Copyright © 2020 by Kiersten Modglin
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, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
www.kierstenmodglinauthor.com
Cover Design: Tadpole Designs
Editing: Three Owls Editing
Proofreading: My Brother’s Editor
Formatting: Tadpole Designs
First Print Edition: 2020
First Electronic Edition: 2020
To you, the reader,
for saying yes to this book and supporting my dream.
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
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kiersten Modglin
When I saw you first,
it took every ounce of me
not to kiss you
when I first heard your laugh,
it took every ounce of me
not to marry you
and when I met your soul,
it took every ounce of me.
Atticus
Chapter One
Her
“Are you ready?” The officer stares me down with harsh eyes as he waits for me to stand. There is no real question in his words. Ready or not, it is my time to go. My time to face all that I’ve done.
I nod my head, standing from the uncomfortable bench in my tiny cell. “Yes.”
I turn around as he approaches me so he can place the cuffs on my wrists, the sting of the metal on my bones so familiar I almost ache for them when they are gone. Like the wedding ring I once fiddled with every time I grew nervous. If it were still on my finger now, I am sure I would’ve managed to saw the digit clean off.
“Your lawyer is just down the hall.” His tone is harsh, though his eyes seem kinder than the other officers’ have been. He opens the door slowly, pushing me through it while holding tightly to the cuffs. We walk through the corridor in silence, each step taunting me as we grow closer to the place where I’ll have to talk about what happened for the first time since that night.
Can I do it?
Better question, do I have any other choice?
When we reach the door to the room where my lawyer is waiting, the officer pulls on the cuffs. “Whoa,” he says, slowing me down in the same manner you would a horse. “In here.” He pushes open the door and walks me through.
The room is smaller than I expected, though I recognize the large mirror on the wall and the small table in the middle of the room from the numerous detective shows Mark and I used to watch.
Mark. Oh, how just the thought of his name pains me. Just the mere thought of his existence is enough to send me reeling back into the darkness that has consumed me for the past few weeks. I can’t allow myself to go back there again.
My lawyer, a short, squat man who I’ve only met once before—and briefly at that—is seated at the table with an iPhone plastered to his ear, and he does not look happy.
His thin lips are pressed into a tight line, and he groans. “Fine, just…do what you can. Send those to me either way.” With that, he pulls the phone from his ear, presses a button on its greasy screen, and stands up. The hair on his wrists sticks out from under the edge of his suit jacket as he crosses his arms over his plump belly. “Hannah.” He greets me by a first name I’ve never given him permission to use, though he seems to know it’s the one I prefer. “Nice to see you again.”
I nod, though I don’t bother returning the nicety. We both know it’s far from nice to see each other—though I suppose it is nice for him, after all. I am sure my parents are paying him a pretty penny to be here for me.
He extends an arm, motioning for me to sit in the chair across from him. I do so dutifully, the metal of my cuffs sliding against the chair. I feel hands on my arms and hear the keys rattling as my wrists are freed. I throw my arms forward feverishly, rubbing my raw wrists and already missing the cuffs, despite the pain they’ve caused. The officer takes a few steps back before receiving an encouraging nod from my lawyer. “Thank you. That will be all for now. I believe we have a full hour.”
Needing no further instruction, the officer walks from the room. Once the door has shut, my lawyer takes a deep breath, his large mustache wiggling.
He grins at me in a way that should be friendly but only seems creepy. “Now that he’s gone, we can get more comfortable, can’t we? How are you feeling?”
I chew on my bottom lip, placing my hands on the table and digging my fingernails into my palm. “Nervous,” I admit.
“That’s normal,” he tells me, setting his phone down on the tabletop and opening the green folder in front of him. Sitting right on top is a giant picture of my mugshot. I grimace and force my eyes away from the picture and the memories that come with it. If I go there, I will break. I have to hold it together. “So, what I want to do today is just go over a few of the details. We need to work on preparing our case to go to trial, if that’s what you want. I think we have a good shot at a better plea deal than they’ve offered, but I want to hear what you have to say before we make any decisions.” He pauses, letting out a breath through his nose. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, trying to still my shaking voice.
He pulls a pen from an inside pocket of his charcoal blazer and clicks it. “So, start from the beginning. Tell me what happened the night of the murder.”
Chapter Two
Him
“Are you ready?” the officer asks, opening up the door to my cell. I’m not, but I nod anyway. I stand from the metal chair they have bolted to the floor and turn around, allowing him to place a pair of handcuffs on my wrists. The asshole tightens them on purpose, but I don’t dare flinch to let him know it hurts. He wants to see my weakness, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction. “This way,” he tells me, pulling me out of the cell and down the hall.
He stops us in front of a metal door and, without knocking, pushes it open. At a small metal table in the center of the room, sits a large, red-faced man. He is reading through a pad of scrawled-out notes in front of him, but when we enter, he stands and turns the paper over so I can’t see what it says.
“Hello,” he greets me. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mark.”
I grumble a brief greeting before the officer sits me down at the table and removes my handcuffs. I’m no longer seen as a threat in this room, apparently. The lawyer takes a seat
after I do and clicks the pen in his hand. “My name’s Brock Cavendish.” He holds out his hand to shake mine, and I hesitate before extending him the same courtesy. I wait until his eyes show doubt and I can tell he’s feeling foolish. He needs to know I’m the one with all the power here, even now.
When the officer has left the room, Brock Cavendish clears his throat. “Now then, I’ve just spoken with Hannah.” Hannah. The name stings in the back of my throat like hour-old vomit, but I force it out of my mind as quickly as it enters. She has no place there anymore. No. I can’t go there. Won’t. I am surviving in this hellhole, thriving even, strictly thanks to my ability to shut things off—emotions, in particular. It’s always been a strength of mine.
“Before we dive in, I wanted to say thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I needed to sit down with you today and discuss the case against both you and Hannah, see what I can learn from either of you. Now, you’ve probably been told, but your representation is covered—her parents have taken care of that. I expect you’ll be hearing from your lawyer within days, but whatever you can tell me to help clear up some things would be very helpful.”
I nod. “Okay.” I need to clear my name. He needs to know how everything went wrong. He needs to know the truth about her and everything that happened, all of it.
“So,” he flips the page to a blank one so quickly I can’t even catch a glimpse of whatever he’s trying to hide, “tell me about the night of the murder.”
Chapter Three
Her
THEN
In the beginning, there was only light. I was on a work trip in Atlanta when my flight was delayed and I had to stay an extra night. Work trips were usually done by groups of us, but that trip I’d made alone.
I remember walking into the bar that would change my life as if it were just yesterday. It was dark and musty, and the outside noise of the street was immediately silenced as the heavy door shut behind me. I remember catching my reflection in the mirror behind the bar, my face illuminated by the neon signs that hung behind the barkeep.
I made my way across the red, carpeted stairs and onto the concrete floor, my heels clicking loudly and drawing unwanted attention my way. A waiter with a tray of drinks hurried past me without a second glance, though his felt like the only eyes that weren’t on me. I took refuge at the bar, sinking onto a bar stool and laying my phone down on the wood. The bartender approached me, his thick eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Well, you aren’t from around here, are you?”
“Is it that obvious?” I asked with a half-laugh.
He smirked. “I haven’t seen anyone wearing a suit come through those doors since the day it opened. What can I get ya?”
“Scotch on the rocks with a twist, please,” I said, staring at my phone as the notifications began to roll in. An email from my boss one minute, then two replies from others CC’d on said email. A text from a coworker. A text from a client. I turned the phone over. One minute. Just one minute—I just needed a minute to breathe.
“Long day?” he asked as he slid the drink across the counter and rested on his elbow in front of me.
“They’re all long,” I admitted, taking a sip and welcoming the warmth that flooded my chest. It had been a long day, if I were being honest. Longer than most. Starting with a flight that included a six-hour layover and ending with two client meetings with one of the toughest hospital CEOs I’d ever met, I was getting ready to board a plane and sleep for the next few hours when I was notified that I wouldn’t be able to get home that night.
Home. It was a strange concept to me, I guess. The place I lived, the address where my mail was sent, was a tiny studio apartment in Seattle with very little to make it feel like an actual home. I slept in hotel beds more often than my own, and I had to think really hard to be able to tell you the color of my walls. I was in my home just a few short weeks a year, and it cost more than I’d like to admit to maintain it, but it was nice to have a place to go during the limited free time I was given. So, not being able to go home that night had been the very large bow on my already shitty day.
“So,” he asked, interrupting my thoughts, “are you new to the area or in town for vacation?”
“Neither,” I said in between sips. The drink was already almost gone. I took the last gulp and slid it back to him. “I’m in Atlanta for work. I head out in the morning.”
“Hopefully not too early in the morning,” he said, wiggling the empty glass in the air before he refilled it.
“I’ll be okay,” I said, taking the drink from him. It was true. Years of schmoozing alcoholic CEOs had trained me well. I knew my limits, and I knew how to avoid a hangover like the plague. With scotch, I could have four with plenty of water before even the slightest morning headache would affect me.
My phone buzzed again, and I let out a sigh before flipping it over. Another email. Four more meetings over the next two days. I guess I wasn’t going home tomorrow after all. I scrolled through the email. New Orleans tomorrow, then Houston, and two in Tokyo on the second day. I pinched the bridge of my nose with stress.
“Not good news, I’m guessing,” the bartender said, staring at my troubled expression with concern. I’d been so lost in my thoughts I’d forgotten he was there.
“It’s fine,” I said with a forced smile. “Just part of the job.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a pharmaceutical rep.” His blank stare of confusion was entirely too familiar. “I sell medical devices and products to leading hospitals.”
“Is it hard?” he asked.
“It’s not…hard, I guess. It’s, well, there are long hours and quite a bit of travel.”
“But you get to see the world?” he asked.
“The hospitals of the world, at least,” I joked. “There isn’t much time for exploring the cities I visit. It’s usually in one hospital and straight onto the next flight to the next city and the next hospital.”
“If you hate it so much, why do it?” he challenged.
“I don’t hate it,” I argued.
“Well, you don’t seem to like it all that much.”
Fair enough. I squinted my eyes at him. Truth was, I didn’t hate my job. Most days, I loved it. It was excellent money, I did get to travel, and the team I worked with made the trips we took together enjoyable. But, like most jobs, it came with its share of challenges. “Do you like your job?”
“I do,” he said, picking up a glass from the rack behind him and wiping it dry before placing it on the shelf underneath the bar. “It’s decent money, and I get to meet a ton of interesting people.”
“Don’t you get tired of dealing with drunk people?”
“Don’t you?”
“Drunk people are more likely to buy my products,” I said with a wink.
“Funny you should say that. Mine, too,” he said. “Case in point.” He stepped away from me quickly as a pair of men dressed in all leather approached the bar, their scraggly white beards shaking as they laughed loudly.
“’Nother round, Marky Mark. ’Nother round,” the larger one shouted joyfully. I watched his spit fly into the air as he spoke, but the bartender didn’t flinch. It was obvious he had a rapport with this particular customer.
“You got it, Tony,” he said. The bartender, who I was just learning was named Mark, laid out four glasses and poured whiskey into them. The customer slid a hundred-dollar bill across the bar. “Keep the change.” He laughed loudly—at God knows what—and the two took their drinks, walking away and back to their table as half their drinks sloshed out onto the floor.
When they’d moved out of earshot, Mark walked back to me. “See,” he said, holding up the cash as he slid it into the register and began to pull out change for his tip.
“That was like,” I tried to do the mental math, “at least a twenty-dollar tip.” I was shocked, I had to admit. This was not the type of place I’d expect to see tips that size.
“More like sixty,” he said, holdi
ng out three twenties and sliding them into his pocket. “Tony and his guys come in a few nights a week and get plastered on our cheapest whiskey. Four or five rounds like that a night and with tips that just get bigger as they go—the way I see it, Tony practically pays for my tuition.”
“You’re in school?” I asked, cocking my head to the side. He had a rough look to him with dark clothes and messy, chestnut hair that made me think college was the last place he would be. “What for?”
“I’m third year law,” he said, breaking eye contact modestly.
“Seriously?”
He nodded, leaning forward on the bar in front of me. He was close enough I could smell his warmly scented cologne. “Yep, seriously. Why?”
“That’s…impressive,” I admitted, taking another drink of my scotch. I’d come into the conversation feeling superior, but as my cheeks lit on fire, I realized how quickly the tables had turned.
“It’s no big deal,” he said. “But thanks.” He was quiet for a moment and then said, “Hey, I never got your name.”
“It’s Hannah,” I told him, extending a hand. He leaned forward and accepted mine. It sounds cheesy, but when his skin touched mine, I swear I could feel the electricity pulsing between us. “Nice to meet you.”
“Very nice to meet you,” he agreed. “Look, I get off here in just a few minutes. I know you said you have an early flight and—” My phone’s buzzing interrupted his words, and he glanced down. “I can see that you’re busy, but…I’d love to hang out with you for a while. Would that be possible?”
I Said Yes Page 1
