Crave

painted so many times it was nearly wallpaper smooth, and the air smelled like rotgut floor cleaner, the cologne of the last attorney who’d been in the room, and old cigarettes.

The place couldn’t have been more different from where she usually worked. The Boston offices of Palmer, Lords, Childe, Stinston & Dodd looked like a museum of nineteenth-century furniture and artwork. PLCS&D had no armed guards, no metal detectors, and nothing was screwed into place so it couldn’t be stolen or thrown at somebody.

There the uniforms came from Brooks Brothers and Burberry.

She’d been doing pro bono public defending for about two years, and it had taken her at least twelve months to get in good with the front desk and the staff and the guards. But now it was like old-home week whenever she came here, and she honestly loved the people.

Lot of good folks doing hard jobs in the system.

Opening up the file of her newest client, she reviewed the charges, intake form, and history: Isaac Rothe, age twenty-six, apartment down on Tremont Street. Unemployed. No priors. Arrested along with eight others as part of a bust the night before on an underground gambling and fighting ring. No warrant needed because the fighters were trespassing on private property. According to the police report, her client was in the ring at the time the police infiltrated. Apparently the guy he’d fought was getting treated at Mass General—

It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday morning. . . . Do you know where your life is?

Keeping her head down, Grier squeezed her eyes shut. “Not now, Daniel.”

I’m just saying. As her dead brother’s voice drifted in and out of her head from behind, the disembodied sound made her feel utterly crazy. You’re thirty-two years old, and instead of cozying up to some hot boy toy, you’re sitting here in the police station with sucky coffee—

“I don’t have any coffee.”

At that moment, the door swung wide and Billy rolled in. “Thought you might like some wake-up.”

Bingo, her brother said.

Shut. Up, she thought back at him.

“Billy, that’s really kind of you.” She took what the supervisor offered, the warmth of the paper cup bleeding into her palm.

“Well, you know, it’s dishwater. We all hate it.” Billy smiled. “But it’s a tradition.”

“It sure is.” She frowned as he lingered. “Something wrong?”

Billy patted the vacant chair next to him. “Would you mind sitting here for me?”

Grier lowered the cup. “Of course not, but why—”

“Thanks, dear.”

There was a beat. Clearly, Billy was waiting for her to shift around and was not inclined to explain himself.

Pushing the file across the way, she went to the other seat, her back now to the door.

“That’s a girl.” He gave her a squeeze on the arm and rolled out.

The change in position meant that she could see the filmy apparition of her younger, beloved brother. Daniel was lounging in the far corner of the room, feet crossed at the ankles, arms linked at the chest. His blond hair was fresh and clean, and he had on a coral-colored polo shirt and madras shorts.

He was like an undead model in a Ralph Lauren ad, nothing but all-American, sun-kissed privilege about to take a sail off Hyannis Port.

Except he wasn’t smiling at her, as he usually did. They want him facing the door so the guard outside can keep an eye on him. And they don’t want you boxed into the room. Easier to get you out this way if he goes aggressive.

Forgetting about the security camera, and the fact that to anybody else she was speaking into thin air, she leaned in. “Nobody is going to—”

You’ve got to quit this. Stop trying to save people and get a life.

“Right back at you. Stop haunting me and get an eternity.”

I would. But you won’t let me go.

On that note, the door behind her opened up and her brother disappeared.

Grier stiffened as she heard the tinkling sound of chains and the shuffling of feet.

And then she saw him.

Holy . . . Mary . . . mother . . . of . . .

What had been brought out of holding by Shawn C. was about six feet, four inches of solid muscle. Her client was “dressed in,” which meant he had his prison garb on, and his hands and feet were shackled together and linked with a steel chain that ran up the front of his legs and went around his waist. His hard face had the kind of hollow cheeks that came with zero body fat, and his dark hair was cut short like a military man’s. Fading bruises were clustered around his eyes, a bright white bandage sat close to his hairline . . . and there was a red flush around his neck, as if he’d very, very recently been manhandled.

Her first thought was . . . she was glad good old Billy McCray had made her switch seats. She wasn’t sure how she knew it, but she had the sense that if her client chose to, he could have taken Shawn C. down in the blink of an eye—in spite of the cuffs and the fact that the guard was built like a bulldog and had years of experience handling big, volatile men.

Her client’s eyes didn’t meet hers, but stayed locked on the floor as the guard shoved him into the tight space between the vacant chair and the table.

Shawn C. bent down to the man’s ear and whispered something.

Growled something, was more like it.

Then the guard glanced over at Grier and smiled tightly, as if he didn’t like the whole thing but was going to be professional about it. “Hey, I’ll be right outside the door. You need anything? You just holler and I’m in here.” In a lower voice, he said, “I’m watching you, boy.”

Somehow she wasn’t surprised at the precautions. Merely sitting across from her client made her wary. She couldn’t imagine moving him around the jailhouse.

God, he was big.

“Thanks, Shawn,” she said quietly.

“No problem, Ms. Childe.”

And then she was alone with Mr. Isaac Rothe.

Measuring the tremendous girth of his shoulders, she noted that he wasn’t twitching or fidgeting, which she took as a good sign—no meth or coke in his system, hopefully. And he didn’t stare at her inappropriately or check out the front of her suit or lick his lips.

Actually, he didn’t look at her at all, his eyes remaining on the table in front of him.

“I’m Grier Childe—I’ve been assigned your case.” When he didn’t raise his eyes or nod, she continued. “Anything that you say to me is privileged, which means that within the bounds of the law, I will not reveal it to anyone. Further, that security camera over there has no audio feed, so no one else can hear what you tell me.”

She waited . . . and still he didn’t reply. He just sat there, breathing evenly, all coiled power with his cuffed hands set on the tabletop and his huge body crammed into the chair.

On the first meeting, most of the clients she’d had here either slouched and did the sullen routine, or they played all indignant and offended, with a lot of exculpatory talk. He did neither. His spine was straight as an arrow, and he was totally alert, but he didn’t say a word.

She cleared her throat. “The charges against you are serious. The guy you were fighting with was sent to the hospital with a brain hemorrhage. Right now you’re up for second-degree assault and attempted murder, but if he dies, that’s murder two or manslaughter.”

Nothing.

“Mr. Rothe, I’d like to ask you some questions, if I may?”

No reply.

Grier sat back. “Can you even hear me?”

Just as she was wondering whether he had an undisclosed disability, he spoke. “Yes, ma’am.”

His voice was so deep and arresting, she stopped breathing. Those two words were uttered with a softness that was at total odds with the size of his body and the harshness of his face. And his accent . . . vaguely Southern,