He still couldn’t believe Kaylene had shot her girls and then killed herself. The problem was all indications suggested she had. The police were adamant they were right and he was wrong. And if he’d been this wrong about his sister, what else had he been wrong about?
He ground his teeth as he slowed for a light. No. He knew what he knew.
She would not have done the acts the headlines blazoned to the world.
It didn’t matter how things appeared.
He knew the Kaylene of his childhood. Knew her heart. If he was honest with himself, he’d noticed rumblings of trouble in her marriage. Seen and heard enough at the occasional birthday party or rare family event to suspect there was more going on than she revealed.
He pulled into the parking garage beneath his building and then made his way to the elevator and to his floor. The condo felt small, empty. Maybe it was time to get a pet. Something that would be glad to see him when he came home. A distraction when he needed one.
Strange that the silence had never bothered him before.
He opened his Pandora app and selected a movie soundtrack station. Maybe some pulsing, dramatic music would help him reframe the terribleness of today . . . or sink into it.
He had to escape this funk before Brandon arrived. His friend would see through him in a minute.
Reid’s phone buzzed again, and for two seconds he considered tossing it into his bedroom and closing the door. But what if it was related to the kids at Almost Home? He pulled it out. “Hello?”
There was silence, then a sound as if someone swallowed. He glanced at his screen, but didn’t recognize the number, so he put the phone back to his ear.
“My name is Emilie Wesley. I knew your sister . . .”
Right. Everyone knew his sister now that she was infamous.
“ . . . And I wanted to know how Kinley is.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to tell me who you are.”
“I was her attorney.”
Her words ricocheted through him. “Right. Why would Kaylene have an attorney?”
“Why would I lie?” The woman’s voice was insistent, if a bit broken at the edge.
“Because you aren’t the first person who’s pretended to know my sister.”
And who took the time to look up the relatives of someone on the front page. He was turning his phone off after this call. Frankly, he should hang up on this person, whoever she was. And he needed to check on Kinley. She was his niece, and he needed to know she would survive. The last thing he needed was more people trying to take advantage of Kaylene’s death, Kinley’s injuries, and his pain. It just showed how many sick and bored people there were.
What sounded like a shudder, maybe a sob, reached him. “I’m sorry to bother you, but Kaylene would want me to make sure Kinley’s okay.”
“What’s Kinley’s middle name?” he demanded. No stranger would know that.
“Rose. Robert picked her first name, but Kaylene insisted on Rose for her middle name. Kaylene said the moment she looked at Kinley she saw the sweet touch of a rose on her face.”
Reid paused, shocked at her ready response.
“Kaylene’s middle name is Grace,” the voice continued. “And Kaydence Marie was a sweet young woman. A thought that terrified her mom.”
“How did you learn those details?”
“I told you, Mr. Billings, I was her attorney. Kaylene hired me. I need . . . needed to know those details and many more.”
Wouldn’t he have known if his sister had needed an attorney? Had he allowed so much distance to grow between them? He held the phone and prayed this deepening nightmare would end.
Emilie bit down on her lower lip. She shouldn’t have called. It was stupid and impulsive, and that wasn’t who she was. She spoke after thinking, moved after deliberation. She didn’t call grieving brothers.
She hated grief. Hated the loss and emptiness it represented. The way it hollowed a soul and left a scar that time could ease but never remove. It was a photo missing a family member. The empty chair at every holiday dinner.
Emilie might not understand what had happened Monday, but she knew from all Kaylene had said—and not said—that leaving Kinley defenseless was not okay. The hospital refused to give Emilie a word of information, careful to protect the patient’s medical privacy. Emilie knew that was right . . . but she also knew she had to do something for Kinley.
The silence extended so long she was sure he’d hung up. “Mr. Billings?”
“How did you get my name and number?”
“Kaylene gave it to me. She said if anything ever happened, you were the person to contact.”
“I need to think about it. Do some research.” His voice was firm, yet she heard an underlying fragility in it.
“Is this your cell number? I can text you the website that will confirm who I am and what I’m saying.”
There was another pause, and then it was as though he had reached a conclusion. “All right. You can do that.”
“Thank you. Please call me back.”
The call ended, and Emilie immediately texted him her electronic business card. She held on to the phone. It wouldn’t take long to confirm her identity—a simple Google search could accomplish that. Yet as the minutes passed, she concluded he had agreed to the text as a simple way to get off the phone.
She huffed out a breath and tugged her laptop close. If he wouldn’t cooperate, she’d turn her attention to learning about Robert Adams.
The front door opened, and Emilie looked up to see Hayden McCarthy walk in. Her roommate’s low heels clicked against the hardwood floors, and Emilie had to smile at the hot-pink blouse peeking out from beneath Hayden’s suit jacket. Slowly but surely, her friend was breaking out of her navy and black wardrobe. “Get caught at the office, or did Andrew steal you for dinner?”
Hayden set down her briefcase beside the small glass table and smiled. “While I would love to spend time with your charming cousin, he’s a little too wrapped up in his latest batch of new kids. And I have to make a living.”
Ever since going into practice with their mentor, Savannah Daniels, Hayden had a new purpose . . . and added burdens. In some ways life as an overworked associate had been easier than it was now as an overworked attorney launching out on her own. She stepped to the bar that separated the living area from the kitchen, then studied Emilie, who was leaning against the other side of the counter. “You okay?”
Emilie considered lying. It would be so much easier than unleashing the maelstrom of her emotions. But if Hayden caught the slightest hint that she was being less than truthful, she would dig until Emilie came clean.
“I can’t get Kaylene out of my mind. I keep imagining her body on her front lawn.” The newspaper articles hadn’t hesitated to paint an image she could clearly see in her mind.
Hayden’s eyes softened, and she reached toward Emilie, her touch gentle. “I’m so sorry.”
Emilie shuddered. “I can’t let it affect me like this.”
“Give yourself space to grieve.” Hayden set down her keys and then walked around the counter and pulled Emilie into a hug.
Emilie fought the urge to resist.
“Everything’s felt off since . . .” She couldn’t push the words out. Hayden understood why her home had ceased being a sanctuary. “Maybe I need to sell and start fresh somewhere.”
Hayden’s eyes glazed with concern. “We’re okay here. You love this location.”
She did. It sat within a few blocks’ walk to her favorite restaurants and the Potomac as it curved south into Virginia. But at night she still had nightmares of her car careening out of control down Rock Creek Parkway the night she’d come home last spring to find that someone had broken into their condo and violated their home. She’d worked through it . . . she thought.
But Monday the fear and uncertainty had returned. She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms.
“Maybe you should take a vacation, Em. You’ve worked so hard . . . real
ly ever since law school.”
“It’s what I’m good at.”
“Sure.” Hayden nodded. “But everyone needs time to refresh.”
“I don’t see you doing a lot of that either.”
Hayden grinned even as her cheeks pinked. “Andrew’s really good at making sure I take time off each week.” She crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter. “You go from working for your clients to writing an article and back. You’re an adrenaline junkie.”
Emilie snorted. It wasn’t as though she raced from tension-laced trials to pressure-packed deadlines for the thrill of it. Anytime she complained to her parents about her busyness, they just reminded her she didn’t need to work. But the reality was she did. She longed for her life to matter, to do something that impacted others. She started to speak, but Hayden held up a hand.
“You know I love you, Emilie. You’ve had a terrible week. Give yourself grace, okay?”
Emilie nodded as she heard the wisdom in her friend’s words. The question was how to actually live it.
CHAPTER 4
Emilie sat at her desk, replaying her conversation with Kaylene’s brother. He hadn’t known his sister had an attorney, hadn’t known she’d needed one. That reinforced Emilie’s impression her client had felt trapped. If Kaylene had let her brother into the depths of her problems at home, would she be alive?
The question had chased her through her restless sleep and now haunted her waking hours.
She opened the browser on her computer and clicked to a local network affiliate. Kaylene’s death no longer ran as a banner at the top of the page, yet it only took a quick scroll to find the video on the side bar of the web page. She moved the mouse so the arrow hovered over the image. Was she ready to watch it again?
She clicked before she could change her mind.
The video was only thirty seconds of jerky images. Whoever shot it must have stood in a yard a couple doors down from the Adamses’ home. In the distance sirens wailed, but otherwise the video was eerily quiet. It was as if everything had focused on the woman stumbling down the front steps. In her hand was a small black item. A gun? Red seeped through the side of her white blouse. Behind her a young woman fell across the steps leading to the sidewalk. Someone yelled for help. Then the video got shaky as a police car raced to a stop at the edge of the frame.
A knock on her office door yanked Emilie from the video.
Taylor stood in the doorway, dressed in a pencil skirt and cashmere sweater, the perfect look for a young professional who wanted to advance. She held up a cup of coffee with a hesitant smile. “It’s your favorite.”
Emilie accepted the cup and inhaled the rich brew. “Thank you. Do I look that bad?”
“Like you got as little sleep as I did.” Taylor sank onto the chair in front of Emilie’s slightly battered desk. “What did we do wrong?”
That was the heart of the question. If Emilie had done her job right, somehow she would have convinced Kaylene to quit delaying, and she wouldn’t have been at the house when violence erupted.
“Maybe we didn’t do anything wrong.” The words sounded as weak as the conviction behind them. Sure, in the whispers of her heart, she knew she wasn’t the only solution for her clients, but she was a large piece of the work at the Haven. The counselors helped women regain some semblance of self-worth and then Emilie helped them navigate the legal roads.
“And maybe we did.” Taylor leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees, intensity filling her gaze. “Do you still think we can make a difference? I’ve heard you tell people that you love this job because it allows you to save people. This week we didn’t.”
It was the truth. She had failed a desperate woman who had come to her. Emilie tried to force perspective . . . A woman had to truly want to flee. Kaylene had waffled back and forth. But she had walked through the door of the Haven needing help.
Emilie had failed Kaylene.
That reality had her boxed into a corner so tight she could hardly breathe, let alone do anything on the stack of files that represented other clients in various stages of longing to break free. Would she make the same missteps with the next woman?
She needed to believe it was possible to carry on. If not, her life’s mission was a fraud.
She glanced down at her desk, picked up the top file. Glanced at the intake form Taylor had stapled to the inside cover. Veronica needs us to fight for her. Then she pulled the rest of the stack to the center of her desk and looked at her colleague.
“Each woman represented in these files needs us to work our hardest. Ultimately, each one has the choice on whether she’ll find a safe place, but without us many wouldn’t have the ability, means, or way to escape.” Emilie could feel her passion for the work return as she spoke. “What we do is important, but we won’t always succeed. This week has been a brutal reminder.”
Taylor nodded, a flicker of determination lighting her gray eyes. “I want to win them all.”
“Me too.” The phone on her desk rang, and she glanced at the caller ID. It was the shelter’s executive director, Rhoda Sterling. “I have to take this, but we can talk anytime you need.”
Taylor left, and Emilie let the phone ring again as she tried to brush the darkness from her mind. The shadows lingered right at the surface of her thoughts, never more than a flicker away, ready to rear up and overtake her. But if she showed even a moment of weakness, Rhoda would fluff her short gray hair and pack Emilie off to the grief counselor she kept on speed dial.
Emilie blew out a slow breath, then picked up the phone before it rolled to voicemail. “This is Emilie.”
“I was beginning to wonder if you’d done the smart thing and gone home.” Rhoda’s voice sounded crisp and businesslike, but Emilie knew it was the tone her boss used to maintain control.
“Too many clients need my help to leave.” The words sounded brittle to her own ears, but she had to exude strength to withstand the force of her boss’s personality.
“Emilie . . .”
“I’m fine, Rhoda.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t be concerned about you. Taylor too.” Rhoda sighed, and Emilie could almost hear her reaching a decision. “While I’d like to give you the rest of the week off, I need you to meet with a new client. She’ll need your best.”
Whereas those words usually energized her, today Emilie felt a prick of something far different. “When is she coming?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“I’m on it.” As she hung up, Emilie looked at the Monet prints decorating her office. Water lilies or no, she felt the walls pressing against her. She could barely catch her breath, and her skin felt on fire. Get a grip, Emilie. She had to do this. The whole point of her life was using her skills to help women in crisis. She couldn’t let the thought of meeting a new client cause her to look for a paper bag.
She leaned forward in her chair, forced her lungs to expand.
Something wasn’t right; this wasn’t who she was. She shook her head, trying to clear the haze that clouded her vision. Fine, she’d meet the client, follow the steps she always took. And in the routine, she’d become centered—she hoped.
Twenty minutes later Emilie’s phone buzzed again. She surged toward it and pushed the button before she could lose the calm she’d just barely located.
“We’re in conference room two.” Rhoda’s voice had the focused, compassionate edge she used with fragile clients.
“On my way.” Emilie stood, grabbed a legal pad, and tucked a business card into it. As she hurried from her office, she bounced against the door and then forced her lungs to slowly release air.
She walked down one beige hall and then turned down another, this one ready for clients to see, with the kids’ art hanging against the soothing beige paint. Her office’s location kept her isolated from the flow of traffic, a necessity when she needed to focus on legal arguments, but as she passed a handful of offices that housed the social work staff, she noticed that an unusual numb
er were empty. As she neared the small conference room, her steps slowed.
Normally she couldn’t wait to meet the next client. Normally she loved the challenge of figuring out how to help solve their problems and right their worlds.
Today wasn’t normal.
She stopped short of the doorway and forced her shoulders back while she took two deep breaths. Then she lifted her chin and entered the room. No one in there needed to discover how her inner turmoil was bleeding into her actions—especially her boss.
Rhoda sat at the small conference table, holding a mug of steaming tea, probably Constant Comment with a squeeze of honey. She smiled, only the smallest hint of wrinkles at the corners of her gray eyes warning Emilie to tread carefully. “Emilie, I’d like you to meet Nadine Hunter. She needs our help.”
A young woman with sunglasses hiding her face and a purple bruise swelling her cheek turned slowly toward Emilie. She raised her sunglasses, and her eyes held a bottomed-out look of emptiness.
Rhoda touched Nadine lightly on the arm, and the woman jumped as if she’d been shocked. “Nadine, Emilie Wesley is our staff attorney. She’s very good and will be your advocate.”
Emilie took another step forward, slid a chair from the table, and then forced herself to ease to the edge of it. She simply had to pretend that she was the confident litigator she had been a week ago. As she smiled, she extended her hand, but Nadine didn’t take it.
Emilie kept her smile in place. “It’s nice to meet you, Nadine.” She kept her voice calm and soft. “Can you tell me your story?”
The young woman—she couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty—looked everywhere but at Emilie’s eyes. “My boyfriend uses me as his punching bag.”
“Then let’s get you out of there.” Emilie pulled the legal pad in front of her and clicked on her erasable pen. “Before I begin collecting information, I want you to know something. I understand. While I was in law school, I had a boyfriend who thought he owned me, and it took a lot of work to break free. A protective order allowed us to get him into jail. It can be the first step for you too.” Emilie paused until the woman met her gaze. “First I need some quick information to get started on a protective order that will provide space from him while you figure out what you want to do permanently.”
Imperfect Justice Page 3
