"What are you doing? And why are you smiling?" I ask.
He floats his fingertips along my cheek. "I'm watching you sleep, which makes me happy. You're so beautiful, Kylie. Waking up next to you makes facing the day appealing."
I smile, and heat rushes to my cheeks.
Alex moves his hand under my chin, lifting it to meet his lips. "I made you blush." He grins like a madman.
"Yeah, yeah. Don't do romance, my ass."
He gives me another soft kiss. "You have some decisions to make today."
I look at him, pulling my eyebrows together.
"I have my architect coming by to go over options for reconstruction on your townhouse."
My good mood deflates like a balloon with a slow leak—complete with the irritating whine."Shit, that's right. I'm homeless."
"You're not homeless, Kylie. This is your home."
I close my eyes and flop my arm across my face. "Alex, construction could take a long time—not just weeks, but months." I lift my arm enough to open one eye. He has sexy morning scruff along his jaw. My fingers twitch, and I long to feel his whiskers scratch my fingertips. "Are you sure you want me around for that long?"
Alex lets out a heavy sigh, and pauses for a moment. "Kylie, I always want you around. I don't want you to ever go back to your townhouse. I don't want you going anywhere. I want you to live here with me. Make this your home."
"Oh." Oh!
I sit up and lean my back against the headboard. Why do I always feel like I am two steps behind Alex in this relationship? Just when I get comfortable, he tosses a curveball at me. I haven't even considered moving in with him—although I do love it here. Growing up, I never dreamed of living in a castle with Prince Charming. Warmth, love, surrounded by family—that was my idea of the perfect life. This is so close, so real, I feel it, taste it, touch it, and now all I have to do is take it. Childhood dreams don't come true. Not mine anyway.
Alex pulls himself up next to me and sandwiches my hand between his. "We agreed that you'll stay here while we locate John, and especially now that your house is uninhabitable." He pulls my hand to his lips. "I want you with me, Kylie. I need you with me."
I stare straight ahead. "It's so soon, Alex."
The warmth of his lips presses lightly on my bare shoulder. Dirty trick. He knows that's one of my more sensitive spots.
"We've been through this, Kylie."
"That was a discussion about being in a relationship, not living together. This is huge, Alex."
"It's just the next phase, baby."
My head is spinning. I'm trying my damnedest to logically consider the possibilities and implications of moving in with Alex. Is this another step toward losing my independence? My self-identity? If anything happened, and we were to break up, where the hell would I go?
And what the hell is the "next phase"?
I breathe deeply, exhale, and meet Alex's beautiful, pleading eyes. "Let me think about it, please. I'll stay while my place is under construction, but I want to see how things go, make sure this is really what we both want after living together for a while. Okay?"
Alex leans in and kisses me."Okay. I just can't stand the thought of you not being here with me."
Those beautiful blue eyes can get me to do almost anything, but then he turns them all puppy dog on me, and I melt. Then his lips are on mine. I smell the cinnamon mouthwash he uses a second before I taste it on my lips. He's so passionate I nearly acquiesce to living here forever.
Opening one eye, I spot the time on the clock and jump out of bed. "Shit, I have to get to work."
Alex reaches across for me and tries to pull me back on the bed. "No, stay here with me today."
"I can't, baby. The Trevalis trial starts on Monday, and I need to prep." I give him a quick peck and rush off to the shower.
The next three days are a blur as I work tirelessly with my litigation team. John's departure has left a void, and as much as I hate to admit it, I miss his expertise. There is not enough time to bring another attorney up to speed, so I'm on my own, which scares the shit out of me.
This case terrifies me on a whole other level, though. As a criminal defense attorney, I typically don't dwell on whether my clients are guilty or innocent. In fact, I'd rather not know. But this case is different. I truly believe in my client's innocence. Anthony Trevalis is accused of murdering his socialite wife to avoid a divorce. There's also a substantial life-insurance policy, with him as the sole beneficiary.
Mrs. Cynthia Onstad Trevalis came from a very wealthy family that owned a large shipping company along the eastern seaboard. Tony was from a middle-class family that ran a small but successful real-estate agency. They fell in love while away at college. The Onstads were not happy with Cynthia's choice of husband, but they allowed her to marry, so long as a prenuptial agreement was entered, whereby Tony would receive nothing in a divorce.
After ten years of marriage, two kids, and a failed real-estate business due to the mortgage debacle, Cynthia decided to leave Tony for greener pastures in the form of a millionaire speculator from New York whom Cynthia had been having an affair with for nine months prior to her death.
Two weeks after Cynthia first told Tony that she was leaving him, she was found dead in their upscale three-million-dollar estate overlooking the ocean. The housekeeper found Cynthia lying in a pool of blood in the middle of the living room floor. She had been beaten to death with a blunt object, later identified as a baseball bat that was found in a dumpster behind a downtown bar. There had been no evidence of a break-in, and nothing of value was missing from the home.
As is typical, suspicion turned to the husband. Tony was attending a real-estate conference, trying to network with large commercial real estate firms to find a job. He was having drinks with members of a DC company when he received the news of his wife's death.
Despite having a rock-solid alibi, Tony was arrested under a murder-for-hire conspiracy theory. The Onstads are convinced that Tony had Cynthia murdered, and through their connections, they have persuaded the police and the district attorney's office. The prosecution's theory is that Tony hired someone to kill his wife before she had a chance to divorce him and take away his very comfortable lifestyle. The investigation brought to light that Tony is the sole beneficiary of a five-million-dollar life-insurance policy he had taken out on Cindy six months earlier.
The case is clearly circumstantial. No physical evidence linking Tony to the murder has been discovered, and the hired killer has never been found.
It's the fact pattern of nearly ninety percent of domestic homicides. The spouse either wants out of the marriage, or doesn't, or is in need of a boost in income for whatever reason. This should be like every other case of its type that I've been involved with over my career. I think that's what bothers me so much. It's too convenient. Too cliche. And Anthony Trevalis just doesn't give me that "guy-with-a-secret" vibe. It's a gut call, and one that could be a major hit to my career and equity as a penthouse attorney, if he's convicted.
The Onstads have been in full PR mode, however, trying Tony in the court of public opinion. They've appeared on local TV stations, a couple of national morning news shows, and cable TV news. Cindy's father even made a tearful plea for justice during an interview about his daughter's murder on a court TV program.
I was contacted to appear, but I only gave a short written statement offering condolences to the Onstad family while proclaiming my client's innocence. The prevailing sentiment on the street is that he is guilty as sin and should be given the death penalty. I hate the media, and their need to sensationalize crap. So many facets of the legal system are affected by the media divulging facts and evidence in a case to the general public, without the safeguards of rules of evidence and legal procedures.
Late Friday afternoon, I'm catching up on emails before I leave for the weekend. Sarah's voice comes over the intercom in my office. "Kylie, a Sergeant Carter is calling for you. Do you want to talk to him, or shall I tran
sfer him to your voice mail?"
"I'll take it. Thanks." I pick it up on the first ring.
“Ms. Tate,” Carter says, “Your Jeep has been found.”
“Where is it?” I ask. My heart speeds up, alog with my breathing.
“Currently, it's at the impound lot being processed for evidence. We need you to come down and help us determine what items in the vehicle belong to you and what may have been left by the person who stole it."
I close out of my email and shut my computer down. "Okay. I can be there in about thirty minutes."
After I hang up, I direct Lisa on notes and briefs to pack up since I'll be spending the weekend preparing for jury selection and opening statements on Monday.
I pick up my cell phone and text Jake.
Need a ride to the police station in about twenty minutes.
Within a minute, my phone rings. The caller ID shows it's Alex.
"Why do you need to go to the police station?" His tone is short and accusatory.
"They found the Jeep and need me to come down and identify things inside. I can go on my own, Alex. I don't want to bother you if you're busy."
"We'll be there in twenty minutes."
The line goes dead, and it's clear that he's still tense about my work schedule. Trial preparation is a high stress, chaotic operation that involves long hours and very little sleep. I'm usually knee-deep in evidence, depositions, and notes, endlessly reviewing everything. Even when I'm not actively working the case, I'm pre-occupied, and apprehension builds that I am missing a key argument that will make all the difference. It sends up a flare and is just another reason Alex and I won't work.
Sucking in a breath, I try to douse the growing flame. My heart tells me he needs time to get used to this, but my head is telling me to run. I release the air held in my lungs and start packing up files.
Lisa and I wheel a cart loaded with trial materials for the weekend review toward the SUV. I've been feeling guilty about staying at the office until ten o'clock each night this week, so I will do some work from home.
The short phone call was indicative of the growing disconnect between Alex and me. He's feeling neglected, resentful, and bitter, and I go through bouts of being pissed at him for not understanding, followed by the realization that this is all new to him. He's trying to overcome a lifetime—or at least an adult lifetime—of people being at his beck and call, no questions asked. Between the long hours, the stress of trying a capital murder case on my own, and Alex's neediness, I'm worn out and ready to run away.
Jake meets us at the rear of the vehicle and lifts the back hatch. His eyes light up when he sees Lisa. "Hi, Lisa."
"Hi, Jake."
Alex comes around to the back of the vehicle, his eyebrows and looks at Jake and Lisa, eyes a little wider. I wink at him and smile. I guess he hasn't ever seen Jake flirt either.
Lisa turns to me before going back inside. "If you need me this weekend, let me know. I have nothing going on, and I'd be happy to help sort evidence."
"Oh, thanks, but I can't ask you to do that," I say.
Her smiles falters, and her shoulders drop. "Really, I don't mind at all." I reconsider.
I reconsider. Having her there would be nice. She knows my process, and I might actually get it done quicker, which will make Alex happier.
"Okay, if you're sure. Do you mind coming out to Alex's—"
Alex gives me a half-pained, half-pissed look.
"Sorry, our place?"
"Of course not."
"Why not plan on staying overnight? You can stay in our guest room? That way, you can work and take breaks without being on a timeline," Alex offers.
Lisa nods, and excitement radiates off of her.
"Okay then. Settled. Jake, can you text her with the address?" I ask.
Jake nods. "Of course."
Alex and I slide into the backseat. Jake closes the lift gate and gets Lisa's cell phone number. With two happy men, my life just became easier...for the moment.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Thirty minutes later, I drop the last of my personal belongings from the totaled Jeep into a box. There is not one inch that's not dented or damaged. Reyes cues up a video from the security camera of a Walmart parking lot where the Jeep was found. It shows the Jeep being rammed into the cement barriers at the base of the light posts. It looks more like a game of vehicular pinball. Over and over, the driver crushes all sides until smoke rises from the engine, and the Jeep ceases to move. A hooded figure emerges from the driver's side and walks away from the scene.
I recognize him instantly. "It's John. I can tell by the way he walks. He always swings one arm but not the other."
"He totaled the vehicle." Carter says. It's not a question, but the implication that he's seeking an explanation lingers in the air. "Apparently, he wanted to make a statement. Seems like overkill,"
"He knows I love my Jeep." My voice is flat, void of any reservation. I follow the figure on the screen. "I've wanted a Jeep like this since before I could drive. It was the first brand-new vehicle I've ever owned."
Reyes has been quiet, observing me. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Any relevance to the place?"
I shrug. "His way of telling me I'm low-class white trash? A common theme when he was upset with me. A reminder of where I came from." I glance over at Alex for his reaction. I haven't really talked to him about my childhood. He has no idea of the rat-infested places I've called home while my father drank us out of rent money. "John prided himself in never having set foot in Walmart, never needing to get things at a discount, and he would hassle me about going there."
As we're talking, a woman wearing latex gloves comes in carrying a brown paper bag. She whispers to Sergeant Reyes before placing the bag on the table. Written across the front in wide black marker is my name with the distinctive K in John's handwriting.
"We found this under the front seat. Forensics examined it, but we need you to identify the contents since it was clearly left for you." The gloved woman carefully opens the bag and pulls out the one object I never wanted to see again.
I take a jagged breath and a step back, but my eyes are locked on the flogger.
"Damn it, Reyes!" Alex bellows, pulling me to him and possessively wraps his arm around my waist.
Sergeant Reyes ignores Alex's increasingly aggressive manner and focuses on me. "Is this the object that made the marks on your back, Miss Tate?"
"Leave her alone, Reyes," Alex hisses.
I place my hand over Alex's heart. "I can't be sure if it's the actual flogger he used, but yes, Sergeant, that's the same type he used on me."
Reyes narrows his eyes, and I feel as if I'm being interrogated.
"And he left it for you? Why?"
"Because he knows it scares the shit out of me. Maybe it's some kind of threat, like he can always get to me and hurt me. I don't know. But this particular item—he wanted me to feel fear, to relive the pain. To be ashamed." My voice is calm, and even I'm amazed that I haven't crumpled to the floor in a blubbering heap.
What has passed as Alex's patience is completely gone. "Are we done here?"
Sergeant Carter resumes his post between Alex and Reyes. "Yes. We'll let you know if we find anything out."
I take Alex's hand, and we make our way out of the evidence room, down the hall, and out to the waiting SUV. The last thing we need is for Alex to push it too far and get arrested. I need to work on Trevalis, not spend the weekend bailing Alex out of jail.
Jake drives us home in uneasy silence. Alex is looking out the window, withdrawn, and runs his thumb across the back of my hand. I'm confident he's not upset with me and probably not Reyes, either although he is an easier target for Alex's anger. Alex blames himself. For what exactly, I'm unsure. It could be for Reyes pulling out the flogger, John burning down my house, or the fact that I've been hurt at all.
Rational or not, Alex takes my safety personally. Whatever happened in his past to make him this way, it was substanti
al enough to give him a sort of God complex. Not in the usual sense—not like John, who has no ability to have compassion, but believes himself to be better than everyone. There's a sense of culpability with Alex. He's empathetic, almost to a fault.
Alex turns to me, and deep creases across his forehead mar his handsome features. "I'm sorry, Kylie. I should've stopped them earlier. I could've killed Reyes for putting you through that. He fucking knew what that was. He just wanted your reaction, the sick fuck."
I twist in my seat and face him. "I love that you want to protect me from everything and everyone, but I'm okay, Alex. I mean it. I'm stronger now." He opens his mouth to speak, or more than likely, protest, but I place my finger over his lips. "You've made me stronger. Because of you, I can face this without falling apart. I'm not saying I won't ever go to pieces again, but I know none of it—not even that fucking flogger—can hurt me anymore. You provide me a safe place and allow me to open up and talk without any judgment. You lift the burden, so I can breathe again. I'm stronger because of you."
"Kylie..." Alex sighs heavily and shakes his head in protest.
I rest my head on his shoulder and hug his neck. "Sorry, Stone. That's how I feel, and you're just going to have to accept it."
We have a quick dinner, and I set about organizing for the weekend trial prep. The open area of the family room is big enough to set up the poster board exhibits of evidence pictures, blown up to obscene sizes so that the jury will be able to easily see them. Mine are fairly mundane, with only a couple of pictures of the victim's body at the crime scene. The prosecution is restricted to only ten pictures of the dead body. They wanted thirty-five various adaptations. I argued for overkill, and the judge agreed.
A long white wall stands between the TV and couch, perfect for projecting my laptop program. Thank goodness Lisa knows how to run it. I hate that thing and have never been able to use it successfully at trial. Technology and I sometimes have a love-hate relationship—mostly hate.
Of Demons & Stones: A Tri-Stone Trilogy Page 19
