“I think you’re a lot of things, Dom. And if you don’t need my help, I’ll be on my way.” I turn and head for the door where his two bodyguards are standing.
“I’m not done talking to you.”
I pause and turn. “What?” My tone carries my impatience across the room.
Dom doesn’t miss it, and his voice is ripe with displeasure. “The Karas girl. You didn’t follow my orders. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? She’s not for you.”
I’ve heard this all before, and hell, I’ve told myself the same thing.
“Whether she’s for me or not, she’s mine and I won’t give her up.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, and his lip curls. “And what do you think’s gonna happen if she ever finds out the real reason I kicked your ass out of this town and you ended up on a Greyhound to Hollywood?”
My hands are nerveless, paralyzed into useless claws, and I’ve forgotten how to write. The pencil tumbles from my fingers as he speaks. But Cardelli is so caught up in his own story, he doesn’t notice the physical toll his words are taking on me. Ice crystals form in my lungs, and my fight for breath turns desperate. As I suck in small but precious gulps of oxygen, he keeps speaking, oblivious to the panic attack crashing into me across the table.
Get it together, Greer. Before he notices.
Curling my hands into fists, I stab my nails into my palms, and the sharp pain helps me derail the downward spiral. But not completely.
Death.
Murder.
Unclenching my fists, I stretch my hands out, watching them shake for a moment before grabbing the white barrel of the pencil. It slides from my grip twice before I’m able to scrawl letters on the legal pad in front of me as Stephen Cardelli continues with the story of how Cavanaugh Casso framed him for a murder Cav committed.
Cav is a murderer.
The words hammer with unrelenting pressure into my temples as I struggle to keep breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
“Donnigan carried out the hit, and when Casso’s bastard kid Cavanaugh found out, he took out Donnigan and they pinned it on me ’cause I pissed Casso off by slapping around one of the girls at his club. I’ve been rotting in here for three fucking years, keeping my mouth shut so I didn’t get shanked and end up bleeding out in the showers. But now that word on the block is that Casso’s going down, I’m done keeping quiet. I want out, and I know Casso paid off the cops who took me in and planted the piece they used to kill Donnigan in my shit. So tell that to your fuckin’ Innocence Project and get me the hell out of here.”
My vision blurs when I look down at the notepad before me. I can’t read a single thing I’ve written. Tears, I realize. They’re gathering in my eyes but haven’t fallen. I blink them back. I will not cry in front of this man.
When the guard strides over to the table, interrupting Cardelli’s monologue, I’m limp with relief. I don’t want to hear any more.
“Time’s up.”
“I ain’t done.”
“Too fucking bad.”
I could protest. This is an attorney-client meeting, but I barely have it together enough to stand, let alone put together a coherent argument for the guard. Not when all I want is to get as far away from this place as fast as humanly possible to tear apart Cardelli’s story in my head.
It can’t be true. Can it?
Following the guard, I return to the waiting area on shaky legs. Everything I thought I knew has been shredded into tiny, unrecognizable pieces.
It can’t be true, my head argues again. Right?
But Cardelli’s devastating accusations dog my steps, threatening to steal the future I was starting to believe I could have.
Cav killed someone. In cold blood. Execution style. In an alley.
Dom’s question follows me all the way home, but Greer isn’t there. Part of me wishes she was so I could tell her everything right now. Get it over with. Come clean. No more secrets.
A bigger part of me is grateful for the empty apartment because I need time to figure out how.
I stare at the floor where she sat with that file.
Of all the fucking cases in the world, how did she end up with that one?
I could have asked Dom to take care of the problem, but the words wouldn’t come.
I’m not going to lose her.
I just hope to hell I’m right.
I tell the cabbie to take me to Banner’s. I can’t go home. I need to tell someone what I just learned so they can tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do. I’m lost. Utterly and completely.
Can my judgment really be that bad?
I pay my outrageous cab fare and wave weakly to Banner’s doorman.
“Ms. Karas. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks.” The rote greeting comes out automatically, and I hope he can’t tell that I’m anything but fine. He nods to me, and I head to the elevator.
My mind is going in a million directions when the door opens onto her floor and I stumble out. Banner’s welcome mat reads GO THE FUCK AWAY, but I don’t take it personally. It doesn’t apply to me. Never has.