Текст книги "The Opportunist"
Автор книги: Tarryn Fisher
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
“Yeah? I don’t think so,” his eyes were roving over my jeans and t-shirt.
“My names on the list pal,” I said quickly. I didn’t even know there was a list. “Ava Lillibet. Check for yourself.” Ava was a colleague of Caleb’s, he spoke about her horrid garlic breath and melon sized breast implants often. I stuck out my chest just in case. My feeling about the list was correct and seconds later, the fat eyed guard located my fake name on the paper in front of him.
“Okee dokee, Ms. Lillibet. You can go right up,” I didn’t look at him as I whipped around and headed over to the elevators. Hopefully the real Ms. Garlic-breath wouldn’t make an appearance any time soon and blow my cover. The elevator ride was torturous. When I heard the ‘Ding’, I sprang out almost tripping over my own feet. I batted my eyes in surprise. There was no sign of desks, or fax machines or poker faced employees. The entire floor had been cleared of its serious nature, and replaced with elegantly laid dinner tables with floating candle centerpieces and polished crystal goblets. All of the shades in the office were open to show the impressive view of the Ft. Lauderdale waterway. Beautiful people mulled over trays of caviar that were traveling across the room in the hands of white-gloved servers. I pressed myself against the closest wall and began scanning the room for his face. No Caleb. Not with the flighty group of secretaries that always kept me on hold way too long and not with his stepfather, whose smile was now turning on a group of investors. I felt a rush of anxiety. What if he was waiting for me at my apartment right now and here I was snooping around his office like a paranoid…
I would do the halfway decent thing and leave, before I made a total ass of myself. I shimmied towards the exit sign hoping to find the stairs. I would have to pass through a corridor of what looked like offices but there was little chance any of them would be occupied while there was a party in full swing. I made a dash for it. I was almost to the end of the hall, perhaps three steps away from the stairs, when I heard his voice. I found it strange that over the trilling of Chopin and the constant humming of a dozen conversations, I heard his voice.
I heeled to a stop and cocked my head, not because I heard him speak, but because of the way he was speaking—urgent and intimate. I leaned in toward the closed door of his office and heard a woman’s throaty laugh. My heart kicked into third gear.
“Would you like to find out?” her voice was clearly flirtatious. You couldn’t mistake that, not even through the two inch paneled door. Chopin’s trilling Appassionato was playing in the background, as I jerked back.
Find out what? I held my breath and pressed my ear against the door. Did I even want to know?
“Some things are better left in the freezer,” my mother used to say.
I pressed closer until my face was squashed against the paneling. There was no more talking. Whatever was happening on the other side of that door was happening quietly. I took a step back. This was my cue—enter crazy girlfriend. I will not yell, I told myself. I will handle this with class and decorum. I grabbed the doorknob, twisted it and flung it open. The door moved aside like a curtain, revealing a scene that would be embedded on my memory for always. It would change everything. Ruin everything. Break everything.
Chapter Fourteen
The Present
I left. Leah could have him, but I didn’t want to be around when she did. I didn‘t take much; a couple of books and photo albums that belonged to my mother. Everything else had been destroyed. I stuffed everything into the car along with Pickles and hit the gas. I’d left my box of Mr. X memento’s laying in the center of my scarred coffee table, along with the envelope of pictures that Leah had stolen. She had stuffed five one hundred dollar bills into the envelope as well...I left those too. If I was going to do this—it had to be done. No more toting around trinkets that had the power to turn my heart into ground beef.
Before I’d walked out the front door for good, I’d held the penny, face up in my palm. Damn penny. Damn Caleb. I closed my fingers and squeezed as hard as I could, until my fist turned white and I was sure that the words, “Good for one free shot of affection—A KISS!” would be stamped on my skin. Then I’d opened my hand and let the penny drop to the carpet. I slipped a goodbye note underneath Rosalie’s door, in which I lied about a job in California, and promised to write to her as soon as I was settled. I dropped my keys off at the leasing office and I drove. I felt an emotional weight lift from my shoulders when my car eased onto I—95, and I felt free when I crossed over the state line into Georgia, but I felt absolute relief when Cammie threw her arms around me.
“Welcome to Texas, best friend,” she smiled kissing me on the cheek. “Let’s begin your new life.”
The Past
Wind battered angrily against the car, howling her protests at not being let in. Outside, the cracked glass of the windshield gathered the dancing snowflakes from the air, spreading a blanket of white across the red tinged spider web. Two passengers sat slumped and bleeding in the front seats, neither was conscious and the driver was soaked in his own blood. No ambulance had been called, as the car had yet to be spotted in the snowstorm. The passenger woke moaning and clutching his head. When he pulled his hand away there was blood smeared on his finger-tips.
He looked around at the dark interior of the car wondering where he was and who the bleeding man beside him could be. He felt odd, like all of his organs were straining inside of his body. Feeling along the door, he grabbed hold of the latch, but it wouldn’t budge. Then he realized the obvious, something his cloudy mind hadn’t registered at first. The car was crushed to half of its original size. He released his seatbelt and felt around his pockets for a phone, after finding it, he hit 911. When the female operator answered he spoke, not recognizing his own voice.
“There’s been an accident. I don’t know where we are,” or who I am he wanted to add, but didn’t.
He set the phone next to him and held his head. A police car would be sent once they tracked the signal. He waited, shivering whether from the shock or the cold, he didn’t know. He tried not to look at the body next to him. Was it a friend? His father? His brother?
He knew help had arrived when out of the corner of his eye he saw the reflection of the cruiser lights dancing on the windows. Voices called and doors slammed. Soon there were people reaching in and pulling him out of the car.
“We have to use the Jaws of Life,” he heard a fireman say. Someone was shining a light in his eyes; another was wrapping him in an orange fleece. They loaded him onto a stretcher as the snow landed on his face. A voice that sounded far away asked him what his name was. He shook his head wondering if he should make one up. Josh was a good name, he could have said Josh, but he didn’t. He wondered if the man next to him was alive and then he heard the sirens of another ambulance and the skidding of wheels on gravel as it pulled away sirens screaming. He lay back against the flat pillow and tried hard to remember…..and then he did. Things good and bad came seeping back into his brain like warm water through a cracked block of ice. He flinched as he remembered things that he’d rather forget.
The EMT asked him if he was all right. He shook his head yes, though on the inside where it counted, where wounds couldn’t be salved and sewn, he wasn’t. He rubbed his head, knuckles against temples and wished that he couldn’t remember. How easy it would be if his mind had been wiped clean like an eraser board. No trace of the happy or miserable, just a clean fresh start. The ambulance came to a smooth stop and the twin doors were opened by a set of gloved hands. He allowed himself to be pushed and pulled and prodded through the emergency room doors until he lay in a stark white room waiting for an MRI. He remained silent. A doctor entered the room where he waited for his results. He was an Indian man with a kind face. He wore a wedding band on his ring finger with three rubies embedded in the gold. His name tag read Dr. Sunji Puni. He wondered if Dr. Puni was happy and if those three red stones symbolized his children. He wanted to ask, but still he said nothing. The doctor in his accented voice spoke.
“You have a serious concussion. I want to run some more tests on you to be certain that there is no extensive damage to your brain. The EMTs informed me that you were having some confusion as to who you are.” The patient said nothing, though he stared at the flat white ceiling as if it were a great work of art.
“Can you tell me your name?” Still, he said nothing, his eyes moving back and forth, back and forth.
“Sir? Do you know who you are?” the doctor’s voice was concerned now, having hit an octave higher than before. I know, I know! His mind screamed. The patient turned his head until he was looking into heavily lined black eyes. He’d made his decision right then and there. There would be a lot of trouble over what he was about to do, but he didn’t care. He had to find her.
“No,” said Caleb Drake. “I don’t remember anything at all.”
One Year Gone
Two Years Gone
Three Years....
Four
Chapter Fifteen
Four years pass. They taste like cardboard.
I am different. I am a galaxy away from where I used to be. I live in the solar system, “Sooo moved on”.
Mr. X is just a memory now. Heck, I’m not even sure all of that even happened. My reality is that I went to law school, graduated, got a job as an associate at a large firm…..
After I graduated, I bought a townhouse with Cammie with the last of my mother’s insurance money. It’s a good thing I got the job too, because my bank account was dwindling down to empty. We drink a lot, eat out more, and spend all of our free time at the gym, working off the alcohol and restaurant food. Cammie is working in decorating, a practically extinct career nowadays, but somehow she managed to land a job with a company that decorates for the immensely wealthy. We both do well. I win most of my cases. I still have the ability to twist the truth, something that has come in handy in my field.
A month ago, I got a call from my old boss, Bernie. She wants me to come and work at her firm, says if I do well she’ll make me partner. Cammie and I drink on it all week. She’s wanted to move back to Florida for years. Cammie says that its time I face South Florida again. She says it’s where I belong. Texas is for friendly people, she tells me. I belong somewhere fast paced and rude. We decide to sell our townhouse and transplant our lives.
I have a boy, well, male friend—did I mention that? He is wonderful. He promises that we can make our long distance relationship work until he can be transferred to be with me. I believe him. He wants to marry me, he says so all the time. I believe him on that, too.
I pack my things into a U-Haul with the help of Turner, that’s my boyfriend, and we drive across three state lines listening to the best of the eighties. Cammie calls every thirty minutes to check on me. She is following in a few months, probably with three U-Hauls.
Turner massages my neck while I drive. He’s such a peach. When we arrive at my new condo, which I will not be sharing with Cammie, there are men waiting to carry my furniture into my new home. Turner hired them to help, so we wouldn’t have to do it ourselves. I wouldn’t have minded, but Turner hates to get his hands dirty. After the movers leave I wander from room to room admiring the very impressive view. From the south side windows I can see the ocean as it melts into the horizon and from the west, every rooftop in a mile radius. The condo is in Sunny Isles and it cost me more than my mother had made in her lifetime. I am a good defense attorney, I am an excellent liar. Life has turned out the way I always wanted it to. Except for…anyway…I love my condo. Turner and I will no doubt christen it tonight. Fun. Yay! He is very handsome in a conventional, clean-cut way. He is tall, olive skinned, and pretentious. He wears dress shirts all the time. No seriously—he does. He is also a lawyer, so we have lots and lots in common. Real Estate law—but still…
Oh and he hates basketball, just like me. Fabulous right?
I met him the day I took the Bar. He asked to borrow a pencil. What type of idiot comes to take the bar without a pencil? I think. When I handed it to him he just sat there and looked at me.
“What?” I said, not even trying to hide my impatience.
“I need your number, too.” He said it so ‘matter-of-factly’ that I gave it to him. I respected the gall.
I am happy.
After the movers leave, we order sushi, or I do, because Turner doesn’t eat ‘raw fish.’ I walk around my new condo in one of his t-shirts because I haven’t unpacked my things yet. We have sex. He takes me to the BMW dealership the next morning and buys me a car as a house warming present. Wowzer, right? At six o’ clock that evening, I drive him to the Ft. Lauderdale airport in my new, red sports car, and we kiss before he gets on the plane.
“This will work,” he tells me.
“How do you know?” I say, smoothing the lapels on his jacket.
“Because we’re going to get married.”
“We are?” I reply with mock surprise. He always says this, and I always say that.
“We are,” he affirms and then he gets on his knee and pulls a box out of his pocket.
I drive home, engaged. I look at the ring all the way there, as if it’s going to bite me. It’s a Tiffany’s iceberg—big and gaudy. It reminds me of something but I can’t remember what since I have soooo completely moved on.
In three months I have taken the Florida Bar Exam and passed. I start my new job as a Defense Attorney for Spinner and Associates. The secretary oooh’s and aah’s at my ring. She asks me about Turner, what he does, what he looks like. She has a slight gap between her two front teeth which I stare at as she sings the names of her two miniature cockapoo’s: Melody and Harmony. She tells me how her grandmother’s garden gnomes were stolen from her yard in broad daylight. Broad daylight! In Boca Raton nonetheless. I sympathize with the gnome situation and set up a play date for Melody, Harmony, and Pickles.
When I settle behind my desk for the first time, I feel accomplished. My things are unpacked at the condo, my drivers’ license has been changed back to Florida, I have groceries, and yesterday I visited my mother’s grave to fill her in on my engagement. This is my new life, I realize with mild surprise, and then I lower my head to my desk and cry because it is really my old life with hollow upgrades. I call Cammie to tell her this and to tell her that I made a big mistake moving back here. Big. Huge. She listens to me cry and then tells me that I’m stupid and she’ll be here in three weeks, to hold on and hold down, things will get better.
“Okay,” I say, but I don’t believe it—not even for a second.
But things do get better. At first, I adjust to my new routine anxiously. When I fled to Texas four years ago, I arrived practically empty-handed. I built a brand new life there, filling my cabinets with plates and glasses and a new Thomas Barbey print for the hall. There was nothing left to remind me of my adventures in Florida. Now, when I walk through my new home, I am putting on the same lamps and making tea in the same kettle that was part of my Texas life. It is confusing. But with all things new, there is a stage of uncomfortable acclamation. After a few weeks, Sunny Isles becomes my home, Spinner and Associates becomes my job, and the Publix at 42nd and Eisenhower becomes my grocery store. Cammie arrives with Pickles a week later as scheduled. She stays with me for a month before moving into her own place, which is a short thirty-minute drive away. Cammie doesn’t like Turner. Did I mention that already? She says that he is as predictable as a virgin’s period. I mean, she doesn’t hate him, but she could definitely do without him, as she reminds me on many occasions. I like Turner. I really, really do.
He visits me every two weeks or sooner if his schedule permits. He always brings Pickles a pair of his old socks to play with, which she rips apart in about two hours. I find his sock gifts slightly disturbing, especially when I start finding remnants of the soggy wool stuck in-between the couch cushions. I wish he would just buy rawhide instead. I make this suggestion one night as we are driving to a new restaurant on the south side. The humidity has mellowed and the air that is blowing in the open windows of the car is whipped and cool. It reminds me of a warm winter so long ago.
“They are chewy bones,” I hear myself say in a slightly bored and detached voice. “She likes them.”
“Okay, babe.” Turner places his hand on my knee and starts bopping his head to the music on the radio. He has such square taste in music. Square, square. I hum the Sponge Bob Square Pants theme song and look out the window. My body freezes up almost instantly, Turner looks at me in concern.
“What’s wrong babe?” he asks and slows down the car. Babe.
“Nothing, nothing,” I smile to hide the salt water in my eyes. “I just got a cramp in my leg—that’s all.” I pretend to rub it.
But that wasn’t all. While staring out of the window, the spastic blinking of colorful lights has caught my eyes. When I focus in on them my stomach clenches painfully.
Jaxson’s Ice Cream Parlor
It was like a door opened and all the memories I had hidden away came tumbling out. Pennies and kisses and pools and all the things I had condemned to Hell. Blast. The last thing I felt like doing tonight was entertaining a sulking heart.
“Why don’t we go there for dinner?” I say in a fake, cheerful voice, nodding towards Jaxson’s. Turner looks at me like the crazy woman I am.
“There?” he says. The disgust so obvious in his voice, I flinch.
“Sure. Don’t you ever get sick of all the frou-frou restaurants we go to? Let’s do something different. Come on…” I stick my bottom lip out a little because that usually works with getting my way. He sighs dramatically and turns into the plaza. I wonder what the hell I am doing and why I am such a sucker for punishment. I want to prove to myself that this is just another food providing establishment. There is no magic, there is no escalated romance, and most of all, I want to be able to be in a place that holds old memories and not have a mental breakdown. Hellloooo Jaxson’s.
It was much the same as it was over seven years ago, the only thing missing from Jaxson’s is Harlow—whose absence is noteworthy. I see his picture on the wall by the register and beneath it are the dates August 10th 1937 to March 17th 2006. I smile at him sadly as we are led to our table by a gum snapping teen. She doesn’t have class. I think ruefully.
“Nice place.” Turner’s sarcasm is not lost on me as I gaze at the unlucky and lucky table.
“Shut up. Stop behaving like a snob.”
He immediately softens up.
“Sorry sweetheart,” he says taking my hands in his. “I’ll be open minded, okay?”
Sweetheart. I nod surly and turn to studying the menu.
So far so good. At least I wasn’t shaking or crying or anything. Maybe I really was okay. We eat our dinner and order desert. I try not to think about the conversation that transpired under this roof years ago, but occasionally phrases like: “because, I cared more about knowing you than I did about winning another stupid game” pops into my head. I sweep them out quickly and look at my wonderful fiancée who has lowered his standards tonight to eat with me here. Blessed. I am so blessed.
When we leave, I stop at the penny machine and my heart rate accelerates. Maybe Turner will notice it, I think. Maybe he’ll do something cute and romantic with one of the messages. But, Turner walks right out and I trail after him, disappointed. I do not have sex with him that night.
A week later there is a knock on my office door.
Ms. Kaspen?” it’s the secretary. “Ms. Spinner would like to see you in her office.”
Crap! Bernie always sees through me. I compose myself, running my fingers across the front of my Dior skirt. I like to buy expensive things. If I wear something that costs more than a month’s salary, I amply feel that the rotting carcass of me is at least shrouded nicely.
I head over to her corner office, practicing my ‘life is great’ smile. I knock and she bellows for me to come in.
“I have both good and bad news for you,” she says when I enter. Same ol’ Bernie, she always has cut right to the chase. Gesturing for me to take a seat in one of her cow patterned chairs; I sit and cross my legs.
“Which would you like to hear first?” she asks. Bernie has silver in her hair now and a life partner named Felecia.
“The good,” I say biting the inside of my lip. Bernie’s bad news could be anything from “I am shutting down the firm to become a caterpillar farmer” to “I lost the number to my favorite deli.” I feel the need to mentally prepare.
“The good news,” she begins, “Is that I’m giving you, your first big case—and it’s a big one, Olivia.”
“Oh…kay,” I say feeling a bubble of excitement well in my stomach. I have the urge to jump up and ra ra sis boom ba!
“What’s the case?” I say calmly.
“Ever heard of a little pharmaceutical company called OPI-Gem?” she asks.
I shake my head “no”.
“They’re one of the baby pharms. Six months ago they released a new drug named ‘Prenavene’ into the market. Three months after its release date, twenty seven separate hospital reports were filed in which Prenavene was found in the systems of heart attack cases, two of those being under the age of thirty with no prior health problems. “There was a formal investigation and the Feds dug up a whole lotta poop on these people.”
“What kind of….poop?” I ask.
“During their testing period, blood clotting showed up in thirty-three percent of their human rats. Thirty-three percent Olivia! Do you know how big that is? It’s big like a two foot cock.”
I flinch. For a lesbian, she referenced male genitalia an awful lot.
“Big enough for the FDA to ground the product six months before OPI had a chance to market it.”
Bernie tosses me a gargantuan file.
“So how did they get themselves on the market without FDA approval?” I ask.
“Oh, they got their approval. They falsified data submitted in seeking FDA authorization to market Prenavene, which is a generic drug. They submitted its original version for the FDA tests.”
Ahhh—the old switcheroo trick.
“But why would OPI take the risk after what their independent testing found? They must have known that eventually the whole thing would come crashing down around them.”
“Most fraud in clinical trials is unlikely to ever be detected. Most cases, which do come to public attention, only do so because of extraordinary carelessness by the criminal physician.”
“Hmmmm,” I say.
“They’re not our case,” she says plucking the file from my fingers and replacing it with another one.
“The CEO and co-founder of the company had a massive heart attack and died about two weeks ago. All eyes then fell on his daughter, a twenty something spoiled brat, with an Ivy league education and too much signing power.”
“Her title?” I ask.
“Vice president of internal affairs. The DA is coming at her hard. They are building their case against her as we speak.”
“What do they have on her?” I flip through the file, my eyes scanning the boring law jargon.
“Her signature was on the release forms that were turned in to the FDA, which means that she oversaw the entire project. She knew they were testing the real drug and not Prenavene.” I blow out a low whistle in response to this news. The prosecution already had one hell of a case. I plop the file down on her desk.
“You’ve discovered the bad news without me having to tell you,” she says grimly. “She’s guilty as sin, admitted to the whole thing to us.” I snatch the file back up.
“We want to take a risk on this one,” she says bouncing a pen off of the wall. “This case is going to be all over the media, it will boost us to the next level of firm.”
“Sooo, the next question would be…why are you giving a case this size to the rookie?”
“Two reasons, my prodigal daughter. One, because I like you, and two, because the client asked for you specifically.”
“What? How?” I had covered many cases in Texas, but nothing that would garner any type of attention to me. I was a relatively unknown litigator.
“The client was shopping for you.”
“What’s her name?” I ask, not sure what all of this means.
“Smith, Johanna Smith.”
“I’ve never heard the name before.”
“They might have read about your cases in Texas or perhaps you came recommended by previous client of yours, either way, you’ve got it, kiddo. Don’t screw it up.”
I stumble to my office with the case file clutched to my chest. Was I ready for this? One good case, correction—one impossible case, if won, would boost me to partner…
I hole myself up in my office for the rest of the afternoon, re-reading the file again and again until the words become a blur and I have a raging headache. The secretary has left for the day, along with most everyone else. I nod a greeting to the cleaning lady on my way to the car and mentally plan out the conversation that I am going to have with Johanna Smith in the morning. Crap! The case was too big for me.
On my way home I call Turner to tell him the news and fill him in on the case. He sounds less than thrilled.
“I don’t know Olivia. The DA is going to come after this girl pretty hard. Are you prepared to lose your first big case?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I snap into the receiver.
“Look, I believe in you—I do, but this is a tough one. They have direct evidence tying her to the fraud, they have two witnesses willing to testify that she was involved. If you lose the case you can kiss partner goodbye.” What an ass. I tell him that my boss is calling on the other line. When I hang up, my eyes are pooling with tears.
“This is my break!” I scream at the car in front of me, “and I’m going to take it!”
At seven the next morning, I arrive at the office to find a sweet charcoal Jag in my parking spot. I find a space a few spots away and march through the doors wondering who had the audacity to park where it says Reserved Kaspen. The secretary greets me with a cup of coffee and then blocks the entrance to my office with her body.
“There’s something that I should tell you before you go in there,” she says as I take a sip from my pink mug.
“Did you poison my coffee?” I ask, peering at her over the rim.
“No, but—”
“Then you can tell me while I turn my computer on,” I reach past her and turn the doorknob.
There is a man in my office. I see his back first, as he is studying the numerous plaques and photographs I have on my wall. I shoot the secretary a look and she mouths “Johanna Smith’s husband” to me, before making a discreet exit. She has lipstick on her teeth.
“Mr. Smith,” I say confidently, though I am quite flustered at the surprise. My briefing with them wasn’t scheduled for another two hours.
He turns slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. I see his grey suit, the white collared shirt unbuttoned at the top, the golden tan, and I choke on my coffee.
“It’s Drake, actually,” he says in an amused voice.
I back away, trying to catch my breath and find myself pressed against the wall.
“Surprise,” he says, and then he laughs at the look on my face.
I shimmy away from the wall because I look like an assault victim and attempt to stroll casually to my desk. I collapse into a chair and stare at him glassy eyed.
“What the hell?” I say.
Aside from a different haircut and a few more eye crinkles, he looks exactly the same.
“I looked for you.”
“Did you now?”
“For a year after you left…”
“You must not have looked hard enough,” I quip, though I know it isn’t true. A year after I left Florida, Bernie called to tell me that a gentleman was calling the office inquiring about my current whereabouts. She said he had a British accent.
“I married her Olivia.”
“Who?”
“Leah.”
“I thought you were Johanna Smith’s husband?” My head is spinning.
“Leah’s her middle name, she’s always gone by Leah and she kept her last name. Johanna Leah Smith.”
The word “married” rings in my head repeatedly and I rub my temples at the ugliness of it. Caleb was married. Wedded. Bedded. A family man.
“Caleb,” I choke on his name. “Why are you here? Actually, don’t answer that—just get the fuck out.” I raise my voice and stand up.
“I wanted to see you, to speak to you before you saw me for the first time in front of everyone.”
I sit down again.
“You were the one looking for me? You were trying to find me to take Leah’s case?” He nods.
“No,” I say. “No way—ever. Never. No.”
Maybe she never told him about what I did. He just thinks I picked up and left. He still hasn’t got his memory back!
“Yes,” he says standing. “You’ll do it. She’s guilty and you’re the best liar I know.” Okay, maybe she did tell him.
I snort and look away.
“I have no motivation to win this case for you,” I smirk leaning back in my chair.
“You owe me,” he smiles. “I know you don’t have much of a conscience, but I think after what you put me through, twice, you might want to consider taking the case.”
“I would have told you the truth eventually,” I mumble. That’s if Ariel the pharmaceutical fraud hadn’t blackmailed me, but anyways….
“Would you have Olivia? Or, were you waiting for me to find out for myself when my memory came back?”
I look up at the ceiling and frown.
“Look, I’m not here to discuss the fact that you are lying, manipulative, and heartless.”
Ouch…
“I’m asking for a personal favor. I know how you feel about her. I know what she did but I need you to make sure she doesn’t go to prison.”
“I want her to go to prison.”
Caleb looks at me strangely, his eyes roam over my face then my hands.
“I don’t. She’s my wife. And, I’m asking that you take my feelings into consideration for once.”
