The Good Lie by A.R. Torre
CHAPTER 37
“I can’t believe you fired Luke Attens midsession.” Meredith pulled out a chair from the break-room table and dropped into it. “That took some serious balls.”
“It was stupid,” I countered, glancing into the hall and pulling the door shut to give us some privacy. “Between the time I wasted on Robert and ditching Luke, my billable hours this month are going to be pitiful. Oh . . . plus, one of my clients died, so I’m down to Lela Grant and a handful of randoms.”
“This town is full of crazy people,” Meredith said cheerfully. “And you were on TV. You’re a D-list celebrity now. That’ll bring in the nutjobs.”
“Oh, great.” I opened the fridge and bent over, seeing what was available. “Just what I want.” Other than the coffee during Luke’s appointment, I hadn’t had anything to eat, and my stomach growled in protest at the almost empty shelves. Jacob’s job was to restock the break room, and I made a mental note to nudge him with a reminder.
“Hey, if money gets tight, I can always send over a few of my sexual sadists,” Meredith offered. “Technically, they could be classified as violent.”
“You know, I think I’m good.” I squatted and looked through the collection of plastic containers. “How old is this spaghetti?”
“It’s still good,” Meredith assured me, fishing the remote out of the basket in the middle of the table. “Two days old, max. There should be a date on it somewhere.” She turned on the ancient TV that sat on the counter and flipped to the grainy news channel. “Any word from your sexy attorney?”
“Complete silence.” I pried the lid off the leftover pasta and placed it in the microwave. “If cops get off the elevator, flash them your boobs so I can slip out the back.”
“I hate to break it to you, drama queen, but they can’t arrest you for not reporting someone’s emotional deliberations.”
I squinted at her. “Uh, yeah, they can. Emotional deliberations are called premeditation.”
“If only we had an attorney to ask,” she intoned, pushing to her feet. She cracked her back, then sighed. “Honestly, I can’t decide if he was a gentleman or an asshole to unload the accusations postpenetration.”
I considered the options. “Both.” Definitely both. The one thing I hadn’t needed was that reminder of what good sex and intimacy felt like. Curled against Robert’s side last night, there had been a solid period of time when I had thought that maybe he and I were something. Something with a future.
Stupid of me. I hadn’t been so stupid since tenth grade, when I believed Mick Gentry when he told me that having sex proved we were in love.
“What do you think he’s going to do?”
“I have no idea,” I admitted. “I’m so confused by the entire thing. Why hire me at all? Why not just confront me, right then, when he read John’s file?”
“Maybe he liked you,” Meredith mused, flipping on the faucet and washing her hands. “Like, liked you, liked you.”
I made a face. “Remind me again, how old are you?”
Meredith turned off the faucet and ripped a piece of paper towel off the roll. “Okay, I know you’re trying not to think about the case, but I haven’t spoken to you since the news broke about the fake escape story. So can I just say how weird it is that the killer just let this kid go?” She dried her hands, then balled up the towel. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Scott was the only victim from Beverly High. If the killer was Randall Thompson and he was going to let someone go, it doesn’t make sense for him to release a victim who could ID him. Randall’s not a genius, but he also isn’t stupid. The more I’m finding out, the more convinced I am that he’s not the BH Killer. And there’s a chance Scott Harden isn’t a BH victim at all.”
“Are you writing this stuff down?” Meredith asked. “This could be your book-deal moment. How awesome would it be if Scott Harden isn’t a BH victim? Seriously.” She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Totally awesome,” I deadpanned, pulling open the microwave door and testing the temperature of the food with my finger.
I needed a vacation, I decided. Somewhere far away from the LA traffic, the smog, and clients who might cut my throat if I missed an appointment. Somewhere I could take an entire week and not think about the Bloody Heart Killer or Robert Kavin or dead wives of horrible clients. Maybe Hawaii. Or Costa Rica. Actually, screw the heat. Alaska. I’d always wanted to see a whale.
I turned to Meredith to ask if she’d been to Alaska and paused; her attention was glued to the TV above the bar.
“Are you watching this?” she hissed, reaching over and jabbing her finger on the volume-control button.
I left the microwave open and moved beside her, concentrating on the wobbly news headline.
SEX PRISON FOUND IN ATTIC—IS IT THE BLOODY HEART KILLER?
An aerial shot zoomed in, past a partitioned-off street and a dozen uniformed officers who filed in and out of a white brick home. The newscaster spoke, and I had to grip Meredith’s arm to stay upright.
“. . . six pinkie fingers have been found, and our sources are confirming that this is, in fact, the lair of Los Angeles’s most notorious killers of this decade . . .”
So much for not thinking about death. Randall Thompson was, in fact, innocent, and the names now displayed below the newscaster’s face were heartbreakingly familiar.
John and Brooke Abbott.