Chapter fifteen #2
My law course has been deferred until at least after summer due to mental duress.
A suicidal law student is a liability they don’t want.
As I look at myself, my nerves rise. My blonde hair is scraped back against my scalp and pulled high into a ponytail which curls off in all directions down my back.
That’s what happens when I wash but don’t dry my locks—they take on life on their own.
The simple black leggings teamed with a white t-shirt I’m wearing are demure, and the material covers my overly wide hips.
With no make-up, I look a simple, plain Jane, easily forgotten.
Once I’ve slid my feet into my slippers, I make my way to Damon’s office.
The door is closed when I arrive, but I can hear his deep voice talking to someone on the other side.
He laughs, and my heart lifts. It’s a joy to hear him happy for a change.
His light moments are few and fleeting, but when they happen, my whole day gets better, even if I’m only observing.
Watching him with Annie is my favorite pastime, especially when he doesn’t know I am looking.
I wait for a few minutes for him to stop talking before knocking on the door gently.
“Come in,” he calls, and I push the heavy wood open.
Damon is sitting behind his black gloss desk—it is void of any clutter.
The only items on the surface are his laptop and a large brown sealed envelope which is turned face-down.
As I walk into the room and move to sit on the chair opposite him, his fern-green eyes never leave my face.
“Thank you for coming,” he says as I lower myself onto the black leather chair.
“That’s okay, what did you want to see me about?” I try to keep my tone calm, though inside I am in turmoil. The unknown reality of what he is going to say is frightening.
“I wanted to talk to you about your future, and your plans now that a couple of weeks have passed since the incident.”
“Incident?” I snap. “You mean when someone tried to kill me.”
“There has been no substantial proof that anyone else was in your apartment, Emma,” he rebukes bluntly.
"What about the blood from the bastard I cut?”
“The only blood found at the scene was yours in the bathroom,” he tells me. “There was no visible sign of any altercation. The front door was closed, and you were found with injuries that could have been self-inflicted.
The barbiturates found in your system are a common drug prescribed by doctors for sleeping disorders.
The medication is one used often by those wishing to end their life,“ he summarizes.
“As a result, the police have decided not to pursue that line of inquiry. They have accepted the doctor’s report.”
He lifts an eyebrow and cocks his head to one side.
His expression is goading me to argue, and I bite.
“I did not attempt to take my life!” I shriek and slam my hands down on his desk.
His laptop vibrates with the blow. He leans back on his chair and undoes two buttons on his shirt at his throat.
The bastard is completely unflustered by my outburst.
“I don’t give a fuck what the doctor said, my injuries were not by my own hand.”
“Emma, why would an unknown intruder try to kill you and make it look like a suicide? It seems like a lot of work for someone who didn’t seem to take anything.”
He lifts a hand and runs it through his short dark hair.
His muscles flex beneath the white shirt he’s wearing.
It strikes me as odd that he’s dressed for a meeting at this time on a Sunday evening.
“Tell me the truth, please. Did you know your attacker?”
His question surprises me, and I blink at him. “You believe me?” I whisper, as my body relaxes.
“Of course I do,” he says, his voice softening. “But I need to understand why someone would want you dead, and I’m wondering if it has something to do with this.” He lifts the brown envelope from his desk and throws it across the table. It lands squarely in front of me. “Turn it over.”
I lift the sealed envelope and flip it over. In the top left corner is a small square label with the name Kathryn Haining typed in simple black font. Damon watches my every move, assessing my reaction to the item in my hands. The sight of my real name is unsettling.
“Where did you get this?” I ask him, lifting my eyes to his.
“I don’t know what is in it,” he tells me.
“I was hoping you would volunteer the information before I looked for myself. But my contacts at the office have assured me that this name is linked to you, and according to them, Kathryn Haining died almost a decade ago. Her name is also connected with a case I am working on.
I need to understand how this is all intertwined.”
My mind whirls. Has he connected the dots? Does he realize that I am Kathryn or think that I merely have knowledge of her? I close my eyes, trying to take a moment to figure out how to deal with the situation. I have no fucking idea.
“Emma, I will find out the truth,” he says, firmly bringing my attention back to him. “But I would much rather that the information came from you. I was under the impression there was honesty between us. Do you work for Samson Moreno?”
“What?” I snarl, and my eyes fly open. “I would never work for that bastard. How dare you!”
His whole body sags at my reaction, and the anxious expression which had flitted over his features briefly disappears. His question, although infuriating, offers me a fraction of relief that he cannot be working with Moreno, if he is concerned that I could be.
“Good,” he says, almost to himself. “So how do you know him?”
Trying to deny the truth is pointless—if I don’t tell him, he will find out for himself.
“He killed my parents.” Damon listens but doesn’t react.
The man in front of me is used to allowing people to speak and showing no emotion.
“And it was my testimony that put Moreno behind bars. I am Kathryn Haining.”