As particles of soil spill out of the top of the terra-cotta pot balanced precariously in my arms, I question why I bothered with the damn plant, but it doesn’t take Freud to know why. It was a gift from Nico, and it’s not like I was the one keeping it alive. Our night cleaning crew watered and tended to it like it was their own.
It thrived, unlike our professional relationship, which is now wilted and dead.
My face burns at the sight of Tanner gaping when he notices the box of my belongings cradled in Tim’s arms.
Shock and confusion are apparent in our wordless but powerful eye contact.
“Take the stairs,” Tanner says with finality. “Brett and Connor are on their way up.”
I nod my thanks as Tim glances at my stilettos and then my face. With confidence I don’t feel, I march to the stairs and yank the heavy door open, the metal staircase uninviting, on par with my blatant dismissal.
Tim takes the descent of sixteen floors without missing a beat. He goes into morbid details with painstaking clarity about his brother’s suicide after he accidentally killed someone.
When we reach the bottom, I can only offer him a sympathetic whisper.
My Tesla sits in its covered parking spot, the block lettering on the sign announcing it’s reserved for Buckley, Felderman, Shackler & Associates.
I pop the trunk as he settles the box in the back. The hefty manila packet that Roger sent home catches my eye, but not before a loose bottle of vodka captures Tim’s.
Once rolled up tightly in a towel, the bottle has unwound itself and is now noticeable. Our expressions freeze, and I watch him watch me. His brown eyes meet mine, and I see him for the first time not as our security guard but as a person who has suffered an enormous loss. There’s a heavy sorrow behind his gaze.
“Please come back,” he says. And I wonder if it’s as much about the job as it is about the implications if I don’t. Because if I don’t return, it’ll mean my own demise, and I might have a tragic tale on par with his late brother’s.
Before I can shut the lid of the trunk, his hand snatches the bottle out.
I stare after Tim as he walks away, whistling a song I’ve heard but can’t place. The lyrics are forgotten, but the melody is haunting.
CHAPTER 8
Sibley
Safe from the outside world for the moment, I lean against the headrest, listlessly closing my eyes to the morning sounds of birds and chatter as the world moves on around me. My fingers hang on to the steering wheel like mere threads that, if plucked, will cause me to lose my last remaining grip on reality.
As much as I fight it, I don’t have the power to push away the memories, at least not today. A wise person once said a single deviation from a plan can change the trajectory, good or bad, and four months ago, my course was interrupted in one fell swoop.
On that fateful day, I was prepping to meet with my next client when Leslie walked in with a man. It turned out to be him, and I felt his presence long before I looked up from my computer.
As soon as he walked into the room, he commanded it.
Demanded it, even.
It wasn’t because he was tall or movie-star handsome or because he spoke in sharp staccato taps, enunciating every word.
I would learn it was because he knew how to work a room in a tailored suit molded to his body, complete with a three-day scruff of beard that had more gray than black.
His eyes were not green or hazel but an olive color that would change based on his moods. Darkening when he was pensive, subdued when he was carefree, which was rare.
At six feet, Leslie, standing taller than this man, seemed bowled over by him, his existence enough to overcome her height. “Sibley, this is Mr. Nico Marcona.”
I stood, wobbly in my nude pumps, my insides twisting, though I was unclear from what at the time—desire, intrigue, maybe a combination of both.
“Hi, Mr. Marcona.” I stepped around my desk to shake his hand. My handshake is firm, reliable. Just like my reputation. “Sibley Bradford. Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Our hands stayed entwined, pumping in the air.
“Mr. Mar—”
“Please! It’s Nico.”
“Nico, then. Please have a seat.” I gave Leslie a megawatt smile. “Thanks, Leslie.”
Taking a seat behind my desk, I watched while Nico sank down in one of my two chestnut-colored Italian leather chairs.
Leslie mouthed something totally unprofessional over Nico’s head at me. Out loud, she said, “Do you need me to stay and take notes?”
I didn’t blame her; she was dying for a chance to breathe the same air as this man. He was a magnet.
“Actually . . .” He twisted his body to consider Leslie. “I’d prefer it was just her and me.” The way he delivered the news wasn’t condescending but rather apologetic.
“Of course.” She gave him a pleasant smile and nodded to me. “I’ll be at my desk if you need anything.”
While she was exiting, he rested his palms on the smooth leather armrests. “These are really something. Let me guess, Restoration Hardware?”
“Close, but no.”
“I’m guessing not a secondhand store.”
“I cannot give Goodwill credit.”
“Custom?”
“If you must know”—I laughed—“yes.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not complaining about the exorbitant fees you charge to have this kind of furniture.”
“If you were concerned with my retainer, you wouldn’t be here.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Then it would be about cost, not outcome.” I considered the notepad on my desk. “Plus, it looks like you are a referral. Bill McElroy.”
“Your name wasn’t just on the tip of his tongue. I’ve had a couple friends refer you. Say you’re one hell of a bulldog.”
“I like that, as long as they didn’t tell you I resemble one.”
“No. They said you were pretty.” Nico pauses. “But that word seems paltry, doesn’t do you justice.”
With a reserved smile, I didn’t respond to his compliment. I wanted Mr. Marcona to hire me for my intelligence.
For my ability to win. My record.
I could give him the best possible outcome for his contentious divorce.
“Let’s begin,” I offered. “I’ll take notes the good old-fashioned way.” Moving my Montblanc to my notepad, I wrote the date, and when I glanced up, his eyes were locked on my left hand. Specifically, my ring finger.
“Wow.” He whistled. “A divorce attorney still married?”
“I’d be more concerned if I were divorced. Meant I hadn’t learned my lesson.”
“Which is?” He raised a brow at me.
“It’s cheaper to stay together.” I smirked. “And I kind of like him still.”
“How long?”
“Married for over ten.”
“No seven-year itch?”
I met his eyes head on; a storm was brewing behind them. “I don’t believe in that sentiment.”
Nico responded with how I must have been different from most people or had married someone I was better suited to.
Clients tell divorce attorneys every infraction their spouse has committed over the last decade, including burning dinner or leaving dirty dishes in the sink, like those are worthy of the death penalty.
When Nico went into a diatribe explaining how his wife, Christine, didn’t want a divorce, I cut him off. “Everyone wants a therapist. I can only offer my services as they pertain to the law,” I said. “Vent to girls you meet on dating apps. Or your family and friends.”
His jaw hit the floor like a caricature, and a tense silence lingered between us.
As he crossed his arms over his chest, I could tell by Nico’s surly demeanor he was shocked at my interruption. People didn’t typically barge into his speech. It probably reminded him of Catholic school, and I was the nun chastising him with a ruler across his knuckles.
His hand tugged on his ear, wh
ich I would learn was a nervous habit.
“Nico”—he went to protest, but I held up a hand—“I’m going to represent your best interests. I can be your sounding board, but as you pointed out, we’re on an expensive clock.”
He was taken aback, his eyes becoming putrid green slits as he decided if I was a pretentious bitch or a cutthroat attorney.
I could be both.
If a man said this, he’d be thrilled. They love dick-measuring contests.
But I had tits—great tits, but tits nonetheless.
And Mr. Marcona hadn’t bought into my legacy quite yet.
“I can refer you to a great therapist, but all I want are facts about your divorce. Not any marital-dissatisfaction-survey answers.”
Those eyes fixed me with a steely gaze. I didn’t think it was possible, but they flickered a shade darker as they pinned me to my chair. “Fair enough.”
“Let’s talk about the law. Assets. Division of both. The nitty gritty.”
“Okay.” When he steepled his fingers, his jacket sleeve revealed his expensive watch. “I’ll let you dominate the conversation.”
“Thank you.” I tried for stoic.
He must have been placated, because his eyes started to soften, returning to jade green.
“For me to offer the best defense, I need to know everything, and I mean everything, as it pertains to finances. Divorces are expensive, but so are fuckups.” I never broke eye contact. “Your friends and family have surely offered all sorts of advice. Some of it warranted, mostly frivolous. I need to know about any offshore bank or dummy accounts where you’re hiding money you don’t want your ex-wife to find. This way”—I leaned forward, his eyes smoldering into mine—“I can either advise you against it or turn a blind eye.”
Lifting his hand to signal a question, Nico threw me for a loop. I presumed it would be about money. I was wrong. “What about cheating?”
“I don’t care who you are fucking. Neither does the court.”
“Not me.” His voice soured. “My wife.”
“It doesn’t matter, since we’re a no-fault state.” I kept my tone neutral. “Emotions have to be kept in check. Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted me. “By the way, you’d make one hell of a dominatrix.”
“How do you know I don’t moonlight as one after work?”
A small chuckle escaped his lips, and I liked the sound of it. Even better, Nico was relaxing in his chair, leaning back into the leather, becoming less rigid.
We were making progress.
“Be glad we aren’t in New Mexico, where you can sue the lover of your spouse if they’re withholding affection.” I raised a brow. “Or in Mississippi, where a reasonable cause for divorce is being an ‘idiot.’”
“I wonder what baseline they use,” he joked, “to determine if you’re an idiot or a stupid idiot.”
“And worse yet”—I laid a finger against my cheek—“in Tennessee, it takes your spouse poisoning you before you have grounds for a fault divorce.”
“So moral of the story, be glad this is a no-fault state?”
“Exactly.” I gave him a smug look. “However, it is a community property one, which gets everyone twisted up inside. But consider this from both angles. Any children?”
“Three.”
“Did your wife give up a lot to raise the kids so you could advance your career?”
“No. She has a nanny and spends her time shopping and cheating.”
“Duly noted.”
“Also, be forewarned, Mrs. Bradford.” Nico frowned. “I’m not out to play dirty, and though you don’t want to hear the sordid details, you might want to hear at least one part.”
“Which is?”
“Her lover is trying to blackmail me.”
And that was the beginning of my introduction to Nico Marcona, who is no longer in need of my services.
Dammit, Nico. I punch the steering wheel angrily with shaking hands. Was it him who ran to the partners and tattled about our evening together?
As I watch my hands tremble, it’s as if a 6.9-magnitude earthquake is flowing through my veins, making me convulse in agony.
In the rearview, I see a stiff-lipped and staunch attorney, Jeff Carsten, passing behind me, his voice growing audibly louder. Assuming he’s talking to me, I sink down deeper in the leather, fearful I’ve been spotted.
A sigh of relief escapes my lips as I realize his earbuds are in, his gesticulating arms almost laughable as he talks to someone on the other end.
He’ll be unhinged at my abrupt dismissal, I think sourly.
I try to call Leslie, but it goes directly to voice mail. I’m indecisive about whether I should wait for her to arrive so we can have a private conversation or hide my tail between my legs and call her later. Eventually I choose the latter.
Forcing myself to drive, I head toward the busy freeway. It’s still early morning and a peak time for rush hour traffic.
Upset and humiliated, I’m in the mood to speed, but it’s impossible in the dense morning commute. All I can do is maneuver through the traffic to the far left side, reserved for motorcyclists and high-occupancy or electric vehicles. Then an incoming call flashes on the large screen.
I know the number by heart, yet I’ve never saved his name in my phone. We don’t bother with a greeting since he despises those. It took him a long time to break me of that, a midwestern habit of asking a few generic questions before getting to the “meat on the bone” or the “heart of the matter” ingrained in me.
So I begin with, “Find Christine yet?”
“Looks like she’s headed to a loft on Seventh.”
“Really?” I tap a finger to set the car on autopilot. “That’s too predictable.”
“Does it matter where she’s headed?” He never usually asks, but this time, he does. “What’s it to you who Nico’s soon-to-be ex-wife bangs?”
“She has something up her sleeve,” I protest. “And it’s affecting my client.”
“If you say so.” I hear him spit. “But it’s a community property state, so why do you care?”
“It’s personal,” I say bluntly.
“My point: it shouldn’t be.”
Tapping my finger to keep the self-driving feature on, I think of my options. Not ready to confide in Chuck all my suspicions, especially since he knows those involved, I stay silent.
We are longtime acquaintances, and we both know that “friends” would be too far of a stretch. He doesn’t make friends with his clients, nor should he. That’s why Chuck’s excellent in his line of work. As a retired former detective and now a private investigator, he typically researches fraud cases, which prompted his services in the first place. Even with his standoffish demeanor, he’s been a mentor and guide since day one.
“We’ll just call it your fiduciary duty.” He grunts. “By the way, I hear you’re on a required sabbatical.”
“Already?” I groan. “That was lightning speed.” I tense up. “Let me guess, one of the attorneys called you?”
“No shit! You would’ve made a good Sherlock. Maybe even Nancy Drew. Real insightful. Tanner got to me first.”
Opening my mouth to offer a sarcastic retort, I hear him mutter “Fuck” under his breath, then again, with added emphasis.
“Chuck—”
“It’s not a loft. It’s a house. Gated.”
“So?”
“I’m watching her speed through the front gate.”
“Congratulations.” I’m snarky in my reply. “That’s typically what people have to do to enter . . . go through them.”
“Yeah. No shit, except it’s Seventh and Campbell.”
“Wait,” I plead. “Tell me Seventh Avenue, not Street.”
“Then I’d be lying, just like the woman barreling through the gate.” Another curse word follows.
When he repeats the full address, I offer, “Maybe they know each other from a previous life?”
“Sure.” He adds dis
paragingly, “Except in our current reality, she’s at his house at eight in the morning.”
“What the hell is she doing there?” I seethe. There has to be a reasonable explanation, except none comes to mind.
“I’ve done work for your firm for years. I told you I’d never get involved in a dispute between the two of you.” He pauses for a beat. “But this is fucked.”
“I can’t deal with this right now,” I mutter under my breath. “But I’m on my way over there.”
“Sib.” He begs me to go home and take care of my own shit, but I respond by disconnecting. When he calls again, I decline, my focus on the next exit, where I get off and speed in the direction I’ve just come from.
Chuck sends me a text telling me not to bother; the gate is locked, so I can’t see anything, and he’s already got pictures of Christine Marcona heading in. I wish it were enough, but coupled with my job instability and the recent turn of events, I need an outlet for my frustration and anger.
Stopping at a gas station, I grab a bottle of Tito’s Vodka and then make my way to the address that Chuck just left, careful not to stop and draw attention to my movements, a camera peering intently from the iron gate.
I’m familiar with the compound, a large main house built next to a smaller guest one, a circular driveway wrapping around and between the two properties. A relatively empty parking lot is across the street in front of a flower shop and café, so I take my chances and idle, determined to wait until the woman leaves.
I have all day, literally, to sit here, and I must follow this through to the end.
Yanking the Tito’s from the paper bag, I unscrew the red cap and start taking small sips. It isn’t long before they become longer swallows, and the metal fortress blurs before my eyes.
An incoming call interrupts my pity party, and my colleague Tanner starts rambling before I can even say hello.
Picturing his dark, slicked-back hair, the result of expensive pomade, and the equally exorbitant Italian loafers perched on his desk, I’m anesthetized to his seemingly innocent reaction. “I’m just sick about what happened.” Glibly, he says, “I never would’ve agreed to that type of a deal.”
“What deal?”
The Imposter Page 8
