Page 5 of Final Verdict
“He knows you’re still alive, sir.”
“Then keep telling him until he finally believes it.”
“Okay…” She frowns. “What about your mother? Want to tell her something other than ‘I’ll call you back’ for a change?”
“Sure. Tell her that…”
I stop talking, feeling a slight pang of guilt at the fact that I hadn’t seen her face or heard her raspy laughter in over a decade. That the only communication between us that remained was midnight birthday texts, ‘Hope you’re doing well’ emails, and the occasional handwritten letter with updates that didn’t really matter.
The fraying strings on our estrangement were sheared by her hands, and I knew there wasn’t enough time for us to suture them together.
“Tell her I’ll call her back soon,” is all I can say. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” She hands me an envelope. “Don’t forget to show your face at the grand opening for the Piedmont Hotel tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because Helen St. Pierre owns it, and she wants you to know she’ll be wearing Chanel.” She winks. “She also has thepenthouse suite reserved in case you want to ‘settle’ the tension between you two.”
“She did not say those words to you, Rachel…”
“Okay, I made that part up.” She shrugs. “But could you please just screw her so I don’t have to deal with her desperation anymore?”
“No, but I will stop by her event.”
I walk away and take the elevator to the top floor.
When the doors open, my name glitters in huge gold letters on the wall, and my undefeated record is displayed on a huge screen.
Walking into my office, I lock the door and find a bright pink envelope atop my desk.
I open it to see a “Come see me” card, along with black-and-white photos of Helen.
Naked photos.
I flip through them and sigh before tossing them into the trash and opening my next case.
The woman looks good—she always has—but not good enough to distract me from my work or make me want anything more.
No one can ever do that…
By the time I look up from my folder, the sun has fallen down the sky and the hallway is quiet.
I glance at the clock and realize it’s nine forty-two; an hour past the grand opening.
Shit.
After locking everything inside my desk, I rush down to my car.
Sliding behind the wheel, I turn on a film review podcast and drive onto the road.
“That’s what I’m saying, Harold…” The host whines. “I almost walked out of the theater on this one. The acting was soooo bad, the spicy scenes were cringeee, and don’t get me started on the fake six-pack abs and costumes!”
The moment I reach a stoplight, I pick up my phone and search for a better option to listen to. As I’m mentally debating between a news show and a luxury car showcase, my left rear door opens.
What the hell?
I look up at my rearview mirror, spotting a blur of sparkling blue fabric tumbling into my backseat.
