by W Winters
“Sorry to hear that,” I respond apologetically and brush my thigh against his, leaning closer to him even though I know the bar is hardly packed.
“I hate his dementia. Hate going to see him even if I love the man. He was more like a friend than a father. And now…”
“He doesn’t remember you?” The question tumbles out of me with pain and it’s relieved when he shakes his head and answers, “He remembers me. He knows who I am most of the time.
“It’s just … he asks about things that happened before. He forgets about my parents passing. He thinks I’m my father sometimes. And then others he remembers. It’s hard to tell what reality he’s in and what I’m going to get when I visit him.”
It’s quiet for a moment and I want to tell him I’m sorry again but it seems not good enough. They’re just words and I struggle to find something more than just an apology.
“He used to ask about cases. I liked that better.”
“Yeah, it’s easy to talk about work,” I’m quick to agree with him, nodding my head even and offering a gentle smile. “If you need to vent about anything, I’m always here.”
His mood shifts back to easy when he smiles and tells me, “I’m not leaving for a week, though.”
The way he raises his brow makes me huff a short laugh and say, “I guess I’ll just have to put up with you for a little while more then.”
As I joke with him, he brushes the back of his knuckles against mine and the heat unfolds inside of me.
There’s not a lot that makes me melt, but I swear he does.
“It’s easy to hide in work. Even easier to hide under the sheets and get lost, forgetting who we are and what we do,” Cody admits, speaking lowly, like it’s a secret.
“Why do we do this?” I don’t know why the question leaves me. It’s not with conscious consent. I suppose it’s the thought that neither of us likes to go home. We don’t like to talk about anything but work. Why do we put ourselves through this? Why do we prefer to meddle in lives that are long gone and stay buried there when there’s so much more to life than this?
Walsh’s gaze slips lower than it should, landing between my breasts as he questions, “Do what?” The edge of the bottle rests against his bottom lip for a moment too long, forcing me to pay too much attention to his expert lips.
“Do this job,” I answer firmly and holding an edge that doesn’t last. With my teeth sinking into my bottom lip, I return his hungry eyes with a heat in my own.
We should stop this conversation in public. I should stop leaning so close to him.
We’ve gotten too comfortable and even when I glance around the place, noting that no one’s watching and no one cares, I know damn well we shouldn’t be reckless. Especially after that article and the insinuation made. Even if I’ve nailed four trials in a row, I don’t need the judgment affecting my job.
“Why do we do what we do…” Cody’s intonation lowers, becoming more serious as he stares at my nearly empty glass of white.
“That’s what I was wondering?” My question doesn’t bring his gaze back; he’s lost in something reflected in the glass.
“I know I do this because of my brother.” Every muscle in my body tenses. Carefully, feigning a casualness that I’m all too aware is absent from this conversation, I pick up the glass and sip the white wine after commenting, “The one who passed?”
We spent over a year working together before anyone mentioned the fact that Cody Walsh had a brother. It’s one of the very few things I knew about him.
“Yeah, he’s the only brother I had. He was just a kid.”
“You were too, weren’t you?” I question, my memory betraying me. I’m almost certain his brother was seven or eight and Cody was only ten.
“Maybe I should stop. It’s been a long day and I’ve had too much.”
I shrug nonchalantly and say, “Whatever works for you. I do love getting to know you, though.”
I always knew Cody had demons. Something dark and twisted that kept him quiet and guarded whenever his personal information was in question.
The second his guard would start to crumble when I first met him, another would go up behind it, thicker and even more impenetrable. There’s not much about the man’s past that I know.
He’s a workaholic like me. He cusses under his breath when he’s pissed and likes beer on easy days. Jack and Coke when he wants to think about something that’s bothering him. He always says it’s a case. He lives for his job with the FBI and I get it.
My first real job was with the FBI, although not as an agent. I was only a lawyer working the cases with them. Cody was the knight in shining armor, willing to do whatever it took. Last one to call it a night and the first one to gather us in the morning.
Brutal tasks require brutal men. To this day I don’t know what makes Cody the man he is, only that I want to know his secrets. I want him to trust me enough to do so.
* * *
“You don’t have to stop. I want to know.” Laying my forearms on the table and leaning forward so I’m closer to him, I add, “You can tell me.” I’m vaguely aware of a couple nearby gathering their things and leaving. The sound of clinking from glasses being collected fades as I fall into Cody’s light blue gaze.
It swirls with an intensity, but deep inside the shades of silver and cobalt are secrets locked away, rattling behind the bars where he holds them hostage.
“What happened to him? You never did tell me the story. All I know is that you two were split up and he passed a little while later.”
“It was years, not a little while. I went with my uncle; he went to my aunt when our parents died.” When he told me the two of them were split up, I assumed his mother and father had split. I didn’t know they split after.
“That’s rough,” I barely speak, feeling a tingle of unease run through me. “It must be difficult to be separated like that… especially after losing your parents,” I offer even though my voice is tight.
“We were never close.” Cody’s response isn’t spoken coldly, but it strikes me still. “He was years younger than me. He was only a kid,” he repeats the last statement in a whisper, finding refuge in his beer and I get the impression that the conversation has come to a halt until he speaks again, surprising me.
“It was a group of three men. They kidnapped and murdered those kids. Fed their remains to the dogs. The one who lived told the cops they had to watch it all. They saw everything happen to the kid before them. One at a time as they huddled together in the cell and were forced to watch.”
“That’s sadistic,” I respond and I don’t know how I’m able to even speak.
“They got off on scaring them,” he responds and his tone is harsh.
“They got them though, right?” Please tell me they got the bastards.
“You could say that. They’re all dead. It never went to a trial.”
How did they die? The question is right there, but that’s not the one I ask. “You were how old?”
“I was twelve. My brother was eight. We were split three years before.”
“I’m sorry.”
“One of the kids they abducted when they took my brother survived. The one who lived said my brother died only hours before the police got there.”
My heart pounds in agony. “So that’s why you do this?”
“Yeah,” he says and pretends like he’s tired, and that’s why he rubs his face down with one masculine hand before looking away.
“You want to tell me your sob story now?” Cody asks and he makes fun of himself, trying to downplay it all, but I see right through him and I love what I see there.
I answer his question with one of my own, “You want to get out of here?”
Marcus
I was correct in my assumption that Delilah would call the front desk and then call the local floral shop when she received the roses. Both of which would give her nothing. I was right about her not telling Walsh as well, beyond asking if they came from him.
With the pad of my thumb running down the stubble along my jaw, I wonder if she would have told him had she not been in the position she was in. If the stress of that article and her family dynamic didn’t make her so tense and she was more clearheaded.
I can practically hear her laugh as the waitress gives her another glass of white wine. I’m not sure what Sandy told my Delilah, but it brings a glimmer to her gaze that’s been missing for days.
It still surprises me how easily she hides so much pain behind that gorgeous smile. I lean my head back against the leather headrest, listening to the police scanner and diverting my gaze to the front of the bar as opposed to the window I can so easily see her through. For a moment I wonder if I should have sent her wine instead of roses. The smile slips across my face, the feeling unusual as I imagine her uncorking it just to dump the bottle down the drain, not knowing who it’d come from.
She would have enjoyed the smell of it, though. I’ve seen her inhale deeply so many times when that cork is popped from her go-to bottle of Valley Pines Pinot.
The leather seat groans under me as a familiar operator announces a disturbance four blocks from here. Nodding, I recognize the address and continue to hear the flow of conversations, but I’m not listening as intently as I should. Instead, my gaze moves back to Delilah as she talks to her coworker, Aaron Curtis. She doesn’t know how he watches her.
She doesn’t see but I do. As does Walsh.
At least the young man knows she’s out of his league. He doesn’t have the balls to admit he wants her. There’s a small bit of gratitude I offer him from a distance. It’s one thing to know Walsh takes care of that need for her. It’d be different if the man fucking her was … so inferior.
As if it’s his cue, Cody comes into view, sidling up beside her at the bar-height table. She stiffens, becoming far more serious than she’s been all night. A voice alerts me that the scanner is still on, the shrill white noise of it filling the cabin of the car before I lean forward to turn it off, silencing it to keep any more interruptions from disturbing this moment. The days have turned to weeks of this. Him approaching her, the two of them pretending there’s nothing between them.
The act may have fooled most of them, but Aaron knows just like I do. He saw it months ago, when they started to drift together.
Unlike Aaron, it only makes me watch more closely. I want to know what Cody says that convinces her to leave when he does, to let him meet her at her house and let him through the door.
I want to know what she whispers in his ear when he enters her late at night when they think they’ve gotten away with it all. When they think that no one knows that he comforts her at night.
He must know that I know. How could he not? We had a deal. Maybe I hadn’t made myself clear enough.
Rage simmers inside of me, but it’s easily subdued.
Cody Walsh had to know what he was doing by bringing her into this mess. The article was his warning. I know he read it and received the message loud and clear. Perhaps he doesn’t care and he’s going for her, giving in to the temptation regardless.
I’ll bring up the past, then I’ll bury him in the present. Even worse, I’ll start the chase all over again and lure little Miss Delilah back to me.
I was so close to having her before. I wonder if she remembers.
She’s still the same, even if years have passed. Still the same vivacious woman with a heat in her eyes and yet there’s an innocence about her.
The vision of her is only obscured for a moment by Cody walking around her to speak to someone else. I watch her watch him.
Her lips part slightly before she forces herself to look away.
The ache is indescribable. She could look at me that way. If things had been different, she could look at me the way she does him.
I’ve never wanted anything or anyone like I want her and the sick part of me knows it’s because Cody pursued her. It’s a jealousy I haven’t been able to kick.
Still, I wanted her first. There’s no way he doesn’t know.
He knew I cared for her and he stayed close to her.
He knew I was watching and he fucked her.
He knew what it would do to me. Cody Walsh knows me far too well to be unaware.
Even worse, he ignored my latest letter.
Do you ever regret it? Letting that evidence slip through your fingers so you could ensure I executed a different plan of yours?
There was an unspoken deal, a bit of camaraderie between us. I’m not the one who changed things. What happens next is his fault, his doing. Not mine.
Part II
This Love Hurts…
Delilah
“I’d like to remind you that you’re under oath, Miss Parks.” I’m aware my voice is harsh, demeaning even, as I look across the courtroom at Missy Parks’ flushed expression. The sheen across her forehead and upper lip only adds to my suspicion. I think she drove the car. We don’t have proof. Not a shred of evidence, so I don’t hint at it; I didn’t charge her with a damn thing because I wasn’t certain I had enough to convince a jury. My red heels click on the shiny obsidian marble floor in Judge Partings’ courtroom. I may not be able to tie her to the robbery, but her testimony is crucial to ensuring her boyfriend goes down for his part.
After all, he’s the one who killed the eleven people inside the bank that night. My hunch that she was driving the car is only that, an inkling based off of years of experience. My gut instinct tells me she didn’t know he was going to shoot anyone. Thus the sweat along her brow and how frequently her voice shakes, requiring her to repeatedly clear her throat.
She’s an accomplice to murder and she knows it. I wonder if the guilt eats her alive at night.
“I’ll ask you again, did you expect your boyfriend at the time, the defendant, Mr. Wilson, to meet you at your home that Friday evening?”
“No, I mean,” she says as she shakes her head, her gaze on the floor to my right. She can’t even look me in the eye and knowing that, I walk with a set pace toward her, forcing her to look at the harsh sound of my heels clacking. “He—he…”
The pencil skirt of my suit is tight as my gait widens. It’s custom tailored, as is my jacket. In contrast, Missy is wearing a shirt far too large for her frame and the same could be said for her jeans. Her attire reinforces her mousy demeanor, making her appear that much more minuscule as she raises her widened eyes to me from the stand. The poor girl looks like she hasn’t eaten in days and her hair pulled back in a ponytail so tight it makes my own scalp hurt, only makes her appearance look worse.
“We’ve gone through your whereabouts and text messages surrounding the time of the crime, Miss Parks. The defendant saw you every Friday evening.” I make sure I point to him, forcing her to look back at him. Look at him. Look at the man who you know committed murder. I pray the jury sees how her expression displays horror just glancing at him.
“Six weekends in a row he met you at your house and stayed the duration of the weekend. After the previous Sunday, he was out of town so you wouldn’t have been able to meet in person and according to your phone records there were no calls between the two of you.” My voice is tight in a ruthless manner as I stare into her eyes now glossed over with unshed tears. I’m conscientious about keeping my body language nonthreatening. My tone and the way our gazes meet may be strict and unrelenting, but the jury needs to relate to me. They need to want to ask the same questions that I’m asking. I lower my voice just slightly and knit my brow as if I’m confused. “So please, enlighten me as to why you wouldn’t have expected him to be at your house that evening. Because every shred of evidence points to the fact that your boyfriend should have been with you that evening.”
Her bottom lip trembles as she shoves both of her hands into her lap. With her shoulders hunched she appears defeated. It would be a dream come true for her to just admit it. To admit she drove to pick him up. That they spent six weeks together planning a robbery and she’s the one who drove. If
only she would admit they were together… but that would be a fool’s errand.
Wiping under her eyes, Missy sucks in a deep breath, her shoulders shaking as she holds back a sob. I’m quick to grab the square box of tissues and hold them up to her.
“I realize this is a difficult time, Miss Parks.” She nods, greedily accepting the tissues and playing the part of a mourning woman. Someone shocked by the actions of her on-again, off-again boyfriend. But the twenty-four-year-old won’t get much sympathy from this jury. It’s filled with married women much older than her and the evidence of the defendant’s past led to one very obvious question: why was she still with him? And the manner in which it’s presented points to a conclusion: she was the one who had control over him and bailed him out, but then left him to rot when she couldn’t handle it. She called the shots, at least in her relationship.
“So why wasn’t he with you on the night of August fourteenth? Why didn’t you expect him to be there?”
“I lied,” the young woman blurts out, blinking rapidly as she looks me in the eye, tears still clinging to her lashes. Hope blooms that maybe she’ll confess. She speaks clearly, “I did expect him.” She nods quickly and repetitively and then speaks to the jury, not to me. “I don’t know why he didn’t show up and I was expecting him.”
“Why lie and say you weren’t?”
“I just… I didn’t want to hurt his case anymore.”
Anymore.
The word lingers and I allow a space of time to pass. I let it hit the jurors one by one. In my periphery I see the juror in the back row on the left, a man in an old brown suit, tilt his head, the question marring his forehead with a deep crease.
I could ask how she’d already hurt his case; I could push her more. But this dance is delicate. I have to play my part as well.
With a soft nod, one of sympathy, I announce that I have no further questions.
