Chapter Twenty
The knock came just after seven Monday night. Chris had been pacing the length of the townhouse for so long, the seams in the hardwood were practically memorized underfoot. Even though there was only one person who knocked out a tune every single time, Chris still checked the peephole.
He opened the door to find Randall standing there in his dress pants, sleeves pushed up, takeaway coffee in hand. The man hadn’t been home yet. That made Chris feel like shit for keeping him away from Jeanine and the boys.
“Do you ever not look like hell?” Randall walked past him without an invitation.
Chris closed the door. “Matches how I feel.”
They settled in the living room, Randall sinking into the couch. Chris stood with his hands on his hips, jaw tight, waiting.
Randall took a slow sip of his coffee, then said, “Your girlfriend’s car is a write-off.”
Chris’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“The pond,” Randall added casually, like that clarified anything. “She didn’t tell you?”
“She said it was a fender bender.”
Randall raised an eyebrow. “Right. Well, if a ‘fender bender’ means getting rear-ended hard enough to launch your car through an intersection and into a retention pond, then sure, it was minor.”
Chris’s stomach lurched. He felt physically ill.
“She could’ve been killed,” he raked a hand through his hair.
“She got lucky. The seatbelt held and the airbags deployed. In the report, the EMTs said she was shaken up but stable. Minor neck strain, some bruising, nothing internal.” Randall paused. “But yeah, she might be underreporting.”
Chris slammed a fist onto the back of the couch. “Damn it.”
He started pacing again. The guilt that had been gnawing at him turned corrosive.
“She shouldn’t even be involved in this mess,” he said.
“She volunteered,” Randall reminded him. “Didn’t have to take your case.”
“She’s in danger because of me.”
“Perhaps. Or maybe it’s completely unrelated.” Randall shrugged. “Either way, she’s tough.”
Chris didn’t respond. They both knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Just like Marcus’s accident wasn’t. The image of her car sinking into a pond wouldn’t leave him.
Finally, he looked at Randall. “If the firm won’t reassign her, then I’m done. I’ll stop meeting with the attorneys altogether. I’ll fire the whole damn firm if I have to.”
Randall gave him a long, level stare. “You won’t do that.”
“Watch me.”
“And then, what, pay out of pocket? Better yet, represent yourself? That’s your big solution?”
Chris clenched his hands into fists. The thought had crossed his mind. Not because it made sense, but because the only way he could think to protect Isabela was to push her out.
“You think Ms. Cruz is gonna walk away just because you say so?” Randall asked.
“That woman’s smarter than you, more stubborn than you.
Judging by what she’s already put up with, she gives a damn about you.
You’re not protecting her by cutting her out.
You’re just making this harder for both of you. ”
Chris rubbed his jaw and stared at the floor. “I don’t know what else to do. Sophie ... my mom ... I can’t screw this up.”
“You’re not going to,” Randall said firmly. “But one thing at a time, yeah? Step one: clear your name. Step two: sort out your personal mess. Step three: maybe buy the girl dinner that doesn’t end with arrests and car accidents.”
Chris huffed a bitter laugh, but it was hollow. “I wish I didn’t care.”
“I know,” Randall said, knowing exactly what Chris was talking about. “That’s why you need to stop trying to push her away. Let her help you.”
Chris finally sat, shoulders sagging, exhaustion weighing him down like armor.
“Help me,” he echoed. “All anyone ever does is help me. Help me not get fired. Help me quit drinking. Help me find a place to sleep after my divorce. Help me find a place to stay after I kill someone. I’ve been trying to survive this without dragging anyone else down with me.”
Randall leaned forward. “How has turning down help worked out in the past? Besides, maybe she’s not being dragged. Maybe she’s choosing to stand with you.”
Chris looked away, because if he met his friend’s eyes, he might actually believe the words. Belief was dangerous. Belief made you hope.
“Just don’t screw it up,” Randall added, standing to leave. “I’d hate to have to represent you in court.”
Chris managed a faint smirk. “You’d be a terrible lawyer.”
“Still better than you are at protecting people by pushing them away. Speaking of people, I have three people who will be very angry if I don’t show up with take-out in the next twenty minutes. Wanna get out of here for a while, come eat with us?”
“Nah, I’m not good company right now. Thanks though.”
Clapping Chris on the back, Randall let himself out without another word.
The front door clicked shut behind his friend, and for a long moment, Chris didn’t move.
The silence after Randall’s departure rang loud in his ears, an absence of noise that mirrored the chaos in his head.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, his skin rough with days-old stubble.
He needed to do something before he caved to the impulse to punch a hole in the drywall or call Isabela and beg her to be okay.
His body vibrated with restless energy, his limbs taut with guilt and frustration.
A run was the only solution. He hadn’t made it out this morning, and now that the air had cooled, the trail behind his townhouse would be quiet.
It would allow him time to think through the awful situation he had put both himself and Isabela in.
He bent to grab his sneakers, but the mailbox caught his eye. The small, rectangular lid hung open, stuffed with paper. Strange, the townhouse almost never got mail, and when it did, it was nothing worth keeping.
Frowning, he reached out and flipped the lid fully, expecting junk mail or another utility flyer. Instead, a piece of thick cardstock sat inside, folded crisply down the center. There was no envelope. No writing on the outside.
Chris unfolded it slowly, heart ticking faster with each inch revealed. The photo was printed in high resolution. Someone had taken it from a distance, maybe through a long lens, but the focus was sharp.
It showed Isabela walking from her car toward the townhouse. Her dark hair was loose, falling around her shoulders, her bag slung casually across her body. Her face was angled down, unaware she was being watched.
Beneath that, a second photo. If possible, a worse image.
Chris stared at it for a long time. His arm around her waist, hand fisted in the back of her sweatshirt, holding her close.
Their lips were locked. Isabela’s face was barely visible, but it was clear who was in the photo.
She had the same clothing on as the first picture.
The moment was intimate. A vulnerable, authentic moment between two people who were clearly much more than a client and his attorney. His blood went ice cold.
He couldn’t tear his eyes from the image, heart pounding like a war drum. The implications were immediate and catastrophic. If this ended up in the wrong hands, if someone sent this to her partners at the firm, to the bar association, hell, even to the DA’s office, it would ruin her.
This wasn’t a threat to him. This was a knife pointed at her.
Chris’s fingers trembled as he folded the paper back over the photos. It wasn’t just fear that shook him, but rage that someone took their private, vulnerable moment and weaponized it. This was no longer just about clearing his name, it was personal.
He turned back into the townhouse, shutting and locking the door behind him. He paced the living room, the papers clenched tight in one fist. Whoever left this wanted him to feel the weight of it. They wanted him off-balance.
Most of all, they wanted him to see that Isabela was a liability, a piece they could manipulate, leverage. Threatening her job now, on top of nearly killing her the night before? That wasn’t just intimidation. It was escalation.
He dropped onto the edge of the couch. The timing wasn’t lost on him. Less than twenty-four hours after she leaves his place, and hours after Randall confirms that her crash wasn’t an accident this shows up.
They were being watched. If he stayed close to her, he would destroy her.
Chris hunched over, head in his hands, the weight of it crushing. That photo had cracked something open. The threat of losing everything himself barely registered anymore. What gutted him was the thought of ruining her.
He wanted to call her. To tell her not to go anywhere alone.
To warn her, again, that she was in danger.
But he couldn’t, not like this. Not until he had something more concrete than his own paranoia and some photos.
He needed to work this like a case. Something he could take to Randall or the department that wasn’t just suspicion.
Besides, Isabela would lose her mind, rightfully, when she saw the pictures. She would end things before he ever had a chance to take her to dinner. Maybe he should let that happen.
He pulled out his phone and opened the secure encrypted folder he’d been using for anything connected to the threats and the case. He snapped a picture of the photos, then slid it into the digital vault he shared with Randall.
The guy needed time with his family. He would call him in the morning. Chris couldn’t afford mistakes. Not when the person paying the price would be Isabela.
He stood, the desire to run now completely gone. He felt heavy, anchored to his spot. The trail behind the townhouse could wait. Hell, everything could wait. Whoever was doing this had just made it personal. But they just made the worst mistake possible. They threatened her.