by Callie Rose
There’s a slight shift in Judge Hollowell’s expression as I speak, a hardening around the lines of his mouth. He didn’t know about their little prank, I realize. And he doesn’t like it.
Whether that’s a good or bad thing for me and my mom, I’m not sure.
Is he worried it could be used to invalidate the DNA evidence? If there’s a possible alternate explanation for how particles of Iris’s skin got on my mom’s car, that would undermine a huge part of the case against her.
Holy shit. Has Scott Parsons looked into this? I’d bet my last fucking dollar he hasn’t.
“I see.” Hollowell nods, appearing thoughtful. Then the perfectly practiced look of concern warms his hazel eyes again. “But that’s circumstantial too, unfortunately. There’s no way to prove when or how Iris’s DNA ended up on your mother’s car—just that it’s there now. Did she take her car to the shop?”
Goddammit. I don’t want to tell him shit.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I played along with this conversation so he wouldn’t realize I figured out who he was, but now I don’t know how to get out of it. I wasn’t ready for the fucked up, deadly game of chess we’re playing.
“Um, yeah,” I mutter, glancing down at my hands. My fingers are twisted so tightly around each other, my knuckles are turning white.
Judge Hollowell makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Then it’s entirely possible any DNA the girls left behind would’ve been washed off by whatever cleansers the mechanic used to remove the paint from the windshield.” His hand falls on my knee, and I almost jump out of my skin. When my gaze flashes up to his, I see pity in his eyes. “I’m not saying it means nothing, but I’m just trying to give you a realistic idea of what to expect.”
“Right.” I swallow and nod, my throat dry and scratchy as sandpaper.
“And, Harlow…” He hesitates, pressing his lips into a line as if he’s not sure he should say whatever he’s thinking. Then he sighs and continues. “I know you believe in your mom’s innocence. That’s good. I believe in it too. But that’s the way the story always goes, isn’t it? The relatives of a person who snaps and does the unthinkable are often caught just as unawares as everyone else is.”
He squeezes my knee once and then pulls his hand away, leaving pinpricks crawling up and down my skin.
“I’m not saying you should give up on your mother. I would never say that. She needs you, and she’s lucky to have you in her corner. But… well, we don’t always know the people we love as well as we think we do, that’s all.”
My jaw clenches. I don’t try to hide my anger, because I’d be pissed at his words no matter what, whether I knew anything about what he’s done or not. If I’m playing a role here, my next words are entirely in character.
“My mom’s not a murderer, Judge Hollowell. And if you think she is, maybe I shouldn’t be here at all.”
He holds his hands up in a placating gesture, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply anything. Call it a misguided effort to make sure you don’t get hurt in the end. But it’s not my place to speak like that.”
“It’s fine,” I mutter, finally allowing myself to give in to my flight impulse and slide away from him on the couch.
He seems to realize he overstepped—that he was the one who slipped out of character. He’s so anxious to see my mom convicted of murder that he stepped out of his role as the neutral but sympathetic observer to prod me toward believing Mom could’ve actually done it.
But he’s given me the opening I need to leave. He can tell I’m agitated, and this time, I have a justifiable reason for it.
“I—better get going,” I say in a rush, standing up and tugging my long brown hair over one shoulder. I’m still in my socks, just like the judge is, but I’d run through the fucking snow barefoot if it meant getting out of this place right now.
“Of course.” He claps his hands to his knees and stands up, making no move to try to stop me.
“I’m supposed to meet up with a few friends, but I told them I couldn’t go anywhere until I stopped by to see you,” I add, subtly letting him know that other people know where I am.
At least, I hope it’s subtle. I can’t tell if I’m talking too loud or not loud enough. My entire body feels fucking numb.
“Then you’d better get out of here before it starts coming down again,” he says, glancing out through the large floor-to ceiling windows on one wall of the room to the snowy landscape beyond. “The roads will only be getting worse.”
My gaze flicks to his, panic twisting my insides into such knots it’s physically painful.
Is that a threat? Dammit, I can’t tell. He’s too good at his act, too good at keeping his expression perfectly bland and pleasant.
“Yeah. Good point. I’m not used to all this snow.”
I back up to the place where the living room opens into a large foyer, moving toward the door while trying to keep from turning my back to the man who follows me. When I reach the mat where I left my shoes, I scramble to put them on.
“Don’t lose faith, Harlow,” Judge Hollowell says. He’s standing in his nice button-down shirt, slacks, and dress socks, arms crossed over his chest as he watches me. “What the police found on your mom’s car is pretty damning evidence, but have her tell Scott Parsons to focus on her character. I’m assuming she has no prior record or history of violence, and she’s the kind of person a jury will want to believe is innocent. A good lawyer can nudge them in that direction.”
I glance up at him, yanking on the ends of my shoelaces so hard I practically snap them. “I’ll tell her.”
“Good. Her public defender doesn’t have the finesse of other lawyers, but if he can get some reliable and well-spoken character witnesses, that will help too. Even with the DNA evidence against her, it’s entirely possible she’ll be sentenced to a lesser charge like involuntary manslaughter.”
His tone is soft and gentle, reassuring and calm—and it occurs to me that if I hadn’t finally put the pieces together, I would actually feel better now. I’d feel like I at least had a strategy, something to tell my mom to help her fight this.
But instead of hope, rage burns like an ember in the pit of my soul.
Fuck this man. Fuck his beautiful, modern house and his dead animal trophies. Fuck his lies and manipulations.
Fuck him for ending one life and ruining another.
My hands start to shake so badly I can barely tie my last shoelace, and Judge Hollowell steps forward again as I straighten.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Harlow?”
I suck in a slow breath, forcing my tensing muscles to relax. Then I lift my gaze to his, pouring everything I have into the lie I’m about to speak.
“I am now. Thank you.”
A small smile tilts his lips, and he nods in satisfaction. “Good. I’m happy I could help.”
2
Cold air hits my face like a stinging slap as I step outside. I suck in a breath from the shock of it and glance back at Judge Hollowell once as I hurry down the snow-covered walkway to River’s car.
I scraped it off when I left Fox Hill Correctional Center, but new snow accumulated while I was inside Hollowell’s house. I honestly don’t know how long I was in there. It felt like hours, but it can’t have actually been that much time.
My hands shake as I hurriedly scrape off the car, and as soon as the windshield and other windows are clear enough for me to see through, I toss the scraper into the back seat and slide behind the wheel.
Only then do I allow myself to glance once more toward the house.
The front door is shut, but when my gaze drifts over toward the living room, I see Judge Hollowell standing near one of the large windows. He’s got his hands in his pockets, and his posture is relaxed, but the way the light hits him casts him in a stark silhouette. I can’t make out his expression.
I can only tell that he’s watching me.
My hands shake as I grip the steering whee
l, maneuvering around the tight circle driveway and heading back toward the street. I can hear the snow crunching and squeaking under the wheels, and I turn on the windshield wipers as high as they’ll go, batting the large snowflakes out of the way before they can even land.
When I reach the end of the block, I start to breathe a little easier. I dig my phone out of my pocket and pull up River’s address, then follow the directions the GPS gives.
I need to let the guys know what happened.
I know I shouldn’t text and drive, but I don’t know if River will be able to hear well if I call him. And honestly, I don’t think I should put anything about Judge Hollowell down in writing. It’s too risky.
I’m about to scroll through my contacts to try calling one of the other kings when something catches my attention.
A spot of black in the white flurry outside.
I toss my phone down on the seat and stare into the rearview mirror, squinting to see through the falling snow. The flash of black appears again, and my entire body clenches with fear.
It’s a dark car, creeping down the road behind me. It’s far enough back from me that I can’t discern any details about it, and I can’t see the driver’s face through the snow. I can barely make out the car itself, and it seems to be creeping along at the same slow pace I am… almost like whoever is inside is hanging back, trying not to be seen by me.
Oh, fuck. That’s why he waited.
That’s why Judge Hollowell gave me free legal advice and smiled so calmly and let me leave his house in one piece.
Because he knows exactly how to kill someone without getting his hands dirty.
My pulse throbs in my temples, and my foot presses harder on the gas pedal, making the wheels spin on the slick, wet snow before they gain traction and the car lurches forward. I jerk in the seat, knuckles turning white as I glance back in the rearview again.
The car is still there.
I’m driving fast now, faster than I probably should. I’ve never driven in snow before, but I can already feel how different it is from the reassuringly dry roads in Bayard. It’s like trying to run on sand, with the terrain beneath me constantly shifting and giving way, refusing to provide enough purchase to really dig in.
In this kind of weather, it’s not safe to speed. But I’m doing it anyway, and so is the car behind me.
“Shit. Shit. God, fucking shit.”
My whispered curses fog up the windows, and I hardly ease off the gas at all as I make a wide turn onto a side street. The calm voice of the GPS starts calling out new directions as it reroutes from my current path, but I’m hardly listening. I suck in air as I drive as fast as I dare down the side street, hoping the car behind me lost track of me in the snow and missed my abrupt turn.
For several long seconds, there’s nothing behind me.
Then the black car swings into view.
“Motherfucker!”
I slam my fist against the wheel, laying harder on the gas even as I round a curve that makes the back of the car fishtail on the slippery road.
What the fuck do I do? Pull over, then get out and run? I’ll be a sitting duck, just as easy a target as Iris was on that dark, desolate street. Nothing but a hundred and twenty pounds of breakable skin, bones, and muscle against several tons of steel and glass.
I don’t dare leave the safety of the car, but being inside it feels like being trapped on a rollercoaster with no way off. When I glance behind me, the black car is closer. It doesn’t have its headlights on, and although I can’t make out what kind it is, it’s definitely the same general shape as the one that killed Iris. A four-door sedan, sleek and sturdy.
Turning my lights off too, I speed up again. The engine revs as the wheels slip and spin. The car behind me keeps pace, and when I spot another intersection ahead, I take the turn without signaling.
But this time, I’m going too fast.
The back end of the car whips around, forced outward by my momentum, and the slick snow on the ground does nothing to stop it.
I slam on the brakes before I remember that’s not what you’re supposed to do in icy conditions.
And a micro-second later, I find out exactly why.
The brakes lock up and the car spins, whirling through space like a top spinning across a table. Everything outside becomes a blur of white and gray, and I hold on to the wheel as if that will save me somehow.
Then there’s a loud metallic crack, and my body is jerked roughly sideways. The seatbelt punches me in the chest as it tightens suddenly, and my head smacks into the driver’s side door.
Darkness flashes across my vision for a second.
Then the world goes still.
Quiet.
A low groan breaks the silence, and it takes me a second to grasp that it’s coming from me. I blink, forcing the darkness creeping around the edges of my consciousness to retreat. My head hurts like a son of a bitch, and as I push down the nausea and take a deep breath, I reach up to touch my temple. My hand shakes from shock and adrenaline.
A little smear of blood coats my fingertips, but it’s not much. And I don’t think anything is broken.
Moving carefully, I glance behind me. The back half of the car hit a streetlamp on the driver’s side, and the vehicle is now partially wrapped around the massive metal pole. It hit almost exactly in the middle of the car, warping both doors on this side.
A sharp tapping sound makes me jump, which makes the pain in my head flare like a bomb exploding. When I look up, I see an elderly man standing outside the car on the passenger side, his weathered features aghast.
“Miss! Are you all right?” he calls through the glass.
I blink. Then I crane my stiff neck to peer out the side window, where a black sedan is parked nearby mine. The driver’s side door is open, and the hazard lights flash rhythmically off and on.
It’s the car that was behind me.
This man was driving it, not Judge Hollowell.
A choked sob escapes my throat, and the old man ducks his head to peer through the window at me before yanking the passenger door open.
“Miss, are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need help?”
My body is going into shock, I think. I know this feeling better than I should by now.
I wish fervently for Dax and Chase, for their warm, solid bodies to encase mine, to hold me steady while they murmur into my ears. Instead, I just feel a rush of cold as little whorls of snow blow into the car from outside.
“Yes,” I croak, wrapping my own arms around myself. “I’m… okay.”
“Do you need me to call 911? An ambulance? Can you get out? Can you move?”
He’s asking me too many questions. I can’t process them all. I shake my head slightly.
“No ambulance. Where’s my phone?”
His overgrown eyebrows draw together as his gaze darts around the car. Then he picks up my phone from the footwell near the passenger seat, holding it up triumphantly before handing it to me.
My fingers shake and my vision blurs with tears as I tap out a message.
ME: I got into a car accident. I’m okay. But I can’t drive. I’m so sorry.
River must have his phone on him, because his response is almost immediate.
RIVER: Where are you?
I can almost feel his fear for me radiating out of the screen, as if those three typed words contain an entire soul’s worth of feelings.
Glancing up at the man who’s still hovering by the passenger door, I ask, “What street is this?”
He pulls his head out of the car quickly and steps back to look around. There’s a street sign a block and a half ahead of us, but it’s too snowy for me to read it. He tromps over to it, and before he comes back, another text comes through from River.
RIVER: Low? You there?
The tears stinging my eyes slip down my cheeks as something both comforting and painful fills my chest.
ME: Yes. Still here. A man stopped to see if I was okay, and he’s checking.
A half-second later, the old man in question ducks his head again to peer into the car. “This is Monroe Avenue. The street you were just on was Wilson.”
ME: Corner of Monroe and Wilson.
RIVER: I’m coming to get you.
The painful feeling squeezes my heart again, and I shake my head, tapping quickly with both thumbs.
ME: You can’t. I have your car.
RIVER: I’ll take my dad’s.
I chew on my lip. That’s not a good idea, for so many reasons.
River Bettencourt doesn’t usually drive. His hearing impairment makes it dangerous for him to get behind the wheel, since he can’t pick up on the sounds of horns or sirens or other indicators of traffic emergencies.
And River already has a strained relationship with his dad. Taking his father’s car out on a snowy Christmas afternoon because the girl he’s sharing with three other boys wrecked River’s own vehicle would only give his dad one more reason to resent him.
But I have no doubt he’d jump into any car he could find right now and drive as recklessly through the snow as it takes to get to me.
Without thought.
Without hesitation.
But I can’t let him do that.
ME: No. I’ll be okay.
RIVER: Like hell. I’m on my way.
ME: River, no. Please. No.
I don’t list my reasons why, but I’m sure he knows them. His answer is slower to come this time, and when the new text appears on the screen, I swear I can feel the pain and frustration that comes with it.
RIVER: Goddammit.
RIVER: Fine. I’m sending Dax and Chase, they’re closest to you. Are you safe?
I don’t know how to answer that without mentioning Judge Hollowell’s name, so I tell him the only thing I can without lying.
ME: I’m not hurt. I banged my head, but it’s not that bad. Your car is messed up though. I’m so sorry.
RIVER: I don’t give a fuck about that, Low.
There’s a brief pause, then another message comes through.
