by Rose, Callie
The Risk
Kings of Linwood Academy #3
Callie Rose
Copyright © 2019 by Callie Rose
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Thank You For Reading
1
Breathe, Harlow. Just breathe, dammit.
But I can’t.
Not when all the oxygen has vanished from the atmosphere. Not when the entire world has been turned inside out, the edges raw and exposed.
Not when I’m staring into the face of Iris’s killer.
Judge Hollowell’s brows knit together, and he ducks his head as he takes another step closer to me.
“Are you all right?” he asks again.
No. Jesus, no! I’m not fucking all right.
I willingly walked into a murderer’s house. Hell, I did more than that. I forced my way in, refusing to take no for an answer, so damn certain he could help my mom that I threw caution and good manners to the wind.
And now I don’t know what the fuck to do.
Does he know I’ve recognized him? Can he see it in my eyes? Read it on my face?
Is he about to kill me too?
My mind races as I try to sort through every one of my encounters with this man. He was at Mr. and Mrs. Black’s cocktail party the night Mom was arrested. Was he one of the few party-goers who followed us outside? Did he hear me rant to Detective Dunagan about a man in a black mask who was the real killer?
No. I don’t think so. I’m almost positive he wasn’t out there.
He probably stayed inside on purpose, putting as much distance between my mom and himself in that moment as possible, doing everything he could to make sure there was no notable connection at all between Mom’s arrest and himself.
Breathe.
In. Out.
Don’t let him know you know.
He’s still watching me, his round face pulled into an expression of concern. His hazel eyes look kind, and I find myself staring into them, trying to see past the mask he wears to get a glimpse of the man beneath. He’s such a good liar, such a good actor.
I have to be one too.
Forcing my throat to open, I suck in a slow lungful of air, careful not to let it become a gasp.
I don’t know how long it’s been since he asked his question. It could’ve been a minute, or five seconds, or an hour and a half. Time seems to stretch and contract in strange ways as I wrestle my emotions back under control.
“Yes.” The word sounds almost normal when I say it, and I force myself to continue like that, shaking my head slightly. “I’m… sorry. I shouldn’t be putting this all on you. I’m just so—so scared for my mom. It’s hard to act like everything’s okay, or to have normal conversations, when all the time, in the back of my mind, I can’t stop thinking about how she’s in prison and might never get out.”
That part isn’t a lie. It isn’t the reason for my freak-out at the moment, but I’m hoping the truth of my words will disguise the part that isn’t true.
And maybe it works, because Alexander Hollowell’s face smooths out, understanding taking the place of worry in his expression.
“I’m sure this has been very difficult for you, Harlow. I’m sorry.”
Liar.
I push the thought down, refusing to let it surface long enough to show on my face. Instead, I put on a hopeful look, tilting my head to meet his gaze, trying to remember how I felt about this man before I knew he was a murderer.
When I thought he was my salvation.
“Thanks,” I murmur, twisting my hands together in my lap. “That means a lot to hear. A lot of people at my school just assumed she was guilty as soon as she was arrested. It’s been awful. But it helps to know there are some people who don’t think she’s a killer.”
Sympathy colors his voice. “Yes, I’m sure it does.”
Playing the role of the girl who came here on Christmas day to beg for assistance—the one who had no idea of the truth—I bite my lip and glance up at him hopefully. “Do you really think you can help?”
Judge Hollowell sighs, and something seems to relax in his posture, the concerned pinch of his brows smoothing out. Instead of returning to his chair, he sinks down onto the wide, angular couch next to me, turning his body a little to face me more fully.
“I won’t be able to interfere in the trial directly or to influence the judge in any way. Legal and ethical boundaries obviously prohibit anything like that. We have systems set up to ensure a person is given a fair trial when they’re accused of a crime, and I believe in those systems. However…” He shakes his head, an expression of annoyance curling his lips. “There are instances where people in that system are let down by incompetent lawyers, and I would hate to see that happen to your mother.”
My head bobs up and down quickly even as I tighten the rest of my muscles, holding myself rigid and refusing to scoot or even lean away from Judge Hollowell. My entire body burns with the impulse to flee, to get away from this man—but if I run, it’ll only end badly.
If I run, he’ll chase me.
“I understand,” I say, barely recognizing my soft, eager voice. I sound desperate and grateful. “Anything you can do to help, no matter how small it is, would mean so much to me. And to my mom.”
He smiles, brushing a hand over his perfectly styled salt-and-pepper hair. “I’ll do what I can. Why don’t you tell me what you know about Scott Parsons’ defense strategy, and we’ll go from there.”
This is the second time he’s asked about that. It makes me nervous, and I wonder if there’s some reason he wants to know. If he’s playing me for information that he’ll use to sabotage my mom, to strengthen the case against her. To make sure his frame job sticks.
But I can’t refuse to tell him. It would be a giant red flag.
So I lick my lips and open my mouth.
I speak slowly and haltingly, trying to act like I’m dredging up what I know about my mother’s public defender and his strategy. But my mind zooms ahead at several times the speed of my tongue, weighing and measuring every word before I say it.
“I haven’t been at my mom’s meetings with Scott. So everything I know about his strategy is from what she’s told me.”
Judge Hollowell nods encouragingly, leaning forward a little
.
“He doesn’t seem to have much of a strategy, honestly,” I continue. “He seems to be having a hard enough time just remembering all the facts of her case. And the circumstantial evidence doesn’t help her at all. She wasn’t home when the cops say Iris was killed, and she has no alibi.”
Fuck.
I shouldn’t have said that.
I’m brushing too close to the truth right now.
Mom was out on a date with Judge Hollowell the night Iris was murdered. So she has an alibi for the first part of the evening, just like the man sitting next to me does. But her location is unaccounted for in the window of time when Iris was hit by a car and killed. According to Scott Parsons, traffic cameras weren’t able to track Mom’s movements fully enough to prove either her guilt or her innocence.
Just like Judge Hollowell.
I might as well be talking about his movements that night, and not my mom’s.
But the man beside me doesn’t react visibly to my words. He doesn’t flinch or give any outward sign of discomfort. He just nods thoughtfully.
“That’s not ideal, obviously. But if most of the evidence against her is circumstantial, that leaves room for doubt in a jury’s minds. And that’s good. What tangible evidence do the police have?”
My body flushes hot, then cold. It takes every bit of self-control in me not to clench my hands into fists.
Not to plant my fist in his fucking face.
He knows. He knows what evidence they have, knows their trump card—because he was the one who had dirty cops plant it.
“They found Iris’s DNA on Mom’s car,” I admit, my voice strained. “Some blood and hair, I think.”
My stomach churns as I have a sudden vision of the dark lump of Iris’s body lying on the street, shadowed and inhumanly still. The kind of stillness that only comes with death.
Someone took little tiny pieces of her and smeared them onto the grill of Mom’s beat-up Nissan. The callousness of it, the injustice of it, makes me want to throw up. Iris deserved better than that. My mom deserves better than that.
Judge Hollowell frowns, rubbing a hand over his freshly shaved jaw.
“That… is trickier. That kind of verifiable DNA evidence looks pretty damning to a jury.” He lets out a noise under his breath and meets my gaze, squinting a little. “Do you have any idea how it could’ve gotten on your mom’s car?”
My stomach turns to ice, cold radiating through me from my core outward.
Fuck. Fuck fuck. Why is he asking that? Is he digging to see if I know what he did? If I know about the planted evidence?
I shake my head, trying to hide the jerkiness of the movement as my whole body quakes with nerves.
“No. I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, Iris and a couple other cheerleaders put trash in my mom’s car and spray painted the windows a couple weeks into the fall semester. Maybe she scraped herself or something then.”
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.
&n
bsp; “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.
