Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
VON
I’m exhausted and it’s barely noon.
Caden arranges Noah’s bail while Isla and I wait outside.
“You were amazing,” she gushes.
“Yeah,” I say, before realizing that probably sounded arrogant. But I mean, I’m great in court. I’m not about to pretend otherwise.
“Your friend is all set up at the Thorn.”
“Thank you,” I say sincerely. I’m grateful that she got Grayson’s accommodations arranged so quickly.
“We can drive you over when we’re done if you’d like,” she offers.
“I’d appreciate that,” I say. I wonder if she has any other homemade baked goods at the bed and breakfast. That’s her thing, right? It seems crazy that only a week ago, Caden was helping her with her bakery booth for Magnolia Day, the town’s big end-of-summer festival. I’d barely spoken a handful of words to her in my entire life. Now, she’s giving me rides and I’m hoping for more of those cheddar biscuits.
Caden finishes up with the bondsman and we head to the parking lot. I knew Caden hadn’t gotten around to buying a car yet—he insists on riding his stupid motorcycle everywhere—but it hadn’t occurred to me we’d be taking Isla’s car.
It’s a bright red Kia. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a Kia. I squash myself into the backseat and wonder how people live like this. My brother should definitely get her a new car. Maybe a BMW. I get the sense Isla wouldn’t want anything too ostentatious.
Caden is grinning at me in the sideview mirror.
“Comfy?” he asks as Isla starts the car. I kick the back of his seat—just because he spent a few years doing hard labor on a vineyard in Argentina does not suddenly make him a man of the people. He cannot possibly enjoy being crammed into this tiny vehicle. He chuckles at my attitude then his expression falls.
“The judge doesn’t seem to like Noah,” he says.
“He doesn’t like me ,” I clarify. “And he strikes me as the type who doesn’t like defendants, period.”
I’ve certainly seen my fair share of those. Defending Noah just got a whole lot harder.
Good thing I live for a challenge.
When we reach the Thorn and Rose, Caden comes inside with us. He and Isla are casually holding hands, in a way that makes something in my chest pinch. Even though they couldn’t be from more different worlds, they fit. There’s an ease between them, a comfort. It’s something I know I’ll never have. I’m not easy around anyone.
The Thorn itself is a lovely blend of homey and elegant—it’s a huge white colonial with a wide front porch, complete with a swing and wicker furniture. We enter a large comfortable living room with a rustic blend of furniture and lots of plants that give the space a sense of a conservatory. There’s a staircase off to my left. Next to it is the doorway to the kitchen. I can’t help glancing hopefully in its direction. I didn’t eat breakfast this morning. I never eat before court.
“I was going to make some goat cheese and spring onion galettes,” Isla says with a knowing smile as my stomach gives a traitorous gurgle. “If you’re feeling peckish. They should be ready in about an hour. Grayson’s room is number 5—turn right at the top of the stairs.”
“Cool,” I say, determined not to reveal the way my mouth started watering at the words goat cheese . I climb the steps and find the room easily. I knock and a few seconds later, Grayson opens the door.
“Oh my fucking god,” he says, stepping back to let me inside. “What the hell did you get me into? Where are we? Is this like Deliverance?”
I bristle at his words, feeling an unusual impulse to defend my hometown.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say. “Magnolia Bay isn’t the backwoods of Kentucky. We’re still in civilization.”
Grayson sniffs. “If you say so.”
“I do. And what took you so long to get here?”’
He holds up one slender finger. Grayson is about four inches shorter than me, but his attitude can make him seem twice his petit size. “Don’t you dare. Do you know where I was when Harold called? Santorini . As in Greece. Do you know how many hot, gay men there are in Greece this time of year? Countless. I was sipping on ouzo and eating octopus and now I’m in some sort of Anne of Green Gables cosplay.”
He looks around at the room. It’s pleasant, and not what I was expecting. I thought it would be all florals, straight out of a Laura Ashley catalogue. Instead, it’s got pale green wallpaper, a queen bed with a pristine white comforter, a teak bureau and matching desk, and a window with a view of the bay.
“So,” Grayson says, plopping down on the bed and leaning back on his elbows. “What the hell have we gotten ourselves into here?”
I clench my jaw. “I don’t like this judge.”
“Yeah, talk about a dinosaur of the patriarchy. When he called you young lady, I thought you were about to shoot lasers out of your eyes.”
I give him a tight grin. “I wish.”
“And what’s with waiting to set the trial date? Is that how things work out here in the boondocks?”
I ignore the dig. “How should I know? I’ve never tried a case in Magnolia Bay. But I have a sneaking suspicion this trial is going to suffer from a lot of anomalies. And not ones that will tend to our benefit.”
“I’ll say. Did you see that look between him and the prosecutor?”
“I did,” I say darkly. That does not bode well.
Grayson tilts his head to examine me. “But seriously,” he says. “You sure you want to do this? Defend the man accused of murdering your mom?”
“He didn’t do it,” I say.
“It’s that simple?”
“It’s that simple.”
We’ve defended plenty of guilty men. I’ve gotten very good at seeing through their bullshit. Noah has no bullshit. He has no guile. Watching him walk into that courthouse today, seeing him embrace his grandfather, the panic on his face, the reality of the situation finally sinking in as half the damn town sat on the prosecution side of the aisle…he’s not that good an actor. He’s not a good actor, period. If I had any doubts before, they’re gone now.
Who would ever have thought it would come to this. Me defending Noah Patterson. I wonder what Mom would say. Probably something like she’s happy we’re finally on the same team. She always wanted me to get along better with Noah .
“But we need more proof,” I say. This nightmare isn’t going to end until the real killer is caught.
“You know what Harold always says,” Grayson warns me.
I know. “A defense lawyer’s worst nightmare is an innocent client.”
Because if you lose that case, it’s on you. You’ve condemned an innocent person as surely as the jury did.
“Exactly,” Grayson says. “You up for that? In this case?”
I glare at him. “You’re forgetting the second part of Harold’s saying.”
Grayson smirks. “But if you win, it’ll be the best goddamn win of your life.”
I nod. “And that’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to win.”
“Okay,” Grayson says, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s get started.”
The next morning, I’m making an americano before heading to Noah’s house when Daisy pads into the kitchen, wearing a pair of oversize sweatpants and a cotton camisole.
“Hey,” I say, then notice the circles under her eyes. “You okay?”
She shakes her head, her messy, strawberry-blonde bun quivering. “I’m so worried about Noah,” she says quietly.
“Why?” I ask, in my softest voice, which to be fair is not all that soft.
Daisy looks hurt and I realize I’ve asked the wrong question. Or asked it the wrong way. “That judge didn’t even want to give him bail. All those people, sitting on the prosecution side! Emily Cochran? I thought she was my friend.”
I file Emily away with Charlotte as a list of people to familiarize myself with. Maybe Noah can give me a list with names and descriptions. This will be my jury pool. I should get familiar with them .
Daisy is shaking her head. “Mom was like Noah’s own mother. I can’t believe Emily could think he killed her. I don’t know how anyone could believe that.”
“I hate to break it to you, Daisy, but people do kill their own mothers,” I say.
“Von!”
“I don’t think he’s guilty!” I protest, putting up my hands. Sometimes, I just can’t help pointing out facts. “I’m defending him, aren’t I?”
She sniffs and wipes her nose. “You’re not going to let them put him in jail for this, right?”
Looking into my little sister’s sky-blue eyes, I feel a sudden sense of trepidation. Harold’s words echo in my head. He’s right. An innocent client is a nightmare. Because if I don’t succeed…I let everyone down. Not just Mom. Not just Noah. I let my family down too. Because we all deserve justice.
“I’m late,” I say, pouring my coffee into a thermos. I won’t make promises I’m not sure I can keep. But my resolve is hardening with every passing minute.
“Von.” Daisy isn’t going to let me wriggle out of this.
I brush a strand of red-gold hair out of her eyes and tilt her chin up to meet my gaze. “I am very good at what I do,” I tell her slowly. “I am going to win this case. Noah won’t go to jail.”
I can see the relief spread across her face. She wraps her arms around my waist and buries her head in my shoulder. I feel another pinch of unease—I hope I haven’t just lied to her.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice muffled through my silk blouse. I give her a squeeze.
“Now I’ve got to go talk to my client.”
Daisy releases me and gives me watery smile. “Tell him I say hi.”
“Sure.”
As I head out to the car where Alex waits, my phone buzzes with a text from Grayson .
Did you see this??
Attached is a news article about the arraignment in the Magnolia Bee , the local paper.
Could Love Be In The Air? the headline blares over a picture of Daisy reaching out to take Noah’s hand. The moment was so brief and her movement so quick I couldn’t stop it. And beneath the headline, reads: Daisy Everton Shows Support for Patterson Despite Overwhelming Evidence.
I glance at the byline—Everly Harris. Never heard of her. And what the fuck is she talking about? Overwhelming evidence? There’s one fingerprint. The rest of their case appears to be extremely circumstantial, from what that prosecutor said. Those love letters were unsigned. Lots of people know about that break in the hedge.
And love in the air? Goddammit. We do not need this turning into even more tabloid fodder.
This Everly Harris could be a thorn in our side. The Times has an article too, Grayson texts. They don’t mention Daisy. The Post does though
Let’s focus on the interviews today , I write back, not wanting to imagine what insane headline the New York Post is running with. That rag thrives on this kind of thing. Are you on your way over? I want you to talk to Mr. Patterson. Get his statement. We need to start building a timeline. I’ll talk to Noah.
Just waiting for my Uber to get here.
I’ve never been to Noah’s house before. I haven’t been to this side of Magnolia Bay at all. Alex drives down narrow streets lined with simple homes painted in pastel colors, fronted with tiny patches of lawn. An older woman with an iron gray bob and oversize glasses is taking laundry down off a line—I vaguely remember her from the courtroom yesterday. She watches the car pass with a stern, almost discerning, expression. Two kids shoot baskets in a driveway covered in chalk drawings. A wizened man in a wheelchair sits on a tiny porch, chatting with a guy about my age who also looks familiar. The younger man is showing the older one something on his phone.
The first thing I see as we reach Noah’s house are the news vans. They sit bumper to bumper, reporters and TV anchors and cameramen all clustered around, talking to each other or on their phones, waiting for anything newsworthy that might break. They perk up in unison upon my arrival.
Noah’s house is on the bay side of the street. I knew there were smaller homes on the opposite side of the water from the Way, but you can’t really see them from our house, and I’ve certainly never been to one. Instead of manicured lawns, there are swaths of wild, untamed woods that encroach the water’s edge. The house is gray-shingled, with a red door and white shutters, both in need of a paint job. We lurch down the poorly paved drive and I see a sloping backyard dotted with spruce trees, birch, and sugar maples leading down to a dock. Tufts of grass grow wildly around a series of paving stones leading up to the front door.
The reporters surge across the street toward my car as soon as we’re parked.
“Great,” I grumble. I see a reporter I know from the Times. The news vans are all from local news stations. At least this hasn’t gone national—yet. As soon as Alex opens the door for me, I’m surrounded.
“Siobhan!” A young woman with mousy brown hair and tortoiseshell glasses rushes up to shove her phone in my face. “Everly Harris, the Magnolia Bee. Do you really think Noah is innocent?”
So this is the thorn in our side. I ignore her.
“What’s your plan of defense?” another reporter asks.
“Von! Did Noah kill your mother?”
“Do you think he can get a fair trial?”
“Is Noah dating your sister?” That’s Everly again and my eyes bore into hers as she takes a quick step back. I won’t be baited by her. But I’ll need to squash this rumor before it grows roots. Which means a press conference. I’ll talk to Al about that.
“No comment,” I say, as another camera is shoved in my face.
“Von! Leslie Kahn, Channel Five News. Any comment on your defense strategy?”
I turn away from them all and head to the front door, which opens right as I reach it.
“Come on in,” Mr. Patterson says, gesturing for me to hurry.
I slip inside and he closes the door, leaning against it and letting out a deep exhale.
“They’ve been out there all morning,” he says. “What do they want from us?”
“A story,” I say. “Don’t talk to them.”
Mr. Patterson looks affronted. “Of course not.” He glances out the long narrow window beside the door. “I’ve known Everly since she was a teenager. I saw that article she wrote in the Bee . She writes as if it’s obvious Noah is a murderer! She thinks he’s having some sort of relationship with Daisy! What’s wrong with everyone? Has the world gone mad? Daisy is like a little sister to Noah. How could Everly write such things?”
“That’s her job, Mr. Patterson,” I say. I’m about to ask where Noah is when he takes my hand in both of his and squeezes. His palms are large and warm, his expression fiercely hopeful.
“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for getting him home to me. Please thank your father for posting his bail.” He blinks and shakes his head. “Such a large sum…Noah says they don’t usually set bail that high.”
“They don’t,” I agree. “I’ll pass your thanks along but now, I need to speak to my client.”
He releases me. “Of course. He’s down on the dock. Needed some space. I’ll go get him.”
“Thank you,” I say, and Mr. Patterson hurries off toward the back of the house. I stand awkwardly in the cramped front hall. Coats hang on pegs and boots are lined up on a rack beneath them. To my right is a small kitchen. To my left, a shorter hallway.
A good lawyer gathers as much information as possible. I walk down the shorter hall, noting the family photos on the walls, Noah at various ages: an awkward elementary school picture, a photo of him and Caden at the local playground when they were probably around eight years old, Noah in the back row of a posed photo with his high school soccer team. I remember Mom used to go to his games. There’s one of Noah in his deputy uniform and another of him and Mr. Patterson fishing together in a little boat, Noah beaming beneath a floppy hat.
There’s an open door halfway down the hall. I stop and peek inside.
I know immediately this is Noah’s room. It has the feel of a young boy’s bedroom being relived in by the grown man. There’s a lamp with a baseball patterned shade on the nightstand, along with a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude . I didn’t take Noah for a reader—and if I did, I would have pegged him as more of a Lee Childs kind of guy. A small bookshelf shows a wide range of literature, from Barbara Kingsolver to Ta-Nehisi Coates to Jon Krakauer. There are also some children’s book— The Hobbit, Winnie the Pooh, and a large collection of Roald Dahl.
Two windows look out over the front yard, where the reporters have all gone back to hang out by their vans. The full-size bed is covered by a maroon duvet. I wonder if his feet stick out the end when he sleeps—he’s almost as tall as Caden, over six feet.
I open the door to his closet and find it very orderly. I don’t know why this surprises me. Maybe because I assume all men are slobs unless they have someone else cleaning up for them. That’s certainly been the case with every man I’ve ever dated. Noah seems fastidious. I wonder if that’s from being a cop or from living in such small quarters. Maybe both.
There are several framed photographs on the dresser, and one catches my eye. A man, woman, and child are at the beach—the boy is maybe three years old. Chubby cheeks, delighted smile, lifting up a plastic shovel filled with sand. The woman has blonde curly hair tied back with a scarf, her arms outstretched to keep the boy upright, her expression laughing. The man looks startingly like Noah—the same shaggy hair, same slope of the nose. I bet his eyes are even the same deep, mossy brown. He’s squinting in the sun, his arm around the woman, and he smiles at the camera with Noah’s crooked smile.
I don’t remember Noah’s parents. I was barely three years old when they died. I have a vague memory of my parents attending the funeral, leaving the house dressed in black. Mom looking really sad. Telling me Noah lost his mommy. I remember not understanding what that meant—lost her where?
My throat tightens and I turn away from the picture.
I go back to the nightstand and pick up One Hundred Years of Solitude , flipping through it, curious as to what part he’s at. I like this book too. Amaranta was always my favorite. Holding grudges and knitting her own funeral shroud, like a boss. No one in her family understood her. She wasn’t nice either.
I hear a door open at the back of the house and put the book down, hurrying to the front hall.
“He’s on the deck,” Mr. Patterson says as he approaches. “I can make some coffee.”
I hold up my thermos. “I have coffee.”
He looks crestfallen and I realize I’ve insulted him. “But I finished it on the drive,” I lie lamely. “So I’d love another cup.”
I sound like an idiot, but he perks up. “No problem,” he says. “The deck is just down that way.” He points down the main hall.
I walk through a small living room that takes up the back of the house. A worn couch fronts a low coffee table, and a well-used armchair sits by a dormant fireplace. The deck is past a set of sliding glass doors that overlook the backyard, down to the dock. I find Noah standing at the railing and staring out across the bay, a coffee mug in his hand, his shaggy hair damp and tousled. He wears a tight-fitting white tee and a pair of faded jeans. His feet are bare. He looks…vulnerable. The morning sun casts shadows over the planes of his face, highlighting his cheekbones and the sharp, straight line of his nose.
I feel an odd lurch in the pit of my stomach. I’ve mostly seen him in his uniform, or in his bargain basement suits. And I guess I still think of him as a lanky teen. How long has he had those biceps? I notice how the white fabric stretches across his chest. When did Noah start working out?
He senses my presence and turns. Instantly, the vulnerability vanishes. His face tenses, like he’s bracing himself. I bring my focus back to the present and away from Noah’s muscles.
“Hey,” he says.
“Good morning,” I reply.
He chuckles but there’s an edge to it. “You don’t need to be so formal, Von.”
“I’m being professional.”
He gestures out at the surrounding woods. “I don’t think the spruces care one way or the other.”
There are two sturdy chairs that look homemade, with a small table between them. I place my briefcase and thermos on the table and pull out a legal pad.
Suddenly, Noah lets out a sharp whistle and I jump.
“What the—” But before I can even finish, I hear the dull thud of paws and a copper-colored lab bounds across the deck and leaps on me.
“Oh,” I say as she licks my hand and woofs. “Hi.” I pat her head. “You must be Penny.” Her fur is shockingly soft and warmed by the sun. She grins up at me, her tongue lolling out. Then she shoves her face in my crotch. “Whoa,” I say, nearly falling over as Noah chuckles.
“Penny, come,” he says, almost lazily. She instantly turns and plops herself by his side. He leans back against the railing, coffee mug in hand, looking pleased with himself.
I look down and realize Penny has left muddy paw prints on my skirt. I glare at Noah with narrowed eyes.
“You did that on purpose,” I say.
He shrugs. “I have very few things that entertain me right now. I’ve never seen you around animals.”
“So that was some sort of test?”
“Just curious.”
“This is Prada ,” I say, gesturing to my skirt now covered in paw prints.
“Like you don’t have a hundred other Prada skirts in your wardrobe.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Penny likes you,” Noah says, and I try not to look too pleased as she cocks her head and gives me a dopey smile. We could never have pets when we were kids. Mom was allergic and Dad…Dad didn’t like animals in the house. But I always wanted a puppy. Cliché, I know.
“She has better manners than you,” I say dryly. “Now, sit down and stop being a dickhead.”
“Is that how you talk to all your clients?” Noah says.
“Only the ones who are dickheads.”
He chuckles again but there’s no real humor in it. As he sits in the chair opposite me, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, I realize the muscles in his forearms are threaded with tension. He’s trying his best to put on a brave face, but it melts into fear as he looks at me. “So,” he says quietly, as Penny settles at his feet, “what’s the plan?”
His mossy brown eyes are ardent and pleading and I notice there are flecks of gold in them. There’s a small scar near his left eyebrow. A pale freckle just under his right ear. I’ve never really looked at his face for this long. Beneath the strong line of his jaw and the angular set of his brow, I can see a flash of the kid I grew up with. He’s really scared.
I feel a sudden urge to say something comforting. Encouraging.
Noah’s hand has moved to rest on the table. I hesitate, then reach out and give it a pat, like I did to Penny.
He frowns. “Uh, what was that?”
I flush. “I’m comforting you.”
He gives me a side eye. “Since when you do comfort anyone?”
“Since now.”
“Well, stop. You’re freaking me out.”
“Fine, forget it.” I shouldn’t have to comfort Noah anyway. He’s a grown up. Who cares if he looks all muscly and vulnerable at the same time? There’s work to be done. Focus on the task at hand.
“The plan,” I say, “is that you tell me what happened that morning. Every single minute detail. Do not leave anything out, even if it seems mundane. Do you understand?”
For the first time, I see a flash of unease in Noah’s eyes that immediately sets me on edge. He shifts in his seat. His gaze flits to the water and then to my phone.
I feel that prickle I’ve felt a hundred times before when interviewing a client.
There’s something about that morning that Noah does not want to tell me.