Chapter 22 Brayden #2
“Reverend Montgomery,” he wheezes, pushing his crooked glasses up his nose. “Terribly sorry I’m late. Traffic from Millerville was a nightmare.”
This has to be Harold, the church’s lawyer—the one who files bake sale permits and mediates disputes over who gets the good folding tables. Wonderful.
“I came as soon as I got your message,” he continues. “This is highly unusual. Cecelia has always been such a good girl.”
Kincaid’s smile spreads, all polished teeth and concealed malice. “Mr. Pemberton, always a pleasure. I believe we last saw each other at the church fundraiser?”
Harold’s complexion drains a shade, his gaze darting between Kincaid and the Reverend as though he’s stumbled into a battlefield without armor.
“You’ll be representing Ms. Montgomery?” Kincaid asks, his voice oozing courtesy that feels anything but.
Harold swallows and grips his briefcase tighter. “Yes, well, that’s why I’m here. To assist the Reverend’s daughter in this…misunderstanding.”
A snort escapes me before I can stop it. This man? This trembling, overworked paper-pusher? He looks ready to faint if someone so much as raises an eyebrow. The way he’s visibly caving under Kincaid’s stare tells me exactly how this would play out: badly.
“Harold,” the Reverend says, “perhaps we should discuss our strategy in private.”
“Excellent idea,” Kincaid interjects smoothly.
“Sheriff Miller is expecting me.” He turns to leave, then pauses, glancing back at me with cold calculation.
“Mr. Cole, a word of advice—your presence here isn't helping Ms. Montgomery's situation. People might get the wrong impression about the company she keeps.”
“The wrong impression? Like the one where your son is anything but a predatory piece of shit?”
Kincaid's smile freezes. “Slander is a serious offense.”
“It's not slander if it's true,” I spit back.
Kincaid's smirk cuts me deeper than any knife could as he turns away, disappearing down the hallway toward Sheriff Miller's office. I watch him go, imagining all the ways I could wipe that self-satisfied look off his face. None of them would help Cece right now.
I turn my attention back to the Reverend and his lawyer, who's already pulling papers from his briefcase with trembling hands.
“Now, as I understand it,” Harold says, adjusting his glasses nervously, “we're dealing with a simple assault charge. I primarily handle church matters, but I did take a criminal law course back in '82, so I'm confident we can—”
“A course in '82?” I interrupt, unable to hide my disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Harold blinks at me like I've just spoken in tongues. “I assure you, Mr.—”
“Cole. Brayden Cole.”
“Yes, Mr. Cole. I assure you that while criminal defense isn't my specialty, I've handled minor disputes for church members many times over the years.”
“Minor disputes?” I lean forward, watching him shrink back. “This isn't a parking ticket or a noise complaint. This is Ethan Kincaid and his father using their influence to frame Cece for something she didn't do.”
Harold's face pales further, sweat beading along his receding hairline. “Well, I'm sure once we explain the situation, the charges will be dropped.”
The words die on Harold's lips as his gaze shifts to something behind me.
I turn to see my aunt striding through the station door with Joe Mendez right behind her.
My aunt's face is set in that determined expression I've seen a thousand times—the one that means someone's about to get their ass handed to them.
Joe looks every inch the high-powered attorney in his tailored charcoal suit, carrying a sleek leather briefcase that probably cost more than Harold's entire outfit.
“Thank Christ,” I mutter, relief washing through me.
Harold’s mouth opens and shuts in rapid succession, useless and soundless, while Joe closes in.
She gives me a quick hug before turning to the Reverend with a curt nod. “Thomas.”
The Reverend looks between Joe and my aunt, confusion evident on his face. “What are you doing here?”
“Same as you,” she replies. “Making sure Cece gets proper representation.”
I step forward, placing my hand on Harold's shoulder. “Harold, I appreciate you coming down on such short notice, but we won't be needing your services after all.”
Harold looks almost relieved as he clutches his briefcase tighter. “Well, I...that is...if the Reverend agrees...”
“The Reverend doesn't have a say in this. You can leave. Joe has it from here.”
Harold doesn't even hesitate. He practically melts with relief, shoving papers back into his briefcase.
“Yes, well, if that's settled then...” he mumbles, already backing toward the exit. “I'll just...I have a property easement to review anyway. Good luck, Reverend.” And with that, he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.
The Reverend stares at the empty space where his attorney stood seconds ago, his mouth slightly open. “Harold?” he calls weakly, but the man is already halfway across the parking lot, moving faster than I would have thought possible for someone so out of shape.
“Well, that was easy,” I mutter, turning back to Joe. “Guess he wasn't too invested in his criminal law comeback tour.”
The Reverend's face flushes an alarming shade of red as his gaze shifts from the door to Joe. “Now wait just a minute. I can't afford—”
“I already told you,” I cut him off, “I'm paying. And before you start with the pride bullshit again, this isn't about you. It's about getting Cece out of that cell as fast as possible.”
Joe steps forward, extending his hand to the Reverend. “Joseph Mendez, Reverend Montgomery. I’ve handled several cases against families such as the Kincaids. I know exactly how they operate.”
The Reverend hesitates, staring at Joe’s hand as though it might strike him.
Joe lets it fall and shifts his attention to me. “All right. I’m going to check in and get back to where they’re holding her. With any luck, I can have this wrapped up before dinner.”
He heads for the front desk, speaking to the sergeant in a voice so calm it borders on soothing.
The sergeant barely glances up as he pushes a clipboard across the counter.
Joe signs, nods once, and disappears through the door at the back.
The lock clicks into place behind him, sealing him into whatever bureaucratic labyrinth exists beyond that wall.
I stay where I am, elbows on my knees, eyes fixed on the scuffed tile. Reverend Montgomery sits beside me, hands clasped tight, lips moving in quiet prayer that never seems to end. The clock above the desk ticks on, each second pounding through the waiting room with unnerving precision.
The waiting is the worst part. The whole world feels suspended, caught in a breath it refuses to release.