Chapter Ten Nic
Chapter Ten
Nic
Martin’s already at the bar as I push through Hendricks’ front door, a glass of whiskey resting in front of him. He’s still in his EMT uniform, fresh off a shift saving lives.
I, on the other hand, smell like an onion.
“I need a drink,” I say by way of greeting.
Hendricks is downtown, close to our catering space and walkable to my apartment. In the height of the summer, it’s a total tourist trap, filled with college kids from Philly and NYC who stuff eight, ten, twelve people into the houses they rent, and I avoid it at all costs.
Right now, though, it’s not too bad. The college kids are back at school, thank god, so even though the town is packed with tourists, it’s mostly families who don’t venture out to bars late at night.
It’s quiet. The way I like it.
Martin tips his glass toward me. “Whiskey?”
“Please.”
He signals to the bartender, and I settle onto the stool next to him.
“Any word?” he asks.
Sara is still down at the station. My mom and Barry headed there two hours ago, and I spent the time between frantically googling law firms again to no avail.
I shake my head. “Nothing yet. I still can’t fucking believe this. They’ve got to realize they have the wrong person.”
“I hate to ask but…did you know about Sara’s connection to George?” Off my questioning look, Martin adds, “My source down at the station told me about it. I’m sorry to hear it, man.”
“Yeah. It’s messed up. And no. I didn’t know. Honestly, I don’t think Sara did either. She seemed shocked. I get it’d be a massive coincidence, but you know how she is. Could you really see her plotting to kill someone for years? She doesn’t have that sort of patience.”
“This is true,” Martin says.
“Also,” I say, studying the labels on the bottles behind the bar, “not to change the subject, but were you aware that Adam Kozel is the detective on this case?”
He chokes on a mouthful of his drink, spluttering into the crook of his elbow. “Yeah,” he says once recovered. “I’d heard that.”
“And you didn’t bother to let me know?”
He winces. “I thought maybe it wasn’t the right time to bring it up?”
The right time. Sure. What a chickenshit.
“So instead, you let me be blindsided.”
He winces. “I’m sorry. I should have given you a heads-up.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, you should have. He’s still such a tool.”
The bartender sets a glass in front of me, and I slug a huge sip of whiskey. It hits the back of my throat, burning.
“From what I hear, Kozel is actually a pretty decent guy these days,” the traitor next to me says. “It might not be the worst thing, having him on Sara’s case. Personal issues aside.”
“No one asked you.”
“I’m just saying. I doubt he thinks your sister is a murderer. He knew her.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” I say gloomily. “You weren’t there.”
“How’d he look anyway? Still hot?”
I roll my eyes. “He looked fine.”
I don’t add how fit he looked—way fitter than me. I wonder if Harriet’s seen him. Not that I care, especially given our interaction at the party.
“Harriet,” Martin says, like he’s reading my mind.
My heart skips. “What?”
“Harriet,” he says, tilting his chin. “Just walked into the bar.”
It’s like the start of a very bad joke.
“The devil herself,” I mutter.
“She’s with two people,” Martin says, taking a sip of his drink. “Oh! Steven Martinez and Maggie Sutherland. I heard Steven was living down in Philly with some guy for a while, but they broke up a few months ago so he moved back. According to my sources, he’s single.”
I eye him. He’s certainly well-versed on Steven’s relationship status.
“Do you want to ask them to join us?” I say warily.
His eyes light up.
“If you do,” he says.
“Sounds fantastic,” I say with clear sarcasm. Yes, what I want to do right now is hang out with Harriet fucking Baker, who didn’t remember sleeping with me and whose mother accused my sister of murder.
Martin ignores my tone. “Great,” he says with a smile. He hops off his stool and walks to them. He and Steven exchange a few words, Steven nodding keenly.
Then Martin points at me. Harriet’s eyes find mine, and her face darkens. I swallow, forcing myself to hold her gaze until she looks away.
When Martin and Steven head my way, she trails after them.
Great. I’m tempted to start banging my head against the bar top but instead take a long sip of whiskey.
Martin slides back onto his stool, pulling out another for Steven.
“Hey, Nic,” Steven says as he sits. “Fancy seeing you two here. I’d say it’s been a while, but it really hasn’t, has it? You know, you were amazing that day, Martin.”
Martin grins modestly. “Thanks. Just doing my job.”
Maggie and Harriet have stopped in the middle of the room and are clearly arguing about something. Me, no doubt.
I drain my drink and push the glass away. Normally, I’m more than happy to be Martin’s wingman, but I’m too tired and too worried about Sara.
I lean over to whisper in Martin’s ear. “I’m gonna take off.”
Before he can respond, Maggie and Harriet arrive to us. Or, to be precise, Maggie arrives and Harriet sort of…hides. Behind her. Like a giant baby.
God, that woman.
We catch eyes, and she narrows hers.
I roll my own.
Maggie’s caught in the crossfire. After a second, she sighs loudly.
“Hi. I’m Maggie Sutherland,” she says, holding out her hand.
Yeah, no shit. Jesus, what is up with Harriet and her friends? I’ve seen Maggie around the island over the years—we’ve never really talked, but she should still recognize me.
“You’re Nic, right?” she continues.
I blink with surprise. “Yeah. Nic Allbright.”
“It’s been a while, but I think we were in the same geometry class sophomore year.”
I nod, heart warming to her.
“Mr. Patterson,” she adds. “With the bow ties?”
I let out a laugh, my first in days. “I forgot about those bow ties.”
She grins. “And you remember—” She turns as Harriet ducks behind her back. “Harriet. Hi, Harriet. What the hell are you doing?”
“I’d say she’s hiding,” I say a little nastily. I can’t help it. She’s acting like I’m diseased.
Harriet draws herself upright and plonks her fists onto her hips.
“I’m not hiding. I thought I recognized someone. Over there. Across the bar.” She makes a vague gesture toward the opposite end of the room.
“Right,” I say, making clear I very much do not believe her. “Sure.”
She glowers at me.
Maggie raises a brow. “Okay. On that note, I need a drink. Har, you want anything?”
“Whiskey. Neat.”
I’m impressed, even though I’d never say it.
“You and your whiskey,” Maggie says with a teasing grin. “I remember when you started drinking it because you thought people would take you more seriously as a journalist.”
Harriet’s face blooms red.
“You?”
It takes me a second to realize Maggie’s talking to me.
“I…” I drag my eyes from Harriet’s face to my empty glass.
Do I really want to go home and sit in silence, panicking about Sara’s legal representation? Waiting on news that could very well be bad?
Not particularly.
“Yeah, okay,” I say. “Thanks. Glenlivet on the rocks.”
With Maggie busy, Harriet is finally forced to speak directly to me. “You’re not going to ask if one of us wants your chair? Wouldn’t that be the gentlemanly thing to do?”
I look over my shoulder, pretending like I don’t know who she’s addressing. When I turn back, a scowl has settled on her face.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I press a hand on my chest. “Were you talking to me? I didn’t realize you were acknowledging my existence.”
She steps closer, and suddenly the air between us is crackling with old, familiar tension. “God, you’re annoying. Obviously, I was talking to you.”
“Wouldn’t asking if you want my chair be considered, I don’t know—misogynistic?”
She gives me a withering look. “No. It would be considered polite.”
I stand. “Do you want to sit?”
“No, I’m good,” she says with a smile.
Right. Of course she is. She’s so annoying. So combative.
Which, to be fair, is sort of a turn-on.
Maggie leans back against the bar as she waits on our drinks. “Okay, so Kozel,” she says to Harriet. “I’ve barely had a chance to ask about your run-in with him. Did he look the same?”
I guess that answers the question of whether she’s seen him.
“No,” Harriet says quickly, eyes darting to my face. I flex my biceps.
Maggie’s ruddy complexion grows even redder, and she claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh shit. Nic. Sara Allbright. The one the cops brought in in connection to the…the…”
“The murder?” I finish when it becomes clear she’s not going to.
“Right. That. She’s your sister, isn’t she? I knew that, but my brain is mush after spending the week buried in law books. I’m so sorry.”
Before I can respond, Martin lets out a groan. He’s staring at his phone in dismay.
I lean toward him. “Everything okay?”
He meets my eyes, and my heart sinks.
“It’s Sara,” I say.
He winces.
“What is it?”
He hesitates.
“Just tell me.”
He sets the phone down and turns to face me. “The fingerprints came back. From the knife. And there was only one pair on it.”
“Sara’s,” I say.
“Sara’s,” he confirms.
I knew her fingerprints would be all over the knife—of course they would be. But I’d been holding out hope that someone else’s would be too. It would force the cops to consider other suspects, and this whole mess would start to untangle.
“Yeah. And that, coupled with everything else…” He’s wearing the same expression he was that morning outside my parents’ house. The one I hate. “The DA is planning to formally charge her. With first-degree murder.”
The words hit me like a stab to the gut. Harriet, Steven, and Maggie are quiet.
My stool scrapes loud against the linoleum floor as I push back from the bar. “Already? They can’t be serious. That’s fucking ridiculous!”
Martin sets down his phone. “It is, but do you remember the last election cycle? A district attorney was elected for Atlantic County, and according to my sources, she was—”
“Good friends with George,” Harriet interrupts. At least she has the decency to look ashamed. “So’s Sharkey, actually. And Mayor DiPetrio. George was a big donor to all their campaigns.”
“Yup,” Martin says. “And this new DA’s trying to make a name for herself. A murder trial could be huge for her, particularly since the victim was a well-known Manhattan property developer.”
“So, what: Sara’s a pawn? Someone she can use to further her career?”
“I wish I could say no,” Martin says. “But it sure sounds like that.”
“We covered stories like this in my journalism courses,” Harriet murmurs to Maggie. “It’s insane how willing politicians are to play with people’s lives.”
Does she think that’s helpful? I’m about to rip her a new one when something clicks.
Harriet. Harriet wrote for a national outlet up in the city. Sure, their main focus is celebrity fluff pieces, but it still has a huge readership.
“You,” I say, pointing.
She looks confused. “Me?”
“This is your fault.”
“It’s not—”
“Your father got himself killed—”
“Stepfather,” she mutters.
“And now my sister could spend the rest of her life in prison. Why did he insist on starting that fight with her? Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone? What is it with you rich people? Why do you think you own the fucking world?”
Her mouth drops open. “I don’t,” she says, her voice small.
“Nic—” Martin’s hand finds my arm. “Hey. This isn’t her fault.”
He’s right. I’m letting my anger get the best of me. I need Harriet’s help, and this isn’t how to get it.
I down the rest of my drink and take a deep breath before speaking again. “Okay, listen. My family can’t afford a decent attorney. My mom’s cousin Barry’s representing Sara, and he once told me he’s pretty sure the earth is flat. So you can see what sort of predicament we’re in here.”
Harriet nods.
“Sara is innocent. You might not be aware of this because of where and how you grew up, but the cops on our lovely little island have a long history of scapegoating people like me and her.”
“I know,” Harriet says. “And I’m sorry, but—”
“Let me finish. And if she’s charged—once she’s charged—she’s screwed. That’s the end of the hunt for other suspects, if the cops even looked for any to begin with. Barry won’t do shit to help her. That’s where you come in. You used to work at a big, fancy publication up in New York, didn’t you?”
Harriet shakes her head. “Yeah. But not anymore.”
“Right, not anymore, but you know people. You need to use your connections and write about all this. Tell the world what’s happening to my sister. Maybe someone will read it who can help her.”
“Nic,” Harriet says quietly. “I did email my editor.”
I blink. “You did?”
“Yeah. But she hasn’t responded, and I don’t think she will. You don’t understand. I got fired. I haven’t been able to find another job and it isn’t—”
She keeps going, one reason after another about why she can’t help.
I stop listening. Of course she won’t. It was stupid of me to think she would.
I finally interrupt. “I need to go.”
“Do you want company?” Martin asks.
“No,” I snap, then soften. None of this is Martin’s fault. “I have to find my mom. But tell me if you hear anything else, okay?”
“Will do.”
I’m almost to the door when a hand grabs my elbow. I turn.
Harriet.
“What?” I bark. Her face falls. For a moment, my heart stutters, and I remember the Harriet Baker that was mine for two weeks. But this woman in front of me isn’t her.
“I—” She falters. “I’m sorry. About all this. I really wish I could do something, but—”
I’m not in the mood to hear any more of her excuses.
“Right.” I shake her hand off me. “I’m sure you fucking do.”
And with that, I stalk out of the bar.