The body of the message was simple—open immediately. She heard Sean’s commanding voice in her head as she read the two words. Without hesitation, she clicked the paperclip icon and waited for the document to upload.
A cursory scan of the opening line strangled the breath from her body. The room started to spin and she thought she’d get physically ill.
Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) accounts for more than 2,000 deaths a year in babies from 2 to 4 months of age. Often called the ‘silent killer,’ many researchers agree prevention efforts like placing the baby on its back when sleeping or napping have been marginally successful. . .Sometimes it is impossible to tell the difference between SIDS and suffocation.
Slamming the laptop closed, Darby brushed perspiration off her forehead with trembling fingers. “Oh God!” she whispered as she retrieved her shoes. Off balance and hobbling down the hallway, she managed to get her shoes on before she reached the kitchen where she retrieved her purse and keys. Darby gulped air into her lungs, forcing it past the lump of fear clogging her throat. Her chest was tight and her heart pounded in her ears.
She tore out of the garage, sideswiping the empty trashcan in the process. In the rearview mirror, she watched it spin like a top before coming to rest in the middle of the street. As she drove, Darby wept uncontrollably. She needed help. She needed a plan. And she needed it now. But with her parents gone, who could she trust?
* * *
Darby stood out among the women assembled in the pastel yellow and green waiting room of Dr. Price. But this had nothing to do with her puffy red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. She was clad in her sober black dress and simple strand of pearls, and her hair was twisted into a neat bun. The other women wore bright, happy colors that matched their pregnancy glows. Seeing them only served to darken Darby’s mood. What she wouldn’t give to be one of those women.
A cheery brunette nurse called her back into the exam area. Her bright smile dimmed. Apparently she wasn’t as oblivious to Darby’s appearance as the other patients seemed to be.
She rubbed a reassuring hand down Darby’s back as she led her to the scale. “Dr. Price told me about your parents. We’re very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Grisom.”
“Thank you,” Darby replied through the fog of her private despair.
“Hummm.”
“What? Is there a problem?”
“You didn’t gain an ounce. In fact, your weight is down a little. I know this is a difficult time for you, but you really need to take care of yourself and that baby.” After making a notation on her chart, the nurse escorted Darby into an exam room and gave her a paper gown.
As she was placing her clothing on the hook next to the exam table, a small poster caught her eye. “You’re not alone. Everyone gets the blues,” she read. Almost immediately, her brain kicked into high gear. Was this a possible way out? It can’t hurt to give it a trial run.
By the time the doctor arrived, Darby was ready to test drive her idea.
After offering her condolences, Dr. Price had her lie back on the table. “Losing your parents this close to your due date is tough, Darby. Thankfully, you’ve got that gorgeous husband of yours to help you through it.”
“I suppose.”
“Not all husbands are so hands on,” the doctor commented.
“He is that. Is there maybe a counselor you could recommend?”
“I know someone who specializes in grief counseling. I’ve referred patients to her before.”
“I don’t want Sean to know.”
The doctor’s head came up as she yanked off the latex gloves with a sharp snap. “He probably knows you’re grieving, Darby. It’s perfectly normal.”
Darby shook her head as the doctor gave her a hand sitting up. “It’s not just the grief. I’ve been feeling…well…before my parents… Before that, I was having thoughts. Inappropriate thoughts.”
The doctor’s eyes narrowed as she scooted closer on the wheeled stool. “Like what?”
“You know we didn’t plan this pregnancy.”
Dr. Price nodded. “Surprises can be good.”
Summoning all her nerve, Darby took a deep breath and said, “I’m not sure I’m ready to be a mother.”
Offering a small smile, the doctor said, “Eight months too late for that decision. Besides,” she added, patting Darby’s foot. “Most of my first-timers get the jitters when they get close to term.”
“This is more than jitters.”
“How so?”
“I have these thoughts. Kind of like daydreams, only worse.”
“Like?”
“Like the baby would be better off without me as her mother.”
“Darby, do these thoughts include hurting yourself in some way?”
No, I’ve got Sean for that. “Not hurting myself, no.”
Taking the prescription pad out of her purse, Dr. Price scribbled for a few seconds, then handed the paper to Darby. On it was a name and a phone number. Darby recognized the area code and her heart sank. “I can’t go all the way to Ft. Lauderdale. I don’t want Sean to know what I’ve been thinking. He’d be devastated if he knew about this. You won’t say anything, will you?”
“I can’t,” Dr. Price promised. “Privilege. But I see your point. When I spoke to Sean a little while ago, he mentioned that he thought you might be having some difficulties.”
Darby felt her eyes grow wide. “You spoke to Sean?”
“He called and asked for any information I had on SIDS. He explained that you’d been acting—his description—irrationally for a little while now and he thought it was as a result of reading about SIDS on some online site. By the way, didn’t I tell you to stay away from e-zines and other unreliable stuff on pregnancy and parenting? If you want to read a book, read Dr. Spock. An oldie but a goodie.”
Darby wondered if there was any part of her world Sean hadn’t violated. Probably not. “Isn’t there anyone close by I could talk to?”
Maybe it was the desperation in her eyes, or outright kindness on the part of the doctor. The reason was irrelevant. Dr. Price reached for the phone and within five minutes, she’d gotten the therapist to agree to make an exception and meet Darby at the OB’s office. The first session was scheduled for three the next afternoon.
If she was going to pull this off, Darby had to do some research. Fast.
After leaving the doctor’s office, Darby was waiting to cross to the parking lot when she noticed the sign on the building across the street.
“Law offices of Jack Kavanaugh.” She’d never heard of him but that worked to her advantage. As did the fact that all she had to do was cross the street. Given the fact that he was video and audio taping her, Sean was probably checking the odometer on her car as well.
When the light changed and the little silhouette of a person illuminated, she carefully made her way across the brick crosswalk, stepping carefully as she traversed the uneven stone. The strong scent of garlic from the pizza shop around the corner battled for supremacy with the sweet aroma of chocolate from Kilwin’s, historic downtown Stuart’s landmark candy shop. The blend was nauseating, made worse by the oppressive heat from the full sun above and the heat reflected off the street. Being dressed in all black didn’t help.
The building sported a fresh coat of terra cotta paint on its stucco exterior. A large plate glass window just to the left had his name freshly stenciled in gold lettering, followed by the phone number. The six-paned door was primed but not yet painted. Tucked into the inside of the lower right-hand corner of one of the windowpanes was a small, flat plastic clock. “Just great,” Darby grumbled after she tried the door, only to find it locked. “Liar,” she said to the clock, which incorrectly said Jack Kavanaugh, Esquire would be back at one-thirty. It was already a few minutes past two.
She had taken a half step back from the door when it flew open. Her first impression of the man wasn’t positive. He was tall and muscular, with jet-black hair and light brown eyes. His hair was disheveled
, falling down on his forehead even after he’d raked his fingers through it in a futile attempt to make himself more presentable. It would take more than finger combing his hair for that to happen. He was wearing khaki slacks that had never seen an iron. He’d paired the rumpled slacks with a short-sleeved olive shirt, ditto on the lack of pressing, and a haphazardly knotted tie in a god-awful paisley pattern. The ensemble was completed by a pair of flip-flops that had some miles on them, judging by the frayed stitching.
Generally speaking, he looked a lot more like a lifeguard than a lawyer—at least none of the lawyers she’d ever met. Then again, all the ones she knew were from the upper echelon of the local legal community. They had large, impressive offices professionally decorated. Large, impressive staffs to tend to every need. Doors with proper coats of paint.
* * *
“Sorry,” he said as he put his half-eaten chili dog on the table next to the door and extended his hand.
The blonde didn’t respond. He looked at his outstretched hand and realized some of the chili had dripped onto his palm. “Sorry,” he mumbled again as he stepped aside and waved her inside.
She was very pretty, very, very pregnant and based on the Prada bag and shoes, very, very, very rich. He felt his shoulders tense. Pretty was good. Pregnant was good. Rich spelled trouble.
Leading the way, he ushered her past what would have been his secretary’s desk—if he’d had a secretary, which he didn’t—into the cramped ten-by-twelve office. He transferred a stack of files from one chair to another and offered her a seat. “I’m Jack Kavanaugh,” he said as he moved behind his desk and sat down.
“Darby Gris-Gray,” she said.
Lie number one. “Mrs. Gray,” he greeted. “What can I do for you?”
“What do you know about family trusts?”
Leaning back, he studied her for a minute. The dark circles could be a side effect of being pregnant. By the time she’d gotten to son number six, his mother had had circles under her eyes as black as a football player’s anti-glare grease. The woman’s makeup was subdued but smudged, most likely from crying, judging by the redness of her eyes. That too could be chalked up to the pregnant factor. Tears came with the territory. Under normal circumstances, he’d bet her eyes were her best feature. Even now he could see hints of gray-green that had him picturing her in a different way.
That was a first. Jack had never been one of those guys who got turned on by the whole miracle-of-birth-making-a-woman-glow crap. Nope. Pregnant women looked uncomfortable, drained and waddled instead of walked.
“Mr. Kavanaugh?” she prompted.
The scintilla of turned on evaporated when he heard the snobbish, dismissive tone in her voice. Apparently this one had her fair share of arrogance. He should have shown her the door. The last thing he wanted to deal with was some prima donna. Then again, if he wanted to help Michael, he needed all the money he could get.
Michael, his oldest brother, was incarcerated for killing their father. He was the reason Jack had gone to law school: he wanted to get Mike out of jail ASAP. Mike wasn’t some maniacal killer; he’d just been protecting their long-suffering mother from a beating. Unfortunately, ASAP wasn’t moving as fast as he’d like it to, so he needed clients like Mrs. Whatever Her Name is.
“Family trusts?” she asked again, more irritated.
“Right, family trusts. Well, I know poor people don’t have them.”
She pursed her pouty lips together as she began to stand. “I’m sorry, I seem to be wasting your time. I was looking for a real attorney.”
“Yale real enough for you?” he asked, leaning on his elbows to enjoy the curtain of shock as it rolled down her face. “Setting up a new one or making changes to an existing one?”
She hovered, half in, half out of her chair, then sat back down. “An existing one.”
“Beneficiaries?”
“That’s what I want to change.”
He looked at her tiny, pointless designer purse. She’d be hard pressed to put anything more than a lipstick in that. Oh well, the idle rich often went for form over function. He’d spent enough time in their company to know that was a fact. Being a scholarship student did have its advantages.
Jack didn’t want to like her. Most of his clients were pro bono or paid the minimal amount. His true specialty was criminal law, but criminal cases were expensive to defend so he needed the subsidy of clients like the pretty blonde across from him.
But Jack was a tad weary of pretty blondes. His law school sweetheart had been a blonde and as soon as she’d found out he wanted to do pro bono instead of taking his Yale degree on the fast track to a well-paid partnership, she’d bailed. Thanks to that experience, he’d become a tad weary of women in general. He had kind of made a deal with himself to avoid relationships until he’d garnered Mike’s freedom. Right now he was tied up in the appellate process.
Still, he asked the question just to gauge her reaction. In truth, it wasn’t as if he had anything more pressing to do. He had only opened his practice a month earlier. Clients weren’t exactly lined up around the block. “Who is the executor?”
The polite smile she’d obviously been struggling to keep in place slipped. She recovered quickly, though. This wasn’t the first time Darby Whatever Her Name Really Was had been forced to camouflage her emotions.
“The executor passed away.”
“Is there a substitute trustee named?”
“Yes, but that’s one of the things I want changed.”
“The other being?”
“The beneficiary.”
“If it’s a family trust, then I’m assuming the new beneficiary is a blood relative?”
She nodded and rubbed her belly. “I want to turn over the whole trust to a friend.”
Lie number two. “Because?”
She blinked. “Why does that matter? I’m the only beneficiary of the trust still living. All the money is mine. I’m just trying to know the legality of transferring it to another person.”
He nodded in the direction of the gazillion-carat diamond on her left ring finger. “Do you have a prenup?”
“No. Why?”
Rich and dumb, every man’s fantasy. Well, not every man. Jack preferred brains over bucks. Not that he’d eliminate a woman as date potential just because she earned a decent living. But that was the difference. People who earned their money were completely different from the ones who had it placed in their lap on the day they are born; people like the woman sitting across from him, all prim and proper.
“Well, for starters, your husband could claim any interest earned during your marriage is a matrimonial asset. That is what this is all about, right? Hiding money from your husband in contemplation of a divorce?”
“N-no.”
Lie number three. Sorta.
Clearly flustered, she dashed out of his office as if the devil himself was chasing her.
Going to the door, Jack watched as she crossed the street and got into a tan SUV. He made a mental note of the license plate number, then grabbed the now cold chilidog and took a bite.
The fact that she’d stumbled when he’d brought up divorce intrigued him. He knew she was lying, but sensed there was something more to that lie. If he was a betting man, which he was, he’d bet she was about to give birth to a baby that wasn’t going to look a whole lot like her husband. “Friend,” he scoffed, now back in his office as he reached for his phone. “Lover is probably more like it.”
He pressed the numbers from memory.
On the second ring, his brother said, “Declan Kavanaugh.”
“Jack Kavanaugh,” he replied, mocking the clipped cadence of his older brother’s speech.
“What do you want?” he asked with half-hearted irritation.
“Why do you automatically assume I want something?”
“Don’t you?”
“Well, yes. But that’s beside the point.”
“Paying job, or gratis?”
“It’s not a job;
it’s more like a favor. You know,” Jack leaned back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “The kind of thing one brother does for another.”
“No, a favor is when I do work for you and you don’t pay me.”
“C’mon, Declan. All I need is one license plate run. It’ll take you five seconds, max. Just run the numbers through your fancy database thingy and give me a name and address.”
“It’s a subscription service,” Declan grumbled. “I pay for it. A concept you don’t seem to grasp.”
Even though he was on the receiving end of a lecture, Jack could hear his brother’s stubby fingers clicking away on the keyboard.
“The car’s registered to Grisom, Sean Francis and Grisom, Darby Hayes. One-three-seven Blue Marlin Way, Sewell’s Point.” Declan let out a long, low whistle. “Nice part of town. You can’t tell me this is some pro bono thing. I won’t buy it. Sewell’s Point? No way.”
“She isn’t a client.” That much was true.
“Potential client?” Declan asked.
“Nope. Thanks for the info. I owe you a beer.”
“Forget one beer. At this rate, you owe me a whole damned brewery.”
“I’ll get right on that,” Jack said before placing the phone back on its cradle.
* * *
“I can hardly hear you, Darby.”
Darby cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, trying to muffle the noise of the breeze and the traffic on Federal Highway. The sky had turned a threatening shade of gray as thunderclouds prepared for the afternoon downpour.
“Sorry, I’m at a pay phone.”
“A pay phone?” Lyssa Chandler repeated. “They still have pay phones? Is something wrong? Did you break down? Is it the baby?”
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