Ethan was being relived with salacious glee on the front page of her friend’s newspaper.

  He followed her into the kitchen. The smell of fresh paint thickened the air. Drop sheets and newspapers lay scattered over the floor. Kate turned down the volume of the radio.

  “Looks nice.” He gazed at the walls. He’d never been in Kate’s house before. She’d only bought it six months ago, he remembered. It still had an unlived-in air to it, as if the house hadn’t completely come to terms with its new inhabitant. She was wise to paint it, to make it her own, to claim her place.

  Kate smiled, this time genuinely. “Yes, it’s amazing how a new coat of pa
int can really brighten up a place.”

  “This is quite an old house, isn’t it?”

  She nodded, digging out a corkscrew from a drawer jumbled with those awkward cooking implements that never fit anywhere: whisks, wooden spoons, chopsticks, ice cream scoop. “At least one hundred years old.”

  She turned her back to him, reaching for the wineglasses lined up on a tall shelf. His eyes drank in her toned thighs, the taut curve of her buttocks under her paint-spattered shorts. He noticed a trail of paint zigzagging down her calf muscle. He’d never seen Kate in shorts. He knew she had good legs, but he’d never guessed how good. He wanted to sweep his hand up the back of her leg and feel her skin, satiny and warm against his palm. He tore his gaze from her body. “So a house this old must have some secrets…”

  She placed the glasses with great care on the counter. “Why do you say that?”

  “Architecture is a passion of mine.” Admitting his deepest pleasure to Kate made him feel strangely vulnerable. He added, “I’ve nosed around a lot of old houses. They usually have a secret cellar or staircase, sometimes a ghost in the attic…” This was cocktail-party chatter, something he pulled out when his hosts lived in historic homes, usually to their delight. Not Kate. Her gaze darted over to the closet on the other side of the kitchen.

  She turned abruptly, digging the corkscrew into the bottle’s cork, and leveraged it upward. He walked over to the closet. “These pantries often held secondary staircases. You know, for servants, et cetera.”

  “You guessed it.” Her voice was flat. He couldn’t see her face, but the tension in her body was unmistakable. “There’s a staircase in there.” She poured the wine and brought him a glass. Pleasure softened her mouth as she tasted it. “Mmm. That’s good.” She took another sip.

  “It’s one of my favorites.”

  His gaze fell on the newspaper spread on the floor. Bad Blood Begins to Boil, it blared. Her eyes followed his. A picture of Ethan, frowning in concentration outside Dr. Feldman’s house, was juxtaposed with a photo of Randall, tight-lipped, as he left the court the day his old friend’s appeal of his murder conviction was denied. “I guess it’s inevitable that they brought up the Clarkson file again,” she said. “I’m sorry, though. I know Nat Pitts.”