“Genny Miss.” He flagged one of those big arms in the air. “I didn’t figure I’d catch you, but I had to try.”
“Henry.” A smile cracked the stone grimace her face had turned into.
He basically fell down the stairs with a hammy leg catching him on each step and stopped front and center. His gentle hands braced either side of her shoulders. She realized with a start that this was the first time he’d ever touched her. Inside the Tombs, it was against their beloved protocol. Also, he’d usually been behind control room fortress.
“You have to press charges.” He crouched lower until they were eye to eye. “Don’t argue with me, missy.”
“Forget pressing charges.” She placed a hand over his and ignored the cramp in her ribs. Sanchez had made threats, and she might have negotiated inside those walls to buy time, but he was in there and she was not. He might have friends on the outside, but so did she. Hers were more powerful and so was she. Before Henry could rebut, she made herself clear. “I’m going to watch that son-of-a-bitch draw his last breath and know that I put that needle in his vein.”
“That’s my girl.” Henry patted her shoulders and released her. He turned to Graham, who stood. The two exchanged a handshake, the moves to which she lost after the third step in the elaborate sequence. How old were they? Twelve. Was this what men did in their spare time, practice secret handshakes?
It seemed the universe was against her. Of the 8.6 million people in the city, these two just had to know one another. Rather well, judging by the final bop-bop of their fists.
“What happened in there?” Graham posed the question to Henry.
Indignation filled Gen’s mouth.
“Ah.” Henry disengaged his hand from Graham’s and stepped from between them. “You’ll have to get that info from Genny Miss.” He turned to her and smiled.
It turned to admiration for the big, sweet lug. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be in the courtroom cheering you on every day I can. That man is bad news.”
Coming from a man who worked daily with the worst of humanity, that meant something. Something that shrank the certainty of her earlier proclamation. She shivered despite the heat.
“How’s your neck?” Henry bobbed his head, trying to get an angle through or around the wild collar her hair had made.
“Fine.” She offered him her widest gaze and looked toward the transport truck he drove.
Henry turned his back on Graham and dropped his massive head low. His caramel eyes were intent. “Of all the people to have in your corner, he’s a good one. You should tell him,” he whispered.
Gen pursed her lips.
He grinned, offered a take-it-or-leave-it shrug, and straightened.
“I’ll check in on you soon, missy.” He flashed her the old double thumbs up and headed for the building. It warmed her heart to know Henry really had come, trying to check on her. He threw a peace sign over his shoulder. “Later, Dick-tective.”
“Later.” Graham’s voice was so close it brought her around.
A whiff of ranch and nuts toyed with her nose. It was a good enough reason as any to hate him. She loved ranch and wanted to snuggle into him and breathe deeply. He stood inches away with his arm outstretched toward her.
If this were her daydream, he’d step close and graze her ear with his full lips while telling her all the naughty things he’d like to do to her. There. In the street. Up against the Tomb’s wall.
Too late, she realized what he was actually doing.
Graham brushed the mess of her hair back over her shoulder, and his gaze zeroed in on her neck. The sunny sky-blue eyes she’d grown to enjoy in her own masochistic way—hello, sunburns—turned a cloudy gray. His jaw flexed, and his nostrils flared.
“Fucking Christ, Genevieve.”
It was the first time he’d used her name, second, but there was no tenderness in it. She’d been so stupid to allow herself the daydream. Still, there it had been. There he had been nagging her needy body for weeks, months. In it, during a witty and stinging back and forth, he’d whisper her name. The wit was gone. The daydream demolished. Reality returned, the cruel and very usual suspect.
“Who did this to you?” Hand still in her hair, he demanded the answer.
She closed the narrow gap between them, exposing her neck further. Then she looked him in the eyes.
“The same man who slaughtered Perry Carter’s family.”
Twelve
“Let’s see here.” Liza Piggot grabbed a handful of the gray curly bun atop her head and studied the bank of twenty or more filing cabinets that lined the wall of the file room at the Rape Crisis Center. “You need Brasher, Montgomery, and Travis?” She jibed left toward the B’s. Her flowing black pants lagged behind.
“No, I was given Brasher, Montgomery, and Travis.” Genevieve clutched the incorrect files to her chest and pointed at the Q’s. “I need Quincy, Saunders, and Vorhalt.”
“Vorhalt? I don’t remember her?” The woman moved to the one cabinet that housed the Q’s, S’s, and T’s, while the J’s and M’s had at least three to their letter.
“Him,” she amended.
“Oh, then I’m doubly stumped. There are so few males who come forward. I usually remember every one of them.”
“There are thousands of files in here, Liza. You shouldn’t remember every one.”
“I try to, though.” Liza slipped the glasses from her head and adjusted them on her face.
“I know you do.”
When a person left the police office just across the complex or the hospital across town after experiencing a sexual assault, they were always recommended to the Rape Crisis Center. These ladies were highly trained professionals who counseled on a range of topics survivors of trauma often faced. Denial. Guilt. Anger. Despair. Many times, their expertise was used in court cases.
“Vorhalt was probably one of Alexa’s.”
The mention of Perry’s sister’s name shot a bolt of lightning through Genevieve. She dropped her briefcase on a table in the center of the room and walked toward the wall of filing cabinets with a renewed sense of urgency.
“She in court?” Gen asked as casually as possible.
“Early session.” Liza plucked a file from the Q’s and eased down the line. “She should be back any minute.”
Sweat gathered between Genevieve’s breasts. She tugged at the collar of the sleeveless turtleneck dress she wore, willing the air conditioning to jump inside the itchy fabric. Only an intern at the office had joked about her hiding a hickey. If the guy had any idea what she hid under the fabric, he’d have pissed his preppy pants and dropped out of law school immediately.
“Can I put these away for you?” Gen flapped the files someone had messengered over months ago in the air. She wouldn’t leave without the files being properly stored, and the only way to hurry that process along was to help. If she could get out without seeing Perry’s sister today, it would make an already shitty day a little more tolerable.
“Please!” Liza waved her toward the cabinet. She hadn’t seemed to notice Gen was already by them and scanning for the proper drawer for the Brasher file. “I can’t believe the wrong files were delivered. It makes me sick to my stomach. You know how important they are. You know how much paperwork is needed to request a single one. And don’t get me started on the chain of custody.” She sagged over the open drawer. “At least I’ll be able to track back and figure out who screwed up.”
Stiffness followed closely by bone-deep agony chased Gen down into a crouch. The bags of ice she’d slept on and the cool shower this morning had worn off hours ago. Each move compounded the pain, which was why it’d taken her all morning to work up the courage to walk the two blocks from the courthouse. The front door chimed, and Gen froze with her hand between Bosniac and Bruster.
“Alexa?” Liza called.
“I’m back from the pits of hell,” Perry’s sister huffed.
“Went that well, huh?” Liza plucked anot
her file from a cabinet.
Gen slipped the first file inside the drawer, closed it, and clamped her lips together to keep in the scream that demanded release as she stood. She loved Alexa, admired her ethics, and had eagerly worked with her more times than she could count, despite Perry’s disapproval. The siblings never got along, according to them both. She never pried, and it had never mattered until Alexa showed up at her office after the murders, begging her to deny Perry’s plea to be his attorney.
“Ericson got on the stand and …”
“And?” Liza asked. She and Gen turned together to see Alexa Carter standing in the doorway with her mouth hanging open.
“Sorry.” Gen waved the remaining files in her hand. “I’ll be out of your way in just a minute.”
“Oh, right.” Liza smacked her forehead with her free hand, turned back to the last cabinet, and pulled open the last drawer. She’d apparently forgotten upon what hostile terms the two women had last parted.
The dark expression on Alexa’s thin face told Gen she hadn’t forgotten or forgiven a thing. The glower didn’t pair well with her bright floral print business suit. She cradled a stack of files in one arm. Her other was free except for the key chain wrapped around her wrist and what looked like a phone clutched in her hand. Gen knew better, though. That “phone” was really a 20-million-volt stun gun she’d used more than once on overzealous assholes in the city. If Gen didn’t play this out just so, Alexa could turn the immobilizing electricity on her.
Genevieve turned toward the filing cabinet and shuffled toward the M’s.
“What are you doing here, Holst?” Alexa’s voice boomed across the room. It was stronger and deeper than Perry’s. His could get loud, but unlike his sister, he had a quietly commanding presence. There was nothing quiet about Alexa. Not even her clothes.
“Calm down.” Liza fanned away Alexa’s attitude as though it were a pesky gnat. “There was a mix-up with the delivery of some files, and she was kind enough to come herself and get them sorted out.”
“Well, isn’t she a good Samaritan.” Alexa’s sneer deepened.
The fighter inside Gen, though battered and bruised, stretched and flexed in response.
“Yes, she is.” The older of the women closed the drawer in which she’d rummaged, walked to Gen’s side, and addressed Alexa. “You know another attorney who would have realized the mix-up in the first place? You know one who’d have hiked their ass over here in the heat, filled out the paperwork for the right ones a second time, and made certain the strays were put in their proper place? No, you don’t. Because I don’t.” Liza plucked the remaining two incorrect files from Gen’s arms and handed over the ones she’d requested. “I’ll see to it that these get where they need to go.”
“Thank you.” Genevieve hated to cause trouble between the co-workers, but it seemed Liza was accustomed to dealing with Alexa and her boisterous personality.
“Hell, you saved my ass.” Liza hugged the folders to her chest with both arms. ”So thank you.” She winked, and then returned her attention to the wall of filing cabinets.
Gen drew a bracing lungful. Paper had a unique smell that soothed. Locked away in metal coffins as it was, it went stale with a mineral bite that had her tongue folding over on itself. She stepped around the table and grabbed her briefcase. The pain was there, throbbing and dull, and Alexa’s presence overpowered it. Years of practice allowed Gen to smile genially as she walked past a woman who despised her without a second thought. She turned right down a long corridor and headed for the main entrance.
Alexa’s gaudy purple pumps followed with a heavy staccato. Maybe she’d moved offices. Maybe she’d forgotten something by the door.
“You think you did the state a service?”
Perry’s sister was clearly spoiled for a fight.
Genevieve wheeled on her even though Alexa had a stun gun. Oh well. Gen had a bruised backside, a throbbing throat, and zero fucks left to give this woman. “I could give two shits about the state. I care about Brasher, Montgomery, and Travis, Quincy, Saunders, and Vorhalt. The latter three are top on my caseload right now. Getting them justice is what I care about.”
“I thought you were a defense attorney now.” Alexa squeezed the device in her hand so hard it might shatter.
Can stun guns explode?
“Like I told you before, it was a favor for a friend.” Gen rolled her eyes and didn’t care if the other woman saw. “Goodbye, Alexa.” She turned and headed for the door. “I’d say it was a pleasure, but it wasn’t.”
“You shouldn’t have represented him.”
“It’s over. Let it go, already.” She didn’t even bother looking back. The door was within her reach. Freedom from one headache, at least.
“He’s done it before.”
Her hand rested on the opaque glass of the entryway and exit. All she had to do was push. Push and walk. She’d done it a million times in her life. Push and walk. Leave and don’t look back. Her body and mind gridlocked.
Alexa approached with the same heavy tread. “Give me five minutes and you never have to talk to me again.”
“I don’t want to hear what you have to say.” Gen’s voice quivered because it was the absolute truth. Over the past two weeks, she’d harbored enough doubt about Perry to unsettle even the most devout believer. Yesterday’s visit to the Tombs and her attack by Edger Sanchez had cleared her conscience. 100% back on the prayer chain. Front pew. Bible in hand. Hymns on the tongue.
“Which is why you need to.” Alexa retreated down the corridor, her shoes clomping and creating an aggravating echo in the empty and sparsely decorated waiting area.
A shiver pinged across Genevieve’s skin. Her hand slipped from the glass, leaving an unsightly smear as she turned and walked to Alexa’s office. The woman had discarded her files and weaponry on her desk but sat on one end of a long sofa opposite it.
“Are you going to try to counsel me?” Genevieve closed the door, chose a chair across from the sofa, and set her briefcase on her lap.
“You took the chair for that job.” Alexa moved from her semi-reclined position to the edge of the sofa. “Besides, I’ve needed therapy more than you.”
Assumptions. People made them every day about everything. Most of the time, as now, they were completely incorrect. Utter bullshit.
“Get to the point, or I’m leaving.” Gen opened her briefcase, laid the files inside, snapped it shut, and placed it on the floor next to the chair.
“Fine,” Alexa huffed. “Thirty years ago this summer, Perry killed Rita Ayers.”
Genevieve’s fingers fumbled on the handle. The briefcase fell over, and she expected her jaw to join it. Instead, everything inside her revolted against the thought. Her head jerked back as though the brusque woman had slung shit in her general direction.
“You’re lying,” Gen growled.
The woman hadn’t been moving much, but it seemed her breaths and her microscopic fidgeting ground to a rusty stop. It was as if the breeze died on a hot spring day. Trees lost their happy sway. Oxygen became more difficult to cull from the environment. Birds fell from the sky. Fear became a heavy woolen blanket. It gathered over her, drew close around her face, and suffocated hope.
She willed Alexa to rebut the statement or even rebuke the attack, but she did neither. Her dark brown eyes were so familiar because they looked just like her brother’s. Those haunting eyes simply stared.
“Say something.” Gen’s upper lip curled and shook.
Moisture gathered in Alexa’s eyes. Any hope Gen had that this was some elaborate ruse or a convenient lie died like the poor little birds. They all dropped from the sky. The impact compounded yesterday’s trauma and yanked a dry moan from Gen’s lips. She placed her hand over her mouth.
Alexa, like her brother, seldom showed emotion. And the woman would never willingly reveal any to her. Tears slipped down her cheek in earnest but not a sound followed.
This was bullshit. People did things every day
to suit their own whims. They played parts and manipulated others to get what they wanted. Gen needed to find her angle to restore balance to the world she knew and was quite fond of. She dropped the hand covering her mouth and leaned forward. Alexa’s distant gaze honed on Gen’s movement. She seized the opportunity.
“Why tell me this now? Why not mention it, oh, I don’t know, before the trial?”
A foreign expression of helplessness contorted Alexa’s features. The tears ran in tiny rivulets down her neck and stained her pink undershirt a darker shade.
“I didn’t expect you to represent him. I certainly didn’t expect you to win.”
“Winning is what I do.” It sounded bombastic and totally conceited, but Gen didn’t give a fuck. If what Alexa was saying was true, there was an increased possibility that she had freed a murderer. “Did you not know my record? I mean, the media made sure I remembered details of my successes I’d long forgotten.”
“I knew your record on the right side of the aisle.” Alexa slapped at a tear, revealing the first weak sign of fight.
“The right side?” Genevieve gripped the arms of the chair. “Even though I love and live for prosecution, I know a small handful of people are wrongfully convicted every year. The defense is there to protect them. If anything, it’s more the right side than the prosecution. It’s easy to get people to believe the worst about another. It’s harder to make them believe the good. So I’ll ask you again, why not before? Why chance the proverbial roll of the dice?”
“Because I was …” Alexa shook her head. “No, I am his accomplice.”
Genevieve’s jaw joined her briefcase on the floor. Her hands loosened on the armrests. She fell back into the chair and stared.
Alexa absently picked at a place on her thumb. Slowly, almost as if she didn’t realize she was doing it, she rocked forward to back. “It was out of state. The minute Perry was old enough, my parents sent him to Camp Caraway, an all-boys summer camp outside of New Haven, Connecticut. They did all the usual. Sports. Sailing. Clambakes.” Her eyes glazed over as she completely immersed herself in the past. As though she was seeing it all again.
Why (Stalker Series Book 2) Page 11
