The Good Lie by A.R. Torre

CHAPTER 19

The voice mail had been from Robert’s secretary, who requested that I meet with him the following morning at the ungodly hour of 7:00 a.m. I returned her call with a stiff refusal in place, then yielded at her dignified and maternal tone and agreed to a 7:30 a.m. meeting.

After another fitful night, I paired a conservative high-neck wrap dress with my tallest heels and spent an extra ten minutes wrestling my thick hair into a French twist. I made quick time to Beverly Hills and entered the sleek and intimidating entrance of Robert’s building fifteen minutes early. After riding up in the elevator, I exited to find a statuesque older woman waiting for me at the entrance to Cluster & Kavin.

“Dr. Moore,” she said warmly, “Robert is expecting you in our conference room.”

Robert was seated at the far end of a long table, his cell to his ear, his gaze immediately latching on to me. He didn’t smile, didn’t react, and I placed my purse in the first seat, then sat in the second. I crossed my legs, and this time, his attention traveled down the length of them and lingered.

I could feel the heat of his gaze as it caressed its way down my calf and around my ankle. I folded my arms over my chest and adopted an aloof air. Despite our history, we were in a business relationship, which drew a very clear line in the sand in the eyes of my profession and his.

He ended the call. “In case you haven’t heard, I’m now representing Randall Thompson. I have copies of the remaining six case files available for your review, including Scott Harden’s. Are you done with Gabe’s?”

And, just like that, he skipped past the elephant in the room. I considered the evasion and decided to let it slide for the meantime.

“I am.” I reached over and pulled the file from my purse. “Your wife’s was in there, also.”

“And?” His face was blank, and I realized that he would be hell to face at a poker table.

“I reviewed it.”

“I expected you would.” He rose from his chair and walked down the length of the table until he was at my seat. He rested his weight against the table. “You look tired.”

I grimaced, annoyed with myself for putting extra effort in my appearance this morning. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult.” His voice deepened a little, and I was reminded of when he had leaned into me in the cab, his chest warm, cologne faint, voice husky. He’d kissed the side of my neck, and I had been instantly done for.

I forced the memory away. “Well, I am tired. Meetings at the crack of dawn will do that to you.”

The edge of his mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t break. Picking up Gabe’s file, he slowly flipped through it, verifying its contents. He looked at me over the top of the file. “Any insight?”

I gave him my honest opinion. “Given the loss you’ve experienced, I’m not sure I’d be able to function if I were you.”

He looked down at the file, then slowly placed it on the surface beside him. “Work, Dr. Moore, has been the only thing that has kept me functioning.” His attention returned to me, and there was no confusing the look in his eyes. “Work, and a few rare distractions.”

I didn’t trust myself to speak. I’d never been tempted by a client before, but this was new and dangerous territory. We already knew how our bodies fit together. Knew the sound of our pants, the groan of our orgasms, the rough yet tender heartbeat between our bodies.

In a normal scenario, he’d be stepping closer, and I would be leaning in. Yielding to him. Surrendering. Instead, I cleared my throat and circled back to the elephant. “Why are you defending Randall Thompson?”

He gripped the sharp edge of the table. “I believe he’s innocent.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I need you to prove.” He nodded to the folder. “Other than concern for my psychological well-being, do you have any insights into Gabe’s killer?”

“You’re not answering the question. I’m not asking how you’re going to convince a jury of his innocence, I’m questioning why you believe it.”

“I read people for a living, Dr. Moore. Much like you do.” He smiled, but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes.

“No.” I shook my head. “You manipulate people for a living. Manipulation to fit and believe your narrative. You play with emotions and, sometimes, facts.”

He chuckled. “You have a low opinion of lawyers. Fine. I’m used to that. To be honest, shrinks aren’t my favorite people in the world, either. I’ll do my job, you do yours. Right now, you’re the one avoiding my questions. What do you know about my son’s killer?”

His voice was steel, and maybe he was right. I’d sat here for ten minutes and hadn’t told him anything. I had theories, but it was hard to be secure in anything when you were just looking at one-sixth of the evidence.

“I need to see the other files. Identify patterns. I don’t know much now, other than that he’s smart and patient. Someone who plans things out and doesn’t act on impulse.” A new thought occurred to me, one I should have considered as soon as I heard about his role on the defense. “Are you going to put me on the stand?”

“It depends on what you think, after seeing the evidence. If your conclusions match my suspicions, then yes.” His eye contact was a drug, one that stayed with me longer than was appropriate.

“And if I think that Randall Thompson is guilty?”

He let out a half laugh, and if there was a joke, I had missed it. “I won’t put you on the stand if you think he’s guilty.” He pushed Gabe’s file back toward me. “Keep this. I’ll send over copies of the rest. Once you have a chance to review them, I’ll set up an interview with you and Randall.” He stood, and the material of his suit pants brushed against my bare knees as he passed.

I rose and turned to face him. “Why me?”

He paused. “That’s the second time you’ve asked me that.”

“The last time I asked, it was with the understanding that you wanted a psychological profile on your son’s killer. This is something else. Something bigger. You could be fighting to free a killer. Lives are at stake.”

“My son’s life was at stake, and I will spend every day I am breathing on this earth to make sure that anyone who could have prevented or who caused his death answers for what they did.” He glowered at me with a look so hateful, I took a step back.

“We slept together,” I reminded him. “A cross-examiner could use that to discredit my testimony. There are other psychiatrists you could use who wouldn’t expose you to that risk.”

“No one’s going to find out about that. I didn’t tell anyone.” He studied me. “Did you?”

“Yes. I told a colleague.” I flushed, embarrassed by the admission.

“You trust them?”

“I do.”

He shrugged. “Then we’re fine.”

We weren’t fine. This wasn’t right. This was a broken equation. Him defending Randall. Gabe only dead nine months. Me, battling attraction while digging through the most intimate details of his life.

We were a wrecked car, barreling down the highway without lights, our steering locked into place. I could put a seat belt on. I could reach out and jab the hazard lights on. But I couldn’t turn off the car, and I couldn’t seem to open the door and fling myself out.

There was calamity ahead—I just had no idea what it would look like.