He ran a hand through his hair. “Marlow, what is going on with you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re acting weird even for you.”
“How long have you been back? All of five minutes? You have no idea what weird and normal is for me.” I folded my arms over my chest and pretended like I hadn’t just spoken again without thought.
“You want to know if Daniel can recommend an attorney? Call him yourself.”
He thumbed through his phone and in seconds I had a text with the number.
“I’ll see you in a little while.” I pointed at him. “Do not let Patrick leave with my son.”
“Why does he have him in the first place?” he called after me.
My answer was to let the metal door slam behind me.
I checked the time. I was already late, but I had more pressing problems than what to do with the floors in Holt’s office.
I hesitated only a second before I hit the call button.
“Daniel Elliott.”
“This is Marlow Linley, Andrew and Holt Dixon’s sister.”
“I know who you are,” Daniel growled. He growled.
Shit. What had I gotten myself into?
“Can you help me find an attorney? One who isn’t afraid to get dirty.”
Silence. I checked to see if we were still connected.
“Why would you think I know such a person?”
“Just a vibe I get from you,” I said truthfully.
“Your brother is a lawyer.”
“Real estate. I need family law.”
More silence.
“What about Patrick Whitley?”
Hearing his name was a shot of pain and anger at the same time. I would not be controlled by Patrick and his unbendable contract. I’d be damned if he controlled my son’s life either.
“You know that isn’t his specialty.” The words came out more tersely than I intended.
“He might be better suited to help you.”
“Not if I don’t want him to know.”
Even more silence.
“I’ll call you back.”
Three tones sounded. I stared at the screen to confirm he was gone. He was. Guessed I was going to make that appointment after all.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Patrick
“I’ll just wait.”
Holt cocked his head. “It might be a few hours.”
“Where’d she go?”
“Uh . . . to make a lumber order.”
I looked around the space. “What do you need lumber for?”
“What’s with all the questions? I’ve got a little free time and want to spend some with my nephew while I can.” I leaned on the reception desk. “You know as well as I do, the privilege could disappear at any moment.”
“I can’t believe she stood me up.”
“It’s my fault. And believe me, she was none too happy.” Holt gave me a sympathetic look. “No offense, but I hope she takes out the brunt of it on you.”
“Offense taken.” I smirked and reluctantly pushed the stroller toward him. “Tell her to call me.”
“Sure thing, man.” He shifted on his feet.
“Are you sure she’s okay?”
“This is my sister we’re talking about. Who the hell knows?”
I had to concede that point to him. I rapped the desk twice, gave a quick kiss to Blake, and took off.
It had been maybe forty-five minutes since the lunch order texts had started. Holt was a shit liar.
I stopped and turned back toward the garage, my gut telling me to go back and get Blake. He doesn’t belong to you.
I pressed my phone to my ear. It rang through to Wicked’s voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message.
It trilled in my hand. I stuffed down the disappointment when I saw it was the reminder of the appointment I had in forty-five minutes. To hell with it. I tried Marlow again. Voicemail once more.
You stood me up. I ate everything.
No dots indicated she was responding to my text. Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t stand there and look at the phone all day.
“Thank you, Mr. Whitley.” The man grasped my hand with both of his.
“Have a seat, Mr. Addis.” I motioned toward the sitting area in my office.
“Call me, Sidney. Please.”
“Would you care for coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
I took one of the two club chairs and nodded toward the one beside it.
“Where is your son?”
“Abraham is in the state penitentiary. Rikers Island.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Kidnapping and first degree murder.” Murder. Always murder. It always shocked me even though I’d been around killers more than I cared to admit.
“Does he know the victim?”
“She lived next door to him. He’s a good boy. He didn’t do this.” Once again this man’s devotion to his son got to me.
“Who is his counsel at the present time?”
“He’s representing himself. The court appointed lawyer did nothing to help him.”
“Has a trial date been set?”
“Three weeks from yesterday.”
I crossed my ankle over my knee. “I’ll file a motion this afternoon to request more time, but if I’m being perfectly frank, don’t count on it.”
“The system has already convicted him. I thought the judicial system was supposed to help the innocent.”
He wasn’t wrong, but I’d proved over and over again it helped the guilty too.
“I know it feels like they’re against him, but he needs you to remain calm.”
“I’m desperate.” He gripped his knees, and I understood that desperation, connected with it even.
I was getting soft. I’d been successful by keeping any sort of emotion out of my work. Out of anything in my life, if I were honest. Since what had happened with Trish, I felt. All the time. And it was mostly guilt.
“Do you also live next door to the girl?”
“No. Abraham worked hard to buy that house. He’d lived there about eight months when the girl disappeared.” There was pride and disappointment in his tone. I guessed it wasn’t disappointment with his son, but for him.
“How old is she?”
“Nine.”
Oh shit.
I nodded. Resigned to see this through. “I need to speak with your son. I’ll schedule a visit.”
“I can tell you the details now.”
“I appreciate that. And I will want to hear what you know. But I need Abraham’s version first.”
Buzz. Click.
I followed the bailiff through the security door, briefcase in hand.
“Haven’t seen you around lately,” he said over his shoulder.
“I’m flattered you missed me.”
“This one’s right up your alley.
