Chapter Thirty-Nine
Emily
I don’t see Hunter that night. Hear nothing from him, either, except a couple of texts checking in on me. Even answering those and lying about where I am fills me with a terrible sense of regret, but I know I can’t tell him the truth. Even though I’m technically buying this gun by the book, because Gary is apparently a boy scout when it comes to following the law — and, according to Harper, Mozart when it comes to cunnilingus — I can’t tell Hunter about it. If he knew that my situation with Jay was so drastic that I had to buy a gun, he’d wouldn’t just dump me, he probably wouldn’t let me within a mile of him or Charlie.
He can never know.
And Jay, I will never let him bother me again.
“Ms. Mitchell, are you ready?” Keith Doberman says, his words snapping out of my reverie and bringing me to the present, where I stand on the steps of the Ironwood Falls courthouse. Police officers file by, along with lawyers, city attorneys, and defendants — people like me, I guess, if things go wrong.
“I am.”
“You don’t look ready. You look like you didn’t sleep for shit. What the hell did you do last night? I thought I told you and Maggie to lie low.”
“I was up late doing a research paper,” I say. If it’s a lie good enough for Hunter, it’s good enough for my lawyer. Damn, am I really that much of a criminal? Lying to the man I love and to my lawyer? Next thing I know, I’ll be using my pharmacy knowledge to make meth or something, and everyone knows how that ends.
“Is there anyone who can vouch for that?”
“You mean, do I have someone that can corroborate my alibi? No, because I was home alone doing homework because I’m a college student and a pharmacy assistant, not some meth-making drug kingpin.”
“Meth? Who said anything about meth?”
“I was just… I was up late doing homework, that’s all.”
“Well, you need to get your shit together even if it means you have to chug espresso, got it? We’re about to step into a small, poorly ventilated room and be interviewed by one of the city’s attorneys, who will decide whether to press charges against you for that idiotic idea of punching Officer Abrams. The experience on its own is going to be deeply claustrophobic and markedly unpleasant. It will be even more so if you don’t have your head on straight or start babbling nonsense about making methamphetamine. Do you hear me?”
I nod, feeling my stomach churn. "I hear you. I'm sorry, I'm just nervous."
Keith sighs, his expression softening slightly. "Look, I get it. This is a stressful situation. But you need to pull yourself together. Take a deep breath, clear your head, and remember what we discussed. Short, concise answers. No elaborating unless asked. And for the love of God, no more meth talk."
"Right. Got it." I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.
“Good. Now, there’s a coffee cart just around the corner. Let’s go there, take a breathe, and then we’ll head inside, OK?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
After the brief detour, we climb the remaining steps and enter the courthouse. The air inside is stale and heavy, filled with tension and the faint scent of desperation. Keith leads me down a narrow hallway, our footsteps echoing off the tiled floor. We stop in front of a nondescript door, and he turns to face me.
"Last chance. Are you sure you’re ready?"
I take a deep breath and then I nod.
“I’m ready.”
* * * * *
In the courthouse's doorway, Kieth puts his hand on my shoulder.
“That went about as well as we could have asked for. You did good in there, you kept your answers straight, and I could tell they liked that.” He pauses, allowing me a moment to feel some sense of relief, before he clears his throat. “But, as your attorney, I’m obliged to give you my unvarnished opinion: you need to prepare yourself for the worst.”
“What do you mean? I thought you said it went well.”
“It did. You were great. But the facts haven’t changed, and I know the attorney they have on this case. Miles Tillerson. He’s a hardass, and he loves to make examples of people. If we were living a hundred and fifty years ago, he’d be sporting a sheriff’s star… at least for a day or two, until his constituents got sick of him hanging everyone and ran him out of town.”
“So what do I do now?”
Keith shrugs. “Keep doing what I’ve told you. Stay low, lie low, and don’t make any more dumb jokes about meth. Miles will take a few more days, go over the details of the case, and maybe they’ll decide not to move forward. But I always say: hope for the best, prepare for the worst.”
“And the worst in this case would be…?”
“Five years in jail, your permanent record and future career screwed, and your friends and family would probably never look at you the same again.” Nonchalantly, he checks his watch. “Now, I have another meeting that I have to get to, and then I have to brief Maggie. Take care, Emily, and call me if you have any questions related to the case.”
He leaves like it’s nothing.
Me, I stay planted in that entryway to the courthouse, my mind spinning like a tire stuck in mud.
I can't breathe. My chest feels tight, like someone's squeezing all the air out of my lungs. Five years in jail? My future ruined? I lean against the wall, trying to steady myself. This can't be happening. All because of one stupid mistake, one moment of anger. I imagine myself in a prison jumpsuit, locked away from everyone I love. No more school, no more dreams of being a pharmacist. No more Hunter, no more Charlie.
My legs feel weak, and I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the cold tile floor. Tears blur my vision, and the uncaring people strolling by become nothing more than swirling blobs. This could be the end of everything I've worked for, everything I care about. I want to scream, to run, to wake up from this nightmare.
After what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, I force myself to stand. I have to get out of here. The courthouse walls feel like they're closing in on me. I stumble toward the exit, pushing through the heavy doors and gulping in the fresh air outside.
As I start down the steps, my mind still reeling, I collide with someone.
"I'm so sorry," I mumble, looking up. My heart stops. It's Officer Abrams.
"No, I'm sorry," he says quickly, steadying me. His voice sounds so different. So calm, so reassuring. What happened to him? "Are you alright?"
Unable and unwanting to speak, I just nod. He gives me an awkward smile and continues up the steps. I watch him go, feeling dizzy with disbelief at the encounter.
What just happened?
Why is he so different?
I shake my head, trying to clear it, and continue down the steps. My car is parked a block away, and I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, right. It's all I can do to keep moving forward.
As I reach for my keys, I feel something in my purse. A piece of paper. Frowning, I pull it out. It's folded neatly, creased with precision. I don't remember putting anything in my pocket. Then it hits me — Abrams. He must have slipped it in when we bumped into each other.
My hands shake as I unfold the note. What could he possibly have to say to me? Is it a threat? A warning? My heart pounds as I read the sloppy, cramped handwriting:
Emily,
I know you're scared. It doesn’t have to be that way. We can fix this. Meet me at Reggie’s Diner in one hour. I can help you make this all go away.
I read it again and again. What does he mean? He can help? Is this some kind of trap? But why would he bother? He already has all the power in this situation.
My eyes drift back to the courthouse, squinting against the sun. Abrams is long gone, swallowed up by the imposing building. I should tell Keith about this. I should rip up the note and forget it ever happened.
Instead, I carefully fold it and slip it back into my purse.
This is what I have to do. If it really means I can get rid of these charges, I have to see this through. And, if it doesn’t, I’ll just walk away.
But I have to take the chance.
For the entire remaining hour, I drive, circling block after block close to the diner while my mind anxiously circles those questions — why is he doing this? What does he want from me? Should I call Hunter?
And all those questions I dismiss. I have to handle this on my own; Hunter would probably tell me to avoid this meeting, to stick to my lawyer’s advice, and I can’t do that.
This is my best chance.
Resolute and with the hour over, I drive and park at Reggie’s Diner. My door slams behind me with solid self-assurance, and I stride to the door with my chin level and my heart set. It’s just a meeting. Just coffee — which I desperately need anyway — and perhaps a chance to save my life.
I’m set until I cross the threshold of the diner and see who’s waiting for me.
Then my blood turns cold.
It’s Jay.