Irrefutable Evidence
Page 17
Sasha blinked. “You’re going forward with the arson-for-profit and the RICO prosecution?”
“Of course. I’m also adding charges stemming from Laura Yim’s death. Our legal interns have done the research, and I think we’re on solid ground to impute Carlucci’s actions to his co-conspirators. He clearly wasn’t acting as a federal agent when he murdered a witness.”
For all her honeyed sophistication, Sasha’s old classmate had a spine of solid steel.
“Well, I hope you nail all their hides to the wall,” Sasha said. “I’m relieved, obviously, about the grand jury’s decision. No, relieved isn’t the right word—I’m beyond relieved. But I can’t imagine I’ll be the most credible witness for you at trial considering … the circumstances.” The version of events she’d given in her statement happened to be true, but she recognized it strained credulity.
Charlotte waved off the concern. “I’m not going to need to call you. These guys are falling all over themselves to testify in exchange for a deal.”
“What? What about the blood oath or whatever?”
“You watch too many movies. Only the dinosaurs believe in omertà. The people inside at Mid-Atlantic? They couldn’t wait to start talking. And the fire inspector’s main concern is keeping his public pension. He turned over his personal diaries going back a decade.”
“Oh. What about … me? Am I safe?”
“You’re not even on their radar. They’d probably thank you if you were. You took care of Carlucci for them.”
She blinked at the unexpected news. “Oh. Okay. Then I guess I should offer my congratulations. It sounds like this case is going to go really well for you. You deserve it.”
Charlotte leaned forward. “I really don’t feel as if I earned it. You dropped Laura Yim in my lap. And then you stepped in when she went missing. So I just wanted to come here in person to thank you and let you know we won’t be pressing charges.” She stood. “I hope the new year treats you well, Sasha. Many blessings and new beginnings for you and your husband.”
Sasha was touched by the sentiment and, to her surprise, her eyes grew moist. By the time she tamped down her emotions and found her voice, Charlotte was halfway out the door.
She steadied her hand and took another sip of water. For the first time since Christmas Day, she allowed herself to imagine her future.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Two weeks later
When Sasha and Connelly walked through the doors of Steel City Roasters’ new space, Tamsin clapped her hands with glee and Pete swooped in for a hug. He picked up Sasha and swung her around in a circle. Her head spun and, when he deposited her back on solid ground, she was woozy—as if she’d just been on an amusement park ride.
Connelly cocked his head and wrinkled his brow in concern. “You okay? You look a little green,” he whispered.
She felt a little green. But that had become her new normal. She’d been queasy and shaky for weeks now, ever since the trip to the Outer Banks. She knew it was worrying him. Truth be told, she was more than a little worried herself. She’d thought she’d feel better after the grand jury decided not to indict her, but—if anything—she’d begun to feel even worse. She’d finally gotten so sick and tired of feeling sick and tired that she’d carved out time earlier in the week for an unheard-of visit to her doctor.
“I’m okay. I just need some water.” She gave Connelly’s arm a reassuring squeeze.
Pete overheard her and reared back in mock horror. “Water? Nonsense. You’ll have a cup of our newest roast—Southside Smoothside. It’s another low-acid roast. Nice caramel tones, full-bodied but not aggressive. You’re going to love it.”
Tamsin was already walking toward her cradling a small steaming mug in her hands. Connelly stepped back with an amused grin.
He’d questioned the wisdom of stopping by the Maravaches’ grand reopening party given the state of her stomach, but she’d insisted. She wasn’t about to let some stomach bug interfere with the favorite clients’ celebration of their expanded operations.
“Thanks,” she said weakly as Tamsin thrust the mug into her hands.
Pete looked on expectantly, ignoring his other guests and waiting for her reaction.
She raised the mug to her lips, inhaled the robust, earthy smell of her favorite substance on Earth and … her stomach lurched. Sweat beaded at her hairline. Her throat closed.
“Oh, no,” she groaned. She pressed the cup into Connelly’s hands and covered her mouth with her hand. She ran past Tamsin and Pete, who appeared to have realized what was about to happen because he pulled open one of the doors in the hallway and ushered her inside a small bathroom.
She pulled the door shut behind her and barely made it to the toilet before her dinner came back up.
After she rinsed her mouth and splashed water on her face, she checked herself in the mirror.
“Classy,” she said to her reflection.
“Sasha?” Connelly’s tentative voice called through the door. “Are you all right in there?”
“You mean other than mortified? Yeah, sure. I’m peachy.” She smoothed her hair into place.
“Pete and Tamsin are worried about you.”
“I’ll be right out,” she said. She stopped to pick up her purse, which she’d tossed to the floor in her hasty race for the toilet. As she lifted the bag, her cell phone began to ring from within its depths. She dug through the accumulated stuff with still shaking fingers and located the phone.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Connelly?”
“Uh, sure, why not.”
“Excuse me? Is this Sasha Connelly?” a puzzled female voice pressed.
“It’s Sasha McCandless-Connelly, actually, but, yes, that’s me.”
“Oh, okay. I’m calling from Doctor Sullivan’s office with results of your bloodwork.”
Sasha gripped the edge of the sink with her free hand and waited for the bad news—she wondered what sort of ailment she’d contracted that caused fatigue, nausea, insomnia, dizziness, and, inexplicably, extreme hunger. She bet it was something exotic. Hopefully curable. She inhaled deeply. “Okay, give it me straight. What do I have?”
The young woman on the other end of the phone laughed then coughed quickly as if to cover it. “Congratulations. According to your blood tests, you’re expecting.”
Expecting? Expecting what? She stood there for a moment, one hand on the sink, one hand on the phone, until her brain caught up.
“I’m pregnant?”
“Yes. Based on the levels of human growth hormone in your blood, you’re probably about six weeks along. You should call your ob/gyn and schedule an appointment. Let us know who you’re seeing and we’ll send over your lab work. In the meantime, start taking those prenatal vitamins!” the girl chirped in her ear.
Sasha mumbled a goodbye and dropped the phone back into her bag. Her entire body was numb. She walked to the door and pulled it open. Connelly was leaning against the opposite wall.
“Sasha?” he asked. “You look worse than you did when you went in there.”
She shook her head, still dazed. “We’re pregnant.”
“We’re … what?”
“Pregnant. We’re going to have a baby.”
Excitement and wonder bubbled up through her disbelief. Connelly must have been feeling something similar because he whooped like a little boy and grabbed her around the waist, swinging her in the air. Like clockwork, her stomach turned.
Here we go again.
She kept her mouth clamped shut and pounded on his shoulders with her fists, hoping he’d get the message and put her down.
“Oh, sorry. I’m so sorry.” He put her down gently but very quickly.
“It’s okay. I love you!” she shouted over her shoulder as she raced back into the bathroom.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Melissa F. Miller is a USA TODAY bestselling author and a commercial litigator. She has practiced in the offices of international law firms in Pittsburgh, P
A and Washington, D.C. She and her husband now practice law together in their two-person firm in South Central Pennsylvania, where they live with their three young children, a lazy hound dog, and three overactive gerbils. When not in court or on the playground, Melissa writes crime fiction. Like Sasha McCandless, she drinks entirely too much coffee; unlike Sasha, she cannot kill you with her bare hands.
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