The Humble Salve
A Sasha McCandless Novella
Melissa F. Miller
Brown Street Books
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Melissa F. Miller
All rights reserved.
Published by Brown Street Books.
Brown Street Books eBook
Contents
Also by Melissa F. Miller
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Excerpt from Dark Path: A Bodhi King Novel
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Author’s Note
Thank You!
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Also by Melissa F. Miller
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The Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller Series
Irreparable Harm
Inadvertent Disclosure
Irretrievably Broken
Indispensable Party
Lovers and Madmen (Novella)
Improper Influence
A Marriage of True Minds (Novella)
Irrevocable Trust
Irrefutable Evidence
A Mingled Yarn (Novella)
Informed Consent
International Incident
Imminent Peril
The Humble Salve (Novella)
The Aroostine Higgins Novels
Critical Vulnerability
Chilling Effect
Calculated Risk
The Bodhi King Novels
Dark Path
Lonely Path
Hidden Path
The We Sisters Three Romantic Comedic Mysteries
Rosemary’s Gravy
Sage of Innocence
Thyme to Live
Lost and Gowned
That you were once unkind, befriends me now,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
As I by yours, y' have pass'd a hell of time,
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime.
O, that our night of woe might have remember'd
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me, then tendered
The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits!
But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.
William Shakespeare, Sonnet 120
1
Sasha McCandless-Connelly jutted out her chin and stared at her husband in disbelief.
“You sent your father a picture of the twins?” she repeated for the third time, her voice shaking with rage.
“Still yes,” Connelly told her in an infuriatingly calm voice.
“Why would you do that?”
“He’s their grandfather.”
He said it as though the reason should be obvious to her. And, under ordinary circumstances, sure, it would be a given to send a grandparent a picture of his grandkids. Her own mom and dad had plastered just about every free vertical surface (and many of the horizontal ones) in their home with photographs of Finn and Fiona and their assorted cousins.
But her parents were your run-of-the-mill devoted Pap and Grandma. Connelly’s father was a criminal—a convicted murderer and a Vietnamese gangster, to boot. Not to mention, he hadn’t exactly played a role in his son’s upbringing. Connelly never even knew his name until the man needed an organ transplant and wanted half of his son’s liver.
“I realize he’s their grandfather. But you’ve done more than enough for the man.”
Connelly held her gaze but dragged his fingers through his thick dark hair before huffing out an exasperated breath. “I’m not doing it for him, Sasha. I’m doing it for them.”
“Them? You mean the kids?”
“Yes.”
They looked at each other for a long, wordless moment. She tried to read his expression, but his face was closed.
“What exactly do you expect to come from this?”
“I don’t expect anything. But I hope establishing a connection of some sort will enable the kids to know their relatives.”
Duc Nguyen had made his position clear. When he’d tracked Leo down, he’d told his long-lost son he didn’t want a connection—not with him, and not with the kids. He wanted a favor. Nothing more. But dredging it up now seemed like a cheap shot.
Instead she said, “We can try again to find your cousins in Vietnam. You don’t have to go through him.”
“You don’t understand.”
She worked to keep the exasperation out her voice. “You’re right, I don’t. So explain it to me.”
He rolled his broad shoulders before answering. “I don’t know if I can explain what it’s like to grow up without any connection to a part of your heritage. My mom’s family was great—but there was always this missing piece. I don’t want that for Finn and Fiona.”
“You want them to know that their paternal grandfather is a treacherous, violent criminal?” If he thought she would agree to exposing their children to an incarcerated murderer simply because of the way the genetic lottery played out, he’d better think again.
“Look, I’m not saying I want them to visit him in federal prison, for crying out loud. But pretending he doesn’t exist doesn’t make him disappear. He’s my father. He’s their grandfather. That’s not going to change.” He sighed and reached for her hand. “I’m sorry that upsets you, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before I sent the picture.”
She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, but before she could speak, he went on.
“But I’m not sorry I did it.”
Her words died in her throat, and she let her hand go limp in his.
Her well of love for her husband urged her to accept his partial apology and try to understand where he was coming from. But her protective, maternal love for her children was overwhelming the better angel of her nature. In fact, it was as if the mama bear part of her had the compassionate, loving spouse part of her in a blood choke, squeezing it into unconsciousness.
She gave him a frosty look.
Just then, the front door banged open.
“This conversation isn’t over,” she whispered as the sound of four tiny, running feet, followed by a pair of larger slower footsteps, echoed through the first floor of the house.
“Mom, Dad!” Finn and Fiona shouted as they raced into the kitchen and threw their arms around Sasha and Connelly’s knees.
She crouched to give each of them a kiss. “Did you have a good time at your sleepover with Grandma and Pap?” she asked.
She was suddenly very aware that her parents spent a lot time with the twins, unlike their paternal grandfather.
Finn grinned and said, “Oh, yeah! We had cake and popsicles and juice.”
Sasha’s eyes widened.
“Wow, it sounds like grandma and pap didn’t get Mom’s memo about the sugar.” Connelly’s voice barely contained his amusement.
�
�Oh, no, Daddy,” Fiona assured him. “We told them all the rules. Didn’t we, Finn?” She turned to her brother for reinforcement.
He nodded soberly and recited the marching orders Sasha had given her parents. “No sugar, one cartoon, and bed by eight. And guess what?”
“What?” Sasha asked, afraid she knew the answer.
“We broke all the rules! We ate so many treats and watched Nick Jr. all we wanted. And we stayed up until midnight!”
Connelly was trying and failing to hide his laughter behind a cough. Sasha raised an eyebrow and fixed her father with a look. He stood just inside the doorway to the kitchen with a sheepish smile plastered across his face.
“Really, Dad?”
“Don’t worry, pumpkin. It was more like ten o’clock at the very latest when they finally came down from their sugar high and crashed out in front of the television.”
She shook her head.
Connelly interjected himself into the conversation to rescue his father-in-law. “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Pat?”
“Thanks, Leo. That’d be great. I’m a little worn out from our crazy party last night.” He gave an exaggerated yawn.
The twins giggled.
Her husband poured her father the last cup of coffee in the pot, which didn’t earn either of them any points with her. She herded the kids upstairs to wash their faces and hands and brush their teeth.
“Oh, guess what else? We didn’t even brush teeth!” Finn informed her as they climbed the stairs.
“You’re in trouble now,” she heard Connelly joke with her father.
“Just know you’re getting any dental bills, Dad,” she called over her shoulder.
“It’s a grandparent’s prerogative, and you know it,” he called back.
As she washed four chubby, sticky hands and two smiling faces, she half-listened to the excited stories about the sleepover that spilled from her children’s lips. But the other half of her mind was far away, focused on a man in a concrete cell in a federal maximum security prison who had no prerogative, who would never have a sleepover with his grandkids.
Don’t you dare feel sorry for him.
She turned her thoughts to something more manageable—her upcoming schedule at work—and the pebble of sympathy she’d felt for Duc Nguyen expanded into a tight rock of anger and fear and lodged itself in her chest.
Will Volmer had a thoughtful expression on his face. Sasha knew that look, and she knew it tended to precede an impromptu partners’ meeting to discuss some issue that, unbeknownst to her, Will had been mulling over for weeks.
“Not today, Will.”
He turned away from the window. “Pardon?” he said quizzically.
“You look like a man who has something weighty on his mind. But whatever it is, it’ll have to wait until our standing meeting on Friday. I’m really jammed up. And this victim impact statement is enough of a distraction.” She gave a pointed look at the paper in his hands.
That was, after all, the reason he was in her office, interrupting her attempts to answer approximately three million multi-part questions with sub-sub-parts that opposing counsel in her breach of contract case seemed to think qualified as twenty-five interrogatories. But she knew, with enough time and caffeine, she could handle the discovery request. She was much less confident in her ability to craft a victim impact statement.
The main stumbling block was that she couldn’t quite swallow the thought of casting herself as a victim. So, she’d turned to Will for guidance. He’d seen his fair share of the statements as a criminal defense attorney.
He smiled vaguely. “Of course. So I’ve read … this.” He waved the single sheet of paper in the air before going on. “It’s fine. But it’s only just fine.”
She cringed at the blunt assessment, but she knew he was right.
“Well, help me make it better.”
“Do you really want to make it better, Sasha?”
She bristled. “What kind of question is that? Of course.”
“Okay,” he said hurriedly, blinking behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “I just thought you might not be in a place where you’re able to … relive what happened.”
“I’m fine. It happened years ago.”
“Not that many.”
“Enough. I’m not so delicate that the memory of Wally Stewart is going to give me nightmares or anything,” she insisted. She set her face in a neutral mask as she lied. Ever since the parole board had contacted her for a statement, she actually had been having terrible dreams in which she relived the attack.
Will was staring at her left arm. She followed his eyes, and saw to her own surprise that she was rubbing the ugly raised scar that bisected her brachial artery. The permanent reminder Wally Stewart’s scalpel had left behind. She reached behind her for the cardigan draped over the back of her chair and wriggled into it.
“Of course,” Will said, dropping his eyes to her desk. “Well, in that case, I’d suggest you punch up the statement, give it a bit more emotion. It’s pretty bloodless.” His eyes went wide and his hand flew up to his mouth. “I didn’t mean ….”
She reassured him, “It’s okay. I know what you mean.”
What he meant was her statement was awfully dry, considering she’d nearly bled out and died from the slashing Wally Stewart had administered.
And she had almost died. The fact that the parole board was actually considering an early release for the man who’d tried to kill her and had come frightening close to succeeding made her dizzy. She gripped the arms of her chair and willed the room to stop spinning.
“I’ve made a few edits, noted some places where you could punch it up, so to speak.”
Once she was sure she was steady, she took the paper from his extended hand. “I appreciate it.”
“Please, stop. I’m happy to pitch in. And, honestly, my offer to draft it for you stands. You’re usually such an impassioned advocate in your writing, though. If you could tap into your feelings about the attack, it’d strengthen your statement.”
She’d add tapping into her feelings to her to-do list. “I understand.” She placed the draft statement face down on her desk and changed the subject. “Have you heard from Saul or Bodhi?”
Will, being Will, had also offered to help Wally Stewart’s other two victims with their statements.
Allegheny County Coroner Saul David and Dr. Bodhi King, former forensic pathologist and current wandering Buddhist, had both been kidnapped by Stewart. Although Stewart had threatened to kill his co-workers, Sasha was the one he’d attacked.
Saul David had been paralyzed with fear, and Bodhi’s beliefs forbade him from harming Stewart. So she’d been the one to face off against the armed man to save their lives, not to mention her own.
Still, though, the whole scene had been traumatic for everyone involved, so Will had graciously offered to guide the three of them through the parole hearing proceedings.
Will raised an eyebrow at her question.
“I’m scheduled to meet with Saul tomorrow, but he’s pushed it back twice now. We’ll see if he shows up. And Bodhi seems to be off the grid. The people at the farm in Costa Rica put me in touch with a Japanese monastery in Hawaii. I left a message, but I haven’t heard a word. I’m not even sure he’s still there.”
She smiled. “Sounds like Bodhi. I’ll ask Connelly if he has any idea where to look for him.”
“Thanks.” He coughed. “About the other thing—”
“What other thing?” She was ready to get back to her discovery responses and had already forgotten his earlier pensive expression.
“I do have an issue for the partnership to take up.”
She stifled a groan.
He held up his hand and continued, “Don’t worry, I heard you. We’ll address it at Friday’s meeting. But I want to raise it now, so you have time to consider it before we talk.”
“Okay, that’s fair,” she allowed, dropping the pen she’d picked up back onto her desk. “Hit me.”
<
br /> “It’s time to promote Naya to partner.”
2
Leo was squinting at the numbers imprinted on the bottom of the tube of sunscreen, trying to make out whether the lotion had expired or if he could skip the trip to the pharmacy, when his cell phone chirped the theme from “Rocky.” That particular ringtone was reserved for his favorite pint-sized prize fighter.
“Hi, hon,” he said, wedging the phone between his ear and his shoulder, so he could talk to his wife while continuing to pack up the twins’ toiletries.
“Hi. Are you busy?”
“The kids are at story time with Riley and the cousins. I’m trying to knock out the packing.”
“The packing?” Sasha echoed.
He paused, a bottle of shampoo in one hand. “You didn’t forget, did you? The trip to the lake this weekend?”
“Of course I didn’t forget,” she lied.
“Uh-huh.”
She was silent. He watched as Java, the cat, rolled around in a beam of sunlight streaming through the window while Sasha searched for a response.
“Okay, fine. It temporarily slipped my mind. But I didn’t forget forget.”
He chuckled. “Whatever you say, counselor.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been distracted.” She said it in a voice so soft that she was nearly inaudible.
He was stunned she’d admitted to it, but it was hardly a newsflash. She’d been tossing and turning and crying out in her sleep for over a week now. Something was bothering his wife. One of the reasons he’d suggested having the kids spend the night at her parents’ place was so he could try to pry it out of her—whatever it was.
But, then she’d found out about the package he’d sent his father, and they’d spent the entire evening and most of the morning in icy silence.
[Sasha McCandless 10.5] The Humble Salve Page 1
