My mother wrote to me just before her death that there were trunks in the attic containing photographs and letters that may be of interest to me, or you and your sister. I have sorted through the trunks. There are photographs of relatives and other papers, most of which, aren’t of much interest.
However, there is a box of letters between your grandmother, Marcia Cullen Bingham (Cullen was her maiden name), and my mother—your aunt Sally. I did not know this, but they were particularly close when they were young women, until your grandmother’s death at age 30. It is unclear exactly what happened to her, but I suspect foul play was involved in her death. As in, she may not have died of natural causes.
I don’t know how much your mother spoke of her childhood, but Karen was only eight years old when her mother died. She went to live with her father’s parents. I’m unclear what happened to her father, but I’m sure you know if Warren’s alive or has passed. In hindsight, I don’t know why my mother never spoke of her sister’s mysterious death.
I’m happy to send you copies of the letters, but I thought I would first extend an invitation to you and your sister and mother to come for a visit. I would love to hear about the summers you spent here. My mother thought of you as her grandchildren; the ones I was unable to give her.
Whether you can take the time to come for a visit or not, I would love to chat, even if it’s only over the phone. Please call me at 541-555-2499 when you have a moment.
Hoping to hear from you soon.
With love,
Lola
Liz read the letter a second time. Her grandmother’s death foul play? Liz’s mom had never said anything of the sort. In fact, her mother rarely spoke of her life before her Liz’s grandmother’s death. Great-Grandmother and Great-Grandfather Bingham had raised Liz’s mother, with occasional visits from Grandfather Warren. When they were little, Liz and Peggy had spent many Sundays attending church and then going to lunch at the Bingham’s enormous home in La Cañada—a wealthy city in Los Angeles County, northwest of Pasadena. The memories were hazy. Both great-grandparents died within months of one another when Liz and Peggy were nine and seven, respectively.
“Why didn’t Grandpa Warren raise you?” Peggy had once asked their mother.
“He was the type who needed a woman to raise children. My grandparents were wealthy and lived in a good area. I guess he figured it was better for me.” That was all they could get out of their mother. She clammed up if they asked follow-up questions.
Maybe she should go up for a visit. She didn’t have anything else in the pipeline that her two junior associates couldn’t handle. She could walk away for a couple of weeks. Maybe more. She could visit cousin Lola and solve a fifty-year-old murder mystery. Peggy and her little daughter, Beth, could come too. They could make a vacation of it. Spoiling her little namesake was Liz’s favorite pastime. It would be good for Peggy and Beth to get away. Newly divorced, her sister was still reeling from her now ex-husband’s sudden announcement that he was in love with someone else and leaving her and their three-year-old to move to New York with his mistress.
A knock drew Liz from thoughts of Oregon. It was her secretary, Mae. “The jury’s in.”
“All right.” Her stomach turned over. This is it.
Mae put her hands on her generous hips. A strawberry blond with alabaster skin and green eyes, she glowed with health and vitality. While most L.A. women starved themselves to be thin, Mae was the opposite. She displayed her curvy hourglass figure to great advantage in form-fitting dresses and excellent choices in bras. Today, she wore a gray pencil skirt and silk tank that matched her eyes, finished off with high-heeled black sandals.
“Now don’t you worry. You did your very best. It’s in God’s hands now.” In Mae’s presence, men embarrassed themselves, fawning all over her and stuttering through attempts at flirtation, intoxicated by her beauty and her husky, southern accent. “Maybe a touch up on the ol’ makeup?” Mae was already fetching the emergency makeup pouch from the drawer below the clock.
Liz accepted the makeup bag from Mae and moved over to look at herself in the mirror that hung behind her desk. Dark smudges made half-circles under her brown eyes. Her stick-straight brown hair, cut into a shoulder-length, layered bob, was supposed to stay attractively tousled so as not to overwhelm her small face. Right now, it was flat against her skull.
“Look at my hair. This hot weather’s terrible.” I look awful. It was obvious she hadn’t been outside in months. Her olive skin looked pasty. Hollow cheeks made her eyes look too big for her face. Why all the girls wanted to be skinny, she couldn’t understand. She’d give a lot for a little height and a few pounds of muscle. The figure of a thirteen-year-old boy and an old lady’s face. “Good God, Mae, why do you let me go out of the office like this?”
“Don’t you take the Lord’s name in vain now,” said Mae. “He’s not the reason you look like something the cat dragged in.”
“Sorry.” Liz grabbed the blush brush from the bag and swept it over her cheeks.
“Maybe if you took the weekends to relax and attend church, you might rest better at night. You need to get more sleep. Eat better. Find a man.”
“Okay, grandma.”
Mae laughed.
“I don’t see you looking for a man.” Liz dabbed shadow on her eyelids.
“No, ma’am.” Mae was at Liz’s desk now, straightening papers. “I’m only twenty-six. Anyway, I’ve got enough trouble.”
“Like what?” Liz lined her lips, then filled them in with gloss.
“You, for one.”
“Good point.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Grant
GRANT WATCHED LIZZIE disappear inside the courtroom. After a few minutes, he followed, slipping into the back row. She was already seated in the front, next to her client. Both sat with straight backs, tension displayed in their postures. On the other side of the room, the scumbag rapist sat with his attorneys. Grant knew his type. Rich, privileged white boy who thinks rules don’t apply to him. Grant had a bad feeling about the verdict. The jury wouldn’t come back with a guilty verdict. He felt it in his bones. No matter how good Lizzie’s argument was, it wasn’t enough. Classic “he said/she said” case. The douche was going to get away with it.
As the courtroom filled, Grant slumped low on the bench, not wanting to be recognized. The Murphy trial had been covered in great detail, including profiling the victims and their attorneys. This was to be expected when the most famous actress in the world accuses a senator from the country’s political royal family of rape. People had started recognizing Grant on the street. Raymond had predicted it. Keep your head about you, son. Your life’s about to change.
Fortunately, for Lizzie, the judge for this trial had ruled that no reporters were allowed in the courtroom. Given her rising fame, and the nature of this trial, it would have been a zoo. Lizzie didn’t need that added complication.
She looked so small sitting up there. He wished he could wrap his arms around her. But she didn’t need him. Lizzie was tough in the courtroom. Watching her in action always made him think of the description of Hermia in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “Though she be but little, she is fierce!”
I’m this close to being a stalker. He cringed. It was the truth. He was stalking Lizzie by even being here, like a middle school kid taking the long route to class hoping to catch a glimpse of his crush. He was no better than a thirteen-year-old boy. A thirteen-year-old stalker. The fact that he knew the jury had come in proved it. He was in full-fledged stalker mode.
He’d wanted to be in the courtroom when the jury came back, not because he could comfort her or help her in any way. His presence had to be invisible and benign. Regardless, he wanted his energy to be in the room. He didn’t want her to be alone.
If you love her, set her free. His mother’s voice, soft and chastising.
Leave her be. His own voice now. Leave her alone. Go home and resume your miserable life.
If only h
e could will himself to do so.
CHAPTER SIX
Liz
THE CLOCK STRUCK two as the jurors entered the dense and humid Los Angeles courtroom. Behind Liz, family and friends of both defendant and plaintiff stirred uneasily, some fanning themselves with magazines or newspapers, the central air unable to combat the June sun that baked the walls of the courthouse. Liz’s silk blouse stuck to her back. Next to her, Meve shuddered.
The jury consisted of six men and six women of various ages and races. All intent on finding the truth, aiding in the pursuit of justice to the best of their abilities. They hadn’t asked for this job, yet they served, putting their lives on hold for the past few weeks to listen carefully to evidence that would decide if there was enough proof of guilt. Good people trying their best, treating their part in the judicial with the utmost seriousness.
She was at the mercy of twelve jurors. It reminded her of the ridiculous group projects from high school when she’d done all the work and had to stand by on the day it was due and let one of the others present the material. Guilty or not guilty. Had she done enough with the time she’d been given? Had she been convincing? Had she used the right words? Would justice be served for the young woman at her side whose life had been ruined in the minutes it took the monster across the aisle to jump her in the alley behind her apartment building? The culmination of six months of work, in the hands of twelve jurors.
Liz knew about words, how their order and arrangement mattered more than anything else. Her father taught her that. He’d used the clock to time her writing assignments, his voice like a marine sergeant as he growled instructions. How much can you do with the time allowed? Another five minutes to delete another five words. Succinct, efficient, Elizabeth. These were the rules one must live by.
Most people were good. She still believed that, even after all the ugliness she’d seen in and out of the courtroom . It was just a few beasts who inflicted pain. Murderers and rapists, who stole lives and ruined families. They were the ones she devoted her life to decimating. The rapist across the aisle from her now was one of the worst she’d faced. A shameless liar. Blond with unblinking blue eyes, he was charming and handsome with a pretty, sorority-girl fiancée by his side. The consummate frat boy from a good family had an internship waiting at his uncle’s high-tech company after his graduation from UCLA. He was not there, he said. It was not him.
They had no DNA; the case was based on circumstantial evidence and Meve’s testimony. Too many times it came down to this. Like so many victims, it had taken Meve weeks to come forward. Only after her mother had begged her to go the police had she agreed. Liz had taken the case pro bono. Meve was young and pretty, but poor and without connections. She worked as a waitress at a Culver City bar where Joseph was a regular. A half-dozen witnesses testified that Joseph came in for happy hour at least twice a week with three of his male coworkers. He always asked for Meve’s section. Liz suspected that he’d planned it for weeks, after memorizing her habits and schedules. She left work every night around 2 a.m., walking to her car which she parked in a cheap lot a couple of blocks away. He waited for her, and then dragged her across the alley, muffling her screams with a rag tied around her mouth.
Liz watched as the jury took their seats one by one. If they looked over at Meve, they would convict. If they looked at him, they would call him innocent. Then it happened. Juror number four, a middle-aged woman who told them she had two teenaged daughters looked at Meve and smiled. We have him. We have to have him. She reached under the table and squeezed Meve’s clammy hand.
Her Honor Theresa Miller, tough and regal, entered the courtroom. Everyone rose as a hush fell over the room. Judge Miller made junior attorneys quiver, but Liz liked her. She was fair, and she was tough. Judge Miller turned to the jury box. “Mr. Foreman, do you have a verdict?”
The foreman of the jury was a hipster type with spikey hair and black eye-glasses that covered half his face. Liz had felt concerned about him at first, thinking he might identify too closely with the defendant, but she changed her mind when she saw how carefully he took notes during testimony, particularly Meve’s. He stood; the paper shook as he read the verdict. “We the jurors find the defendant, Joseph Symons, not liable for any damages.”
Murmurs arose from the audience. The judge told the defendant he was free to go. Joseph’s mother ran to him and embraced him. His father was behind them, looking relieved. The family money was safe.
Meve sobbed as Liz folded her into an embrace. They’d been through hell over the past few months. For what? Another trial that ended with the wrong verdict. “I’m sorry, Meve. I’m so sorry.”
The District Attorney hadn’t gotten a guilty verdict. Why did I think I could? Because the bastard’s guilty, that’s why. And I can’t let it go. Not when there’s a chance for justice. There was not enough evidence to convict, and in the end, the jury didn’t believe the working-class girl over the rich boy. A waitress versus a frat boy.
Meve’s mother came up behind them, taking her daughter into her arms. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Joyner,” Liz said.
“You did your best, and we appreciate it. We knew it was a long shot,” Mrs. Joyner said. “Come on, baby. Let’s go home.”
After they’d left, Liz waited for the courtroom to empty. Her legs were rubber. Every muscle in her body ached. A dull throbbing permeated the base of her skull. She hadn’t eaten since the night before, and she’d forgotten all about lunch after her father had canceled. Could she stand? Did she have enough strength to get up out of her chair and walk outside? The press would be there. They would swarm and thrust microphones in her face. She shuddered. The crowds frightened her. They always had, but since the Murphy trial it was worse. Lately she wondered how much longer she could do this work. After today, after this defeat, could she keep doing this? Each case took years off her life. She did a lot of pro bono work, including this last case. Months of work she could not bill for. But she mustn’t regret it. She’d tried. At least I tried.
She packed a few papers into her briefcase and tried not to cry. This is my fault. I should have worked harder. Found another witness. Something.
After a few minutes, she walked out of the courtroom and into the hallway. It was nearly empty. Good, she had waited long enough that the crowd had probably moved to the street. She took the elevator down to the first floor. Her left leg ached from the old injury. It always did when she was tired—the slight limp suddenly raring to life.
She stepped outside the doors of the courthouse. The bright sun blinded her as a crowd of reporters rushed at her. Reporters lobbed questions. Their voices mingled into a collective roar. She couldn’t make out what they asked. Liz’s chest tightened. She gasped for air. I can’t breathe. The world tilted. Black spots appeared before her eyes. Her legs buckled under her.
Everything went black. Strong arms caught her. A soft voice whispered in her ear. “Don’t worry, Lizzie. I’ve got you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Grant
GRANT SPOTTED LIZ the moment she walked out of the courthouse doors. She looked like a ragdoll left out on the clothesline too long. A crowd of reporters swarmed her, all shouting questions. Grant moved closer. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, almost like she couldn’t see. She paled as she took a step backward and extended her small, white hands in front of her. She swayed.
She’s going to faint. Lizzie, hold on, I’m coming for you.
He reached her and scooped her up into his arms just as she crumbled. She was no bigger than a child, thinner than she’d been when they were younger. She’d only weighed a hundred and fifteen pounds back then, but now she felt more like a hundred pounds soaking wet. God, her hair smells good.
Holding her tight against his torso, he shouted at the reporters, “Back off. She’s not well.” They parted, making a path for him. Cameras remained pointed in their direction. For Christ’s sake, give her a chance to breathe. During the time they were together, she’d fainted twice in his pr
esence. Once, when she’d stepped off the train in Los Angeles after attending her Aunt Sally’s funeral in Oregon, and the second, after they’d completed the bar exam. She’d plopped right over the minute they exited the testing room.
Now, she remained limp in his arms as he sprinted down the courthouse steps. He’d parked on the street a block north. He was in good shape, and she was so small in his arms that he reached his car with no problem. She stirred when he stopped at the passenger-side door of his car. Her eyes fluttered open, looking up at him with an expression somewhere between horror and surprise. “Grant?”
“Hi, Lizzie.”
“What happened?” She moved like she wanted him to put her down, but he ignored her.
“You fainted.”
“In front of the reporters?” Her arms tightened around his neck. Like she needs me. If only that were true.
He smiled down at her. “Don’t look so horrified. I caught you before you hit the ground.”
“Why were you there?”
“Just a coincidence, I guess.”
You’re not only a stalker but a liar too.
He’d seen her slender shoulders slump when the verdict was read. He knew it hurt. Not just because Liz cared about justice for a girl society had tossed aside, but because she’d taken the work without promise of pay, which meant the trial had cost her. Like him, she could afford to do this kind of work because she made so much from paying clients. But still, it was months of prep work and paying her staff. She was a sole proprietor, not part of a large firm like Grant. It was money out of her own pocket.
“Can you let me down now?” she asked.
“When was the last time you had a square meal?” he asked.
“Grant. Please. I have someplace I need to go.”
“So you can’t remember the last time you ate?”
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