“Hey,” her attorney said, looking very large and mildly annoyed. He would be intimidating, were it not for the fact that he was barefoot. He had big feet. Long and narrow, with just a sprinkling of dark hair on the tops.
Embarrassment rushed over Caitlin again, followed quickly by a spurt of amusement, as potent as it was unexpected. To her surprise and chagrin, she found herself choking back a laugh.
“Are you laughing?”
“No.” She bit her lip.
“Because that sounded like a laugh.”
Her shoulders heaved involuntarily. “Maybe just a small one.”
His brows snapped together, and Caitlin knew her reaction was inappropriate under the circumstances, but she made the mistake of looking at his feet again. His left big toe curled up just a little, as if it were still horrified by the recent experience. One minute it’s nice and cozy inside an expensive pair of Ferragamos or whatever they were, and the next it’s bathing in bile. Sort of like a well-groomed poodle getting splashed with sewer water by a passing taxi. She visualized a tiny pink bow adorning the dark hair there, and couldn’t stop another laugh from hiccupping out.
“Should I be concerned that you’re on the verge of some sort of breakdown?”
“No.” But then she snorted, and slapped a hand over her mouth. She knew she must appear to be unbalanced, but couldn’t seem to stop herself.
Jack looked over his shoulder, toward the bustling activity of the police station. “Come on,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder and pulling her out of the bathroom doorway. “Let’s go outside and get some fresh air.”
Caitlin trotted along beside him, keeping her hand over her mouth. To bystanders it probably looked like she was worried she’d be sick again, but in reality she was desperately trying to control her mirth.
They pushed through the door, and he kept his hand on her shoulder, directing her toward a bench beneath an overhanging oak branch. When Jack cursed, Caitlin glanced down, noting that he’d stepped on a piece of Spanish moss which was now clinging to his bare foot like trailing toilet paper.
In the struggle between decorum and inappropriate hysterics, the hysterics won.
She practically fell onto the bench.
With her face pressed against her knees, Caitlin laughed. She laughed until tears ran from her eyes, wetting the beach cover up she’d bought since not much else had been available at the gift shop next to the hospital. She laughed until her sides hurt. Until she felt empty. In that weird way of emotions in the face of tremendous stress, they’d swung from despair to hilarity. At this point, there was nothing to do but to ride it out.
After she’d been quiet for several moments, her attorney spoke from beside her. “Feel better?”
“Yes,” she rasped out, and then cleared her throat. “Yes,” she repeated more decisively. She tried to wipe her cheeks and her nose as unobtrusively as possible while her face was still buried in her cover up, but then an honest to God handkerchief appeared in her field of vision.
Caitlin sat up, glancing at Jack as she took it from his proffering hand.
“You carry a handkerchief?”
“Not because I make a habit of rescuing damsels in distress,” he told her. “In fact, I don’t think that’s ever been used for anything other than decorating my pocket.”
Caitlin looked at it, and then tried to hand it back. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
“You’ve already ruined my shoes,” he said mildly. “What’s one more thing?”
She was too hollowed out to feel adequately embarrassed. “Sorry about that. It was the antibiotic. I took it without food.” She shrugged. “Couldn’t eat.”
He studied her for several seconds. “Are you okay?”
“You mean, am I going to break down and set my hair on fire and run screaming through the street because I’m off my rocker? No. I was just… reacting to the situation, and when you have all that emotion inside you, it’s either laugh or cry.”
“Or bottle it up until you explode from the pressure.”
She titled her head. “Is that what you do?”
“No.”
After holding his cool grey gaze for several more seconds, Caitlin thought she understood. She slowly folded the handkerchief on her lap, absently noting the monogram in the corner. JMW. She wondered what the “M” stood for.
“You’re concerned that maybe that’s what happened the other night. That I somehow… snapped.”
“Concerned? No. Although I think that Detectives Clark and Donaldson are likely considering just such a theory. For one thing, stabbing is generally a crime of passion, and most cops tend to think inside the box. When you hear hoof beats, you don’t start looking for zebras.”
“So because most stabbing cases are crimes of passion, I must fit that profile, too.”
“Unless there’s evidence which contradicts the easiest theory, that’s the one they’ll go with. I could say it’s because they’re lazy, but statistics are on their side. That’s not to say that stabbing is never employed as a form of self-defense, because it is. Particularly if a knife is the only means of defending yourself that’s available.”
Caitlin considered that. “I stepped on it when I ran out of the bedroom. That’s why I’m taking antibiotics – for the cut on my heel. Why was the knife in my bedroom? If it was the handiest thing I had to defend myself, then why…” She closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I’m trying to think about this logically, and so I have to divorce myself from the situation. Pretend it happened to someone else. Sort of like when I’m writing. And if I were writing this character, I would ask how that knife came to be in the bedroom. If she was defending herself, and grabbed it out of the drawer, then it would make sense for the attack to have taken place in the kitchen. You don’t run away from someone, go downstairs and grab a weapon, and then run back upstairs to stab him. And if he brought it with him – maybe to threaten her? Then how on earth did she get it away from him? Not only was he twice her size, but she was also, theoretically, impaired. And as you’ve already pointed out, I – I mean she – doesn’t have defensive wounds. At least nothing beyond a couple of minor bruises.”
She turned, to find Jack smiling at her, just a little. Between that and the bare feet, it made him appear less imposing. More approachable. “You’re thinking like an investigator.”
“Well, I have some experience with that, considering the types of books that I write. And having thought it through, I don’t blame them for questioning my story – and they are questioning it, aren’t they?”
“Most definitely. And to put it into your parlance, I’d say they’ve found a few plot holes.”
It was frightening to hear it confirmed, but nothing less than what she’d expected after they’d dropped that bombshell about the glasses and the wine. “I’m being completely honest with you when I say I have no recollection of any of that. Not leaving the bar, or how I got home. Not of drinking more wine or being with that man in my bedroom. Certainly not of killing him. And I need… I need to see my medical records. The results of those tests. I need to know if there’s evidence of sexual contact.”
“Those records are yours, and there is no reason for the hospital to deny you access. You can call them, although they might ask you to stop by so that they can deliver the results in person rather than over the phone. And I can suggest the name of a counselor. Even if it turns out you weren’t physically assaulted, you’re still going to have many of the same feelings and fears to work through.”
A tourist carriage went past, the sound of the horse’s hooves reminding Caitlin of what he’d said earlier, about zebras. If the detectives were going to be thinking inside the box, perhaps she needed to think outside it.
“Caitlin.”
She turned her head to find him studying her.
“What happened in Atlanta? Why did you feel you had to leave.”
Caitlin slowly drew in a breath. “I didn’t have a
mental breakdown or rob a bank or anything dramatic. I feel stupid admitting it, but I had a relationship blow up in my face. A romantic relationship. And even though Atlanta is a very big town, it no longer seemed big enough. So I left.”
“Was the relationship violent?”
“You mean was I abused, and therefore more prone to, what, snapping? The answer is no.”
He studied her a moment longer. “If there is anything, anything about that relationship that could in any way be used against you with regards to your current situation, I’ll be better able to help defend you against it if I know about it before they find out. Because they will.”
“Why would you think a failed relationship could be used against me?”
“Because you hesitated when asked about your reasons for relocating.”
“Because it’s none of their business. One thing has nothing to do with the other.”
“You’re sure?”
“I… look.” Caitlin sighed. She actively resisted the idea of getting into this, of dredging up her biggest, most idiotic mistake and sharing it with a virtual stranger, but perhaps it was better to lay it all out than to let him think it was something far worse than it was. Not that it wasn’t bad enough. But compared to what she was dealing with now, it seemed like rather paltry drama.
And it wasn’t like she really cared what Jack Wellington thought of her anyway.
“I met him at my local coffee shop. I’d seen him there a few times and we nodded in the way you do when strangers become familiar, and then one day he asked what I was working on. He was delighted to discover that I’m a novelist, and I was delighted to discover that he was an English professor at one of the nearby universities. The relationship continued to be delightful for the next six months, until a woman came up behind him while we were having dinner at our favorite restaurant, and tapped him on the shoulder. I expected he would introduce me to an associate or neighbor or cousin, but imagine my surprise when it turned out to be his wife. Granted, they were on a trial separation at the time, but with the understanding that they wouldn’t date anyone else while they attempted to work out their issues. Needless to say, he hadn’t followed through on his end of the bargain.”
“Ouch,” he finally said after a brief silence.
Caitlin huffed out a half laugh. “Appropriate, since my pride took quite a beating.”
“Your pride? Or your heart?”
“A little of each, although far more of the former. I’m not an especially naïve woman, nor am I a stupid one, and I felt like both.”
Jack ran his hand over his knife-edge jaw. “I can understand that, though I think moving to another city seems like a bit of an overreaction. But then I’ve never been in love.”
“Never?”
“Not enough to relocate if it didn’t work out.”
“It wasn’t just the fact that it didn’t work out that prompted me to move. Ryan – that was his name. Ryan’s wife was a little unstable. It’s part of why they’d separated, because she’d become paranoid and possessive. He tried to get her help, or so he claimed, but the drugs which were supposed to help her actually led to an addiction which made everything worse. I didn’t believe his excuses – didn’t really care about his motivation for lying to me or to her – but she started… I guess stalking me is the best description. And no, I never reported it to the police, because I’m sure that’s your next question. But I would bump into her in the grocery store or other times I was running errands, and it happened too often to be mere coincidence. I also had to block her on my social media platforms, because she spied on me and left negative reviews of my books and generally tried to cause me grief. It got to the point where I was always looking over my shoulder, both physically and online. So because I feared that it would soon reach the level where I felt the need to go to the authorities, I decided that I’d rather leave the area than go through that kind of hassle. My brother argued against it, feeling like he couldn’t keep an eye on me here in case he needed to step in, but that only solidified my decision.”
She looked Jack in the eye. “I don’t like having to rely on other people to solve my problems.”
His mouth didn’t smile, but something about his expression suggested amusement. “That’s good to know. However, I do suggest that you rely on me in this instance, because I would be remiss if I pretended I didn’t think you were facing a potentially serious situation. As you pointed out, there are some logical inconsistencies in your story. We need to be prepared for the detectives to take those inconsistencies and run with them.”
Caitlin relaxed a little. It felt… comforting to have Jack Wellington on her side. “Okay,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “Tell me what I need to do.”
CHAPTER SIX
JACK strode down River Street, wading through the throngs of tourists. A riverboat cruised past, and he thought wistfully of his sailboat, still docked behind his house. He’d had every intention of taking her out this afternoon, but the meeting this morning hadn’t gone the way he’d expected.
And quite frankly, he didn’t like the way it seemed to be headed.
Not that he thought the evidence they’d revealed conclusively indicated Caitlin’s claim of self-defense while impaired by a date rape drug to be bullshit, but it did raise several questions. And those questions were serious enough that Jack felt he’d better start being proactive with regards to building her defense. The police already had a monumental head start, by virtue of the fact that they were the ones who processed the scene and collected the physical evidence, which Jack wouldn’t have full access to until the discovery process, should this go to trial. He wasn’t about to let himself fall any further behind the eight ball.
Plus, he liked Caitlin Cavanaugh. She’d surprised him today, showing a lot more spirit than he’d given her credit for possessing. She might look like an insipid sort of angel, the type of sweet girl next door that he avoided like potholes, but she seemed to be a fighter. He appreciated that.
Even if she had thrown up on his favorite pair of shoes.
He chuckled, remembering. All three of the men in the room were momentarily shocked, and then Clark had to fake a cough to cover his laugh. Jack felt pretty sure that laugh had come at his expense, since most of the detectives in the Savannah Chatham Metro Police Department basically loathed him. But he didn’t mind. The interruption had given him a chance to talk to his client in a way they hadn’t had the opportunity to before, and allowed Jack a reprieve in order to revise his strategy. This case was turning out to be more complicated than he’d expected.
Plus, he had plenty of shoes. And could always buy more.
Jack pulled open the door to the seafood restaurant on River Street where Caitlin had spent her ill-fated evening. Normally he would have sent out the private investigator he kept on retainer. But not only was Evan away for the weekend, Jack also felt this was a task better suited to handling himself.
After all, the guy owed him a favor.
The guy in question was standing behind the bar, pulling a pint. He didn’t exactly groan when he saw Jack come in, but it was clear he wasn’t happy to see him. Obviously, Danny Garland’s poker face hadn’t improved since the time he’d been busted for beating up another man for an untimely pair of aces. Luckily for Danny, his sister had married a man with deep pockets and affection for his younger, dumber brother-in-law.
But Danny wasn’t so dumb that he didn’t realize Jack wasn’t there by accident. For one thing, Jack usually avoided the tourist traps and the crowds on major holidays. And for another, Jack never ventured into public in a baseball cap, T-shirt and ratty khaki shorts.
Unless he didn’t want to be recognized, that is.
Danny recognized him, though. Tough to forget the man who’d saved your ass from a conviction of felony aggravated assault, since taking the money his opponent had just won from him was considered robbery. Especially since neither party wanted to admit they’d been gambling in the first place. Not on
ly were Georgia’s gaming laws restrictive, but the man who ran that particular back alley parlor wasn’t known for leniency toward people who brought the cops to his door.
That, and the fact that Jack had taken the little punk by the shirt collar and threatened to yank his balls through his nostrils when he acted like a hothead in front of the judge. Jack had to work extra hard to keep his client out of jail, and he didn’t like to expend that much energy on idiots. Luckily the man Danny attacked was an even bigger idiot – with a record – so that worked in their favor.
But Danny knew that he was far from the top of Jack’s Favorite Person list.
Jack took a seat at the far end of the bar, where there was a bit more privacy. He then waited patiently for Danny to make his way down to him. The restaurant was busy, as was to be expected during the unofficial kickoff to tourist season, but Danny took more time than he needed. Jack didn’t mind overly much – at least not today. He’d already accepted that he wasn’t going to make it on the water anytime soon, if at all. As long as Danny was forthcoming with the information Jack requested, he’d consider it time well spent.
The bartender’s dark eyes were guarded when he moved in front of Jack.
“What can I get ya?”
“Pint of Guinness,” Jack said, since he’d already eyed the whiskey selection and deemed it not worth bothering.
Danny hesitated for a moment, obviously waiting for Jack to say something else. When he didn’t, the other man’s eyes grew even more wary.
“Coming right up,” he mumbled before moving off to pour Jack’s beer. The fact that he sloshed a little over the side when he sat it down indicated more than a touch of nerves.
Good.
“I guess you guys have been busy the past few days,” Jack said casually.
“Slammed,” Danny agreed after a pause. “Feel like I haven’t had a minute off all weekend.”
“So you were working Saturday night?”
“Yeah.”
“You happen to see a blonde sitting at the bar? Late twenties, big blue eyes, fair skin.”
The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set Page 66