Lies
The following days were almost identical.
Dreary, endless, terrifying. As jury selection drew closer, I could sense Colton was under a lot of pressure.
We worked together on my case, those long sessions sometimes turning into interrogation sessions I couldn’t wait to be done with.
From early morning till late at night, we were the pacing prisoners of a working hell, each passing day reminding me that I had very little time left.
I was restless and scared, unable to sleep at night.
Some nights, Colton grabbed a bit of shut-eye in the guest bedroom, and then went home to change in the morning.
He’d cleared his entire schedule for me; I’d heard him explain things to someone over the phone, asking them to assign someone else to take over his open cases while he worked on mine.
He had people working with him, but except for an assistant who dropped off and picked up paperwork on occasion, I hadn’t met anyone in person.
He had an investigator he called every now and then, too, to send him on fact-finding missions.
And there were others—people he asked to draw up paperwork for him, prepare filings, and do research. He’d done well for himself.
Meanwhile, I was worried about Billy Ray.
He’d barely spoken a word, contenting himself with fixing our meals and watching TV.
His ears perked up at our conversations, though he pretended not to care.
He’d told me he’d asked the old pastor to look after the horses while he was gone, but I could tell he was growing restless.
On Thursday evening, after an endless day of answering questions to the best of my ability to share the truth, deflect, and keep my lying to a minimum, Colton called me into the living room and asked me to take a seat.
“Let’s look at this murder-weapon issue again,” he said, running his hand over his face as if trying to rip through the web of tiredness layered over his handsome features. “How do you think it ended up in your car?”
I breathed deeply, unwilling to let my frustration show.
“I told you. The garage door wouldn’t open when I got home.
I didn’t think . . . I just went inside, and then I forgot about it.
” I paused for a moment. “I believe someone messed with the door, to make me leave the car out on the driveway. To make it easy to plant the evidence.”
“So, the car was in the driveway the entire night, with the top down?”
I could’ve kicked myself for that. “Yes! I know, I got careless. It’s a rental . . . and there was nothing of value in it. I just didn’t think—”
“Easy there,” he said, smiling at me for encouragement. The smile didn’t touch his worried eyes. “I know you didn’t see this coming. No one would have.” He stood and paced the living room slowly, thoughtful. “You don’t have video surveillance here, do you?”
“No . . . but the neighbors might.”
He grabbed the legal pad and scribbled down a note. “Excellent.” He paced some more, staring at the tile floor. “Except for yours, no other prints were found on that bottle. Just some inconclusive partials they couldn’t identify.”
I sprang to my feet and walked over to him. “What if we can somehow get a hold of Claire Donovan’s prints, and prove those are her partials? Would that make a difference?”
He rubbed his chin, considering it. “They’d probably argue that partials aren’t conclusive. It would depend on how many fingers would match.”
“Why?”
“One partial print could potentially match more than one person. But if you have a series of partials coming from the same person’s different fingers, that probability is infinitesimal and becomes conclusive. It would be tough to argue, but all we need is the seed of reasonable doubt.”
Billy Ray, lying down on the couch and pretending to watch TV, clicked the remote until the sound was muted, but didn’t say anything. He was probably scared out of his mind for me.
“Why did they call you notorious?” I asked. Colton stared at me blankly, confused. “In the newspaper article, they referred to you as the notorious Colton Blake.”
Frowning, he shrugged and waved my question off with an irritated gesture. “I don’t know. Ask them.”
The undertones in his voice worried me. “What’s wrong?
” I asked. Billy Ray propped himself higher on the cushions.
“There’s something you’re not telling me, Colton.
” I waited, but he didn’t say anything. He clenched his fists and plunged them into his pockets.
“Let’s agree to not have this conversation again.
You need to tell me everything. Give it to me straight.
We have no time to dance around it like this every single time.
I can take it,” I said, propping my hands on my hips and standing in front of him, bracing myself. “So, tell me.”
He exhaled slowly, shaking his head, his eyes avoiding mine. “With so much evidence against you, I would’ve expected the DA to offer a deal.” He lifted his eyes and looked into mine. For the first time since he’d started working on my case, I could tell he was scared.
Feeling my throat starting to close, I swallowed and tried to breathe, but air refused to fill my lungs completely. “What does that mean?” I asked in a low, tense whisper. He hesitated for a moment. “Colton? What does it mean?”
“It means they’re very confident they’ll get a conviction for murder one.”
I frowned, still unsure why this was more relevant than me being found guilty of murder.
“Which could mean the death penalty,” he added quietly, his voice fraught.
“Oh my God . . .” I whispered, collapsing on the sofa just as Billy Ray got up. “I didn’t do this . . .” Tears choked me.
He crouched in front of the sofa and took my hands in his. “I won’t let it happen, all right? I promise, I won’t.”
Billy Ray drew closer and settled his hand on Colton’s shoulder.
“There comes a time when a man needs to go to Mexico with his sister and a rifle and an old truck, if you know what I mean,” Billy Ray said to Colton as if I weren’t even there.
“We don’t have to be here for this kind of mess. She’s been through enough.”
I rose on unsteady legs, and Colton rose with me. He let go of my hands and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. It felt good, familiar, like the smell of pancakes on a Sunday morning.
“I’m not going to Mexico, guys. I’m not going to run for the rest of my life. But I want to speak with the detective who investigated my case, Aaron Stanek.”
“No.” Colton shook his head vehemently. “Don’t give them more ammo to use at trial. Everything you say, remember? They can use it against you. I’ll go. I’ll take your concerns to him.”
“I have a right to know how he investigated other suspects! Has he even looked at Winston’s wife? She had a motive, Colton, while I didn’t. And I know it’s her partials on that bottle of eye drops.”
“Why?” he asked loudly, frustration getting to him. “How do you know that?”
“They have to be!” I said, trying to find a way out of the corner I’d backed myself into. “Who else could’ve done it?”
“You’re not telling me everything, Hattie.
” He walked away from me and stopped by the patio door, his gaze fixed on something far beyond the glass.
“You’re lying to me. You never trusted me .
. . not even ten years ago when you said you loved me.
And you don’t trust me now, when your life depends on it. ”
His words hit like a slap—sharp, raw, and deeply painful, even if I deserved it, or perhaps my guilt made it worse. I felt it in my chest, a sudden ache I hadn’t braced for.
My throat tightened, heat rising behind my eyes, but I forced it down. “Colton, I have to speak with the detective again. I’m going, and I think it’s best if you come with me.”
“Of course, I’ll come with you.” Frustrated, he raised his arms in the air, then let them fall in a gesture of defeat. “This is not the way it’s done. Why give police more self-incriminating statements? You don’t need this.”
His disapproval was thick and tangible, but I couldn’t let it sway me.
“Yes. Believe me, I do.”