She smiles, not the big grin she always makes me work for but a small, sweet one that says I’m inside her in more ways than one. With my cock still buried, I wrap my arms around her hips and lift her up, her legs squeezing my waist as I turn toward her bedroom. “Where are you going?”
“You think I’m done with you? I haven’t seen you in days. I’m taking you to bed to do everything you deserve,” I promise her. “And more, if you’ll let me.” I flash her a charming smile before letting it turn lecherous as I bounce her once on my already-hardening cock to make sure she knows exactly what she’s getting herself into.
Zoey whoops out a laugh and holds me tighter. “Does that include a new sleep shirt?”
“Absolutely not. No clothes for you or me, Miss Walker. That way, I can slip right back inside you when we wake up. Hell, I might just sleep all tucked up inside, warm and cozy.”
* * *
After round two, or maybe it’s three, we lay in Zoey’s bed. It’s lumpier than mine, but I like that it makes her melt into me, her head on my shoulder and her leg thrown over mine. But we don’t sleep. We don’t even pretend we’re going to, leaving the lamp on so we can see each other. I’ve missed just seeing her.
Instead of sleep, we talk all night, about everything we’ve missed in the last few days and nothing of consequence, until the elephant in the room tap dances its way to the center and forces us to acknowledge it.
“What do you think is going to happen tomorrow?” she asks around four in the morning. “Well, technically today, I guess.” I can hear the worry making her voice tight, and I press a soft kiss to her forehead.
“We’ll tell the truth and then the judge will decide. That’s all there is to it. Maybe they’ll even settle beforehand? Two-thirds of cases do, before they even reach a courtroom.”
“Of course, you would know that,” she says with a smile, but then it frays a bit as she adds, “I don’t think Yvette is the settling type.”
I agree with Zoey. “Yvette’s looking for the biggest payout and is willing to do anything to get it.” I remember the look in Yvette’s eyes when she came to my office—flat, cold, unfeeling. I don’t like the idea of Yvette being in the same room as Zoey.
If anything goes wrong, from a smoke detector going off to a herd of invading chickens, Zoey’s going to blame herself, believing her curse is striking again.
But I really do think Yvette will do anything for this money. She already killed for it, and that makes her dangerous. Much more so than I thought when we started this Scooby Doo investigation.
But I swallow that down, not wanting to scare Zoey any more than she already seems to be.
“So, what do we do?”
“Nothing.” Zoey looks up at me in surprise so I repeat myself. “Nothing. We’re box checkers, remember? We tell the truth and let the judge do his job.” That’s my new mantra. I only hope it’s enough. “That’s all we can do.”
Zoey is so quiet, I can almost hear her mind playing out scenarios and stressing over them. I squeeze her and run my hand along her arm soothingly. “Can we let that stay in the future and enjoy what’s left of tonight? I’ve been dreaming of holding you like this.”
“Me too,” she confesses quietly. “I was afraid you’d forget about me with a whole week apart. Or decide I was too much work.”
That’s enough for me to pull her up to straddle my hips. I cup her face, pinning her with my gaze. “You and me, Zo. I’m okay, you’re okay, we’re okay. I promise.”
It’s a bit self-help-ish as far as speeches go, but Zoey’s eyes drift closed and she takes a big breath, as though she can inhale my calm reassurance and use it to soothe her own worries.
“You wanna take my coaster—a little reminder of my wood—to court in your purse?” I ask with a teasing smile even though I’m dead serious. “Nobody will even know.”
Zoey looks at the circle of wood and marble that’s sitting on her nightstand where I dropped it with my phone. Her cheeks blush slightly, but her lips tilt up the slightest bit. “Can I?”
“It’s yours, Zo.”
She bends forward, planting a kiss on my lips that I feel to my toes and everywhere in between.
“What was that for?”
“For being you and for not making me feel like I’m weird.”
“You’re not weird. You’re perfect. Gross body exploration aside.” I stick my tongue out in disgust, and she laughs, breaking the somber mood.
“Did you know . . . stomach acid can dissolve razor blades?”
I chuckle, enjoying the pleasurable way she bounces on my hips. “I actually did know that. Stomach acid has a pH of 1.5-3.5, plenty acidic to dissolve steel.”
“Ugh, why is it so sexy that you know that?” Zoey groans, but she’s looking at me with fire and desire in her eyes again.
I grin, reaching around to cup her ass and giving it a squeeze. We’ve got time for one more quickie before I have to go.
“Just lucky, I guess.”
Chapter 21
Zoey
“This is freaking me out,” I tell Jeff the next morning.
The courtroom is only two floors up from my basement office, but it feels like a world away even though it’s not fancy. Stackable chairs lined out in three rows, linoleum floors from the 70s, and a trio of wood desks up front for the attorneys and judge shouldn’t be intimidating.
But I have never had to testify and certainly haven’t had to do it in a professional capacity in my short career. I don’t even know if Grandpa ever testified. I wish I could ask him.
But there’s a first time for everything, and like too many firsts, I’ll do it alone.
“It’s no big deal,” Jeff says while sipping his coffee. He’s the picture of morning chill, seemingly not caring at all that he’s in court instead of working at his desk downstairs.
“How many times have you done this? Testify,” I clarify.
“Dozens, I guess. Usually drunks who wanna proclaim their sobriety. These made that happen a lot less frequently, though,” he says, tapping the body cam on his vest with an evil smirk.
“Why are you geared up?” I tug at the blouse I found at the back of my closet and wiggle in my chair, slicking my damp palms down my black pants-covered thighs.
I’m second-guessing my attire.
Okay, more like sixth guessing, but I didn’t have a lot of options. Either way, I’m definitely not as comfortable as I would’ve been in scrubs and clogs. Maybe I should’ve worn those so I’d look the part of a coroner like Jeff looks like a sheriff?
Do scrubs or business casual better portray that I’m someone you can trust about autopsies?
“Figure this’ll be quick, and I’m working a speed trap out on highway 14 later. Shh.” He holds a finger to his lips.
“Who would I tell?” I ask with a small laugh. “No one talks to me anyway, and I’m only going downstairs after court, but I hope you get the bad guys.” Speeders aren’t really all that bad in the big scheme of things, but I appreciate Jeff keeping our county roads safe. “What about the other investigation?”
He is doing something, right? He said he would, but he could’ve been giving me lip service so I’d leave well enough alone.
Jeff frowns, going quiet for a moment. His eyes scan the room, and I wonder what he sees. Does he plan exit strategies or store away details in case he needs accurate recall later?
I only see a place where I’m going to be the center of attention for the minutes I have to testify. I reach in my purse, under the guise of checking that my phone is on silent, but I actually touch the coaster from Blake that I stashed there.
I’m not sure what luck I’m hoping for . . . me testifying or Jeff investigating, or both . . . but a tiny bit of luck seals over the fissure in my nerves. Finally, Jeff leans toward me, his voice deep and low to say, “Remember, you’re here for your expert opinion. Keep it short and sweet, just the facts.”
“But I know a lot more than that report shows. The judge
should have all the information to make a decision.” My intrinsic sense of right and wrong knows that for sure.
Jeff sighs and takes a deep drink of coffee. “You and I are here to answer the questions asked of us, nothing more and nothing less. If you tell more than that, you’ll put Yvette on notice and my investigation will go nowhere, I can promise you that.”
“But she might get the claim settlement.”
Jeff looks at me from the corner of his eye. “So?”
“What do you mean, so? It’s not right.”
“Money’s not my concern, yours either. The law is.”
I let that sink in, mulling over my own human nature that doesn’t want Yvette to get something that isn’t rightfully hers and mixing it with my responsibilities as a coroner and representative of Williamson County.
In the end, it’s neither of those things that help me find steady ground. It’s Richard Horne, face down in his breakfast with orange juice in his lap. It’s not a bad way to go, but it wasn’t his time. And time is too precious. No one deserves to have theirs cut short.
A few minutes later, Jeff and I watch with interest as Yvette Horne and her attorney come in. The lawyer is definitely not from around here. He looks too ‘city’ to be from Williamson County, and besides, everyone knows everyone out here and I’ve never seen this guy.
He’s someone I’d remember too, not just because of the slicked-back hair, navy suit, and purple tie, but because there’s something about him that screams ‘ambulance chaser’.
Or maybe I think that because he’s sitting with Yvette, who’s dressed demurely in a black, knee-length dress and heels and dabbing at her bone-dry eyes with a tissue. When she sees that the judges’ table is empty, I hear her quiet ‘oh’ as she drops the act and merely stands stock-still at the attorney’s side.
“Thanks for coming. I’m Holland Monroe, Mrs. Horne’s attorney.” He holds out a hand to Jeff, who shakes it, and then to me, and I do the same. “Should be an open and shut case today. We’ll have you out of here as quick as possible.”
He smiles congenially as though he truly believes that. Or if he doesn’t, he puts on a good act, but that’s probably a skill all good lawyers have.
A side door opens and Judge Hopkins comes in. “Mornin’,” he greets us. With a more important person in the room, Mr. Monroe forgets us and escorts Yvette to one of the tables to sit.
“Mornin’, Mike,” Jeff tells the judge, holding up his cup of coffee to return the greeting. As he sits down at his own table, I see the instant Judge Mike Hopkins, a serious, take-no-bullshit guy who scares me to my core, realizes I’m in his courtroom. It’s not that he’s a bad guy. Quite the opposite, actually, but he’s who handled the guardianship paperwork when I adopted Jacob, and he’d, quite literally, held my family in his hands.
But his eyes widen ever so slightly and his lips part, and though he might’ve let Jacob and me be a family, Judge Hopkins believes at least a little bit of the gossip he’s heard about me.
I could see it then and I can see it in every line on his face now.
“Zoey Walker, long time no see,” he says, and I’m pretty sure that if he’d never seen me again, it still would’ve been too soon.
“Judge Hopkins, it has been a while. Jacob’s all grown now, going to school in town.”
“Good, good.” He nods, thankful to be done with the small talk. At least with me. He claps his hands and looks around. “So, where are these insurance guys? They playing at being fashionably late?”
I follow his glance to the clock on the wall that says 10:02. He’s right, that isn’t the way things are done around Williamson County. I look to Jeff with a raised eyebrow that he answers with a shrug as though he couldn’t care less.
He simply takes another sip of coffee, letting out a loud sigh of contentment.
As if Jeff’s sigh is their cue, the door behind me opens and we turn as one to see the Everlife team arrive. ‘Fashionably late’ is definitely saying something about this crew. Blake looks sexy and smart, in a black suit, grey tie, and glasses I’ve never seen him wear before.
But the other three men with him are on an entirely different level. I’ve never seen ‘walking money’ until right this moment. If someone told me the older gentleman was wearing a five-thousand-dollar suit, I’d believe it without hesitation. The suit is obviously custom tailored, accented with a large-faced watch and a red power tie.
A younger guy trails behind in a navy suit, eyes locked on the man who’s obviously an Everlife big wig.
And leading the group is a well-dressed man with a briefcase. He takes the first chair at the table, the older man sitting beside him.
Blake and the young guy sit in the stacking chairs, though the young guy looks less than excited about the worn seat.
Don’t worry, a little dirt never hurt. Except maybe your dry cleaning bill.
“Your Honor, my name is Raymond Walsh, attorney on retainer for Everlife Insurance. Please forgive our delay this morning. We were unsure what floor your courtroom was on.” Mr. Walsh gives the room a look of repressed condescension, his face impassive but the impression clear enough. “May I present my client? Mr. Frederick Neilhouse, representing Everlife Insurance.”
“Mr. Walsh, Mr. Neilhouse, let’s get started,” Judge Hopkins says crisply. At second glance, either he’s got something in his left eye or it’s starting to twitch. Probably not a good sign for Everlife. Judge Hopkins might know his courtroom isn’t exactly on par with what’s up at the capital in Superior Court . . . but that doesn’t mean he’s to be disrespected.
I try to catch Blake’s attention to warn him to have his guy chill out with the fancy-schmancy talk and snobby looks, but he’s staring solidly at the back of Mr. Neilhouse’s head. Frederick, that’s what the attorney said his name is.
Pssst! Blake! Your lawyer’s coming off like an arrogant asshat tourist. Oh, and also, you left your toast on the counter this morning. Don’t worry, I ate it. Can we get lunch later? Or maybe tonight can be our dinner date . . . finally. Yeah, I know it’s only finally because I’m a big, scaredy cat, but I’m ready. I think. I hope. I know I’m definitely ready to do that thing you did last night with your fingers again.
I can feel my lips stretching into a smile as I have an entire conversation with Blake in my head, and I have to cover it with my hand and force a tiny cough. Even then, he doesn’t so much as blink in response.
“Before we begin, let me make this clear,” Judge Hopkins says. “This isn’t a trial, it’s a hearing. As such, while I’m going to be a bit more relaxed with certain rules, I won’t allow this to degenerate into some TV show. So both sides, save your grandstanding for some other case when there’s a jury and someone who hasn’t been on both sides of where you’re sitting now. Understand?”
Everyone’s quite clear, and the judge nods. “Mr. Monroe, the floor’s yours.”
At Judge Hopkins’s direction, Mr. Monroe stands to give an opening statement. He does a really good job of making Yvette Horne sound like a grieving widow whose pain at losing her husband is being worsened by Everlife twisting the knife to leave her destitute.
Yvette plays the part, dabbing at her eyes again now that she has an audience. I think she even squeezes out a few actual tears, though I don’t see anything resembling sadness in her eyes. If anything, she looks bored at having to sit through the proceedings. Especially when Mr. Walsh does his opening statement, dryly discussing industry standards and contract timelines.
Mr. Monroe calls Yvette to the stand, which is really just the chair sitting next to Judge Hopkins’s table.
The judge swears Yvette in himself, and then Mr. Monroe begins questioning her. By the time he’s done with her, I could actually believe that Yvette Horne loved her husband, especially when she talks about how much they loved their surrogate child, Rusty the dog.
“I’ve always wanted a dog, since we were never able to have children. But Dickie said we’d know when the time was right, an
d boy, did we. I saw Rusty on a website, biggest boy in the litter, and I knew that was our baby. Dickie loved that dog too. I’m glad I’ve got him now because he’s my only comfort in the empty house . . . the empty bed at night. That’s when it’s hardest, you know?” Yvette trails off, sniffling and wiping at her eyes.
“Do you need a moment to compose yourself, dear?” Judge Hopkins asks gently.
Yvette shakes her head. “No, thank you. I’d rather get this over with, you know. It hurts” —she holds her palm against her chest over her heart— “but better to rip it off like a Band-Aid.”
“Brave soul,” Mr. Monroe murmurs.
I must make some sound of disbelief because Jeff bumps his knee against mine, and when I look over, his eyes are screaming at me to ‘shut up’ and ‘stick to what we talked about’.
“Fine,” I mouth back, and he looks back to the front of the room just in time for Mr. Monroe to call him to the stand.
“In the interest of Mrs. Horne, I won’t ask you to get too detailed, Sheriff Barnes, but is it safe to say Mr. Horne is dead?” Mr. Monroe asks.
Jeff crooks one eyebrow as though that’s the stupidest question he’s ever heard, but true to his word, he answers only what was asked. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Monroe says, and Jeff’s mouth pinches.
“Mr. Horne probably didn’t think so,” Jeff interrupts.
Oh, so you do more than sit there and robotically answer, Jeff.
Judge Hopkins snorts, amused. “Good one, Jeff.”
Mr. Monroe has the good grace to look at least slightly chagrined, but he recovers quickly, holding up a piece of paper. “This is the Sheriff’s Department report on Mr. Horne’s death, correct?”
He hands it to Jeff, who looks it over. “Yes.”
“Can you read the cause of death?”
“Myocardial infarction.”
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