17. Savannah
Chapter 17
Savannah
“ M ake yourself comfortable,” Michael calls out from upstairs. “I just need to get a couple of documents, and I’ll be right with you.”
I nod absentmindedly, half focusing on his words but lost in awe of the interior décor. I knew the man had money, but damn…I whistle.
The high ceilings with intricate designs, the elaborate artwork, the fact that I had to go through an entire foyer and hallway just to get to the living room, and then the high-end furnishings—everything speaks class and money. A lot of money.
“Savannah?”
“Yes?” I call back.
“You didn’t answer me. I thought you’d gotten lost. It’s pretty easy to get lost in here.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I mutter. “My home looks like a shoebox compared to this.”
“I’m not lost, thank you!” I call out.
He doesn’t respond. I roll my eyes. So much for shouting.
Exhausted, I head to the sofa and sit on the edge before moving to the middle and then curling into a tired, sad ball. When Michael asked that we take a day off work, I was a little surprised. After not seeing him in person for a week, I assumed that when we met again, it would be in his office.
But if I’m being honest, I’d rather be here than behind a desk. At least I can finally close my eyes for a minute or two after spending sleepless nights in that motel, filled with irrational paranoia that something might happen to me.
A minute…or ten after trying to sleep without any success, I decided to do some exploring.
I go through a hallway, head into another one, and then another on the right before I finally see another door. The door, slightly opened, like an invitation that I gladly accept. As soon as I step into it, I see that it is Michael’s study.
“Is this where he does all his brainstorming? The smart, savvy lawyer who hasn’t lost a case since…well,” I shrug, “since ever.”
I walk to the desk, running my fingers along the edge of the finely polished mahogany. I imagine him perched on the edge, with his hand on his chin—thinking about how to outsmart the prosecution in court.
Or--
I sit on the ergonomic chair, letting it swivel and spin.
“Something even better,” I whisper with a naughty smile.
An image of Michael seated with his legs spread slides into my head and then I insert myself into the picture, sauntering up to him and taking my place between his legs. One foot on his chest, almost like a dominatrix, thoroughly pleased when he kisses my feet and pulls me close.
Snap out of it.
Shaking my head vigorously, I banish the thought and the accompanying images.
“Like he said, I might get lost. Even if it doesn’t happen in the physical sense,” I mutter.
I stand, eyes on the door when something catches my peripheral vision. A wastebasket in the corner of the room, just a few feet from the door with one crumpled paper in it. I know I shouldn’t, but I find myself heading for the paper anyway. I pick it up, read the first lines and my eyes widen.
My jaw drops.
Entranced, I continue reading. A part of my brain tells me to stop, that he would not want me to read this, but I can’t stop. The answers to everything I’ve been wanting to know about Michael in a few lines.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The paper flies out of my hand even as the callous, steel-like voice has my blood running cold. I turn to see Michael looking at me with a stern, disapproving stare that cuts through my skin.
I stumble backward, instantly apologetic.
“I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have picked it up. I was—
He raises a hand to silence my rambling. “But you did. I specifically told you not to get lost. That was my way of saying not to snoop around without being rude. I guess you just thought you would take a look around.”
“No,” I shake my head briskly. “I am sorry, and I promise that I didn’t read anything.”
He chuckles dryly. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that? You want me to believe that you saw nothing when you went through my wastebasket, and I have nothing to worry about even though you saw something and now you are just lying to me to cover it up.”
For some reason, I find myself smiling. “Would you believe that?”
Michael sighs.
“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have left it lying around. The study door is always locked but since the housekeeper wasn’t coming today, I was a little careless. The living room—you remember where it is, right?”
I nod briskly.
“Good. I’ll meet you there in a couple minutes.”
I don’t wait to be told again before turning on my heels and walking away. I don’t turn around until I get to the living room and the only turning I do is to sit my ass down.
What was that?
The paper I saw looked like a note from a therapy session, albeit one that had Michael talking about everything that happened between his father and his mother when he was younger and relating it to why he is the way he is. It didn’t conclusively say that but...
A dad who never had time for his family and put his career before being a husband and a parent. Who forced him into the limelight, even though it wasn’t where he wanted to be. The paper also talked about how his parents put on a show in public for everyone to see while the family was in shambles at home.
There was pain in the words.
The pretense.
The hypocrisy.
The lies.
The real picture behind the glamour.
Michael used words like that.
Then his mother left his father as soon as he retired to marry the man she had been sleeping with while they were married. And his father, finally seeing that he had treated her wrongly tried to win her back.
How he, Michael, wished they had divorced decades ago. How he was the only one who bore witness to the ugliness behind the scenes.
I sigh.
“Is that why he is the way he is? Hard on the inside, while struggling to be alright on the outside?” I muse.
In some ways, Michael Stone and I are alike. The only difference is that I didn’t learn to hide my bitterness. I used it to lash out at everyone who hurt me, even though I still strived to win my father’s approval.
“Are you ok, you look lost in thought,” he says finding me.
A sigh slips past my lips as I watch Michael walk into the living room. My heart goes out to him but I quickly hide the sympathy from my eyes, knowing he would resent me for it.
“It’s nothing,” I say, my lips pursed. “Just my life in general. I’m so scared of going to prison. For life. Do you know what they do to people like me in prison?”
I wasn’t thinking about prison before he walked in the room but saying the words brings goose bumps to my arms. I rub them.
“I don’t want to go there. Please tell me you have something that can help my case.”
He nods and sits beside me. “Yes, I do.”
Then he hands me a couple of pictures. I flip through them and see that they are all of the same man coming and going from one particular shop. I know the man is Eric, Brandon’s supposed friend who he had a falling out with, but I don’t know anything about the shop.
“What is this?”
“It is the evidence my team and I have been gathering. I’ll tell you what I know. Eric visited a pawn shop regularly. He sold a lot of high-end jewelry to the owner, most of which he got through stealing. I don’t know the scale of this operation or if he was doing it himself, but that’s that.
The owner confirmed that Eric and Brandon did have an argument over your wedding and some money and that Brandon showed up at the pawn shop the day they argued. Also, the knife…”
My heart leaps. I place a hand on my chest. “What about the knife? Is it Eric’s?”
He snaps his fingers. “Bingo, I knew you were smart. The woman at the pawn shop said he came in one day, asking if she found his knife. She said he was paranoid about losing it. I asked for the security footage dating back a month before he came in asking for the knife and there, on camera—I saw it.”
Michael flips through the photographs until he gets to one picture. He points to Eric’s right hand and just there, almost concealed, I see the handle of a knife. The same knife that was somehow placed in my house before the cops searched it.
I gasp.
“That’s it,” she sighs.
“I know. I told you I would clear your name.”
“I’m not relieved yet,” I say, not wanting to get my hopes too high. The last time I did that, they threw me a curveball in court.
I’d rather expect the worst with a slice of hope for something better.
Michael senses it and pockets the photographs. “Why don’t we talk about something else?”
“Like what?” I ask, uninterested. My mood is cautiously optimistic.
“Your relationship with Peter,” he says and I immediately frown.
“Anything but that. You know where I stand regarding my stepbrother.”
“But you seem to be reading things wrong regarding where he stands concerning you. I promise not to try and change your mind,” he quickly says before I can respond, lifting a finger, “but, here is what I know from having spent some time with the two of you.”
“Peter has good intentions. Sure, he might go about them the wrong way but he means well. And he is fiercely protective when it comes to you, Savannah.”
I snicker in disbelief. “You’re saying that because he is your best friend. That is a bit biased. I’d expect that.”
Michael shrugs.
“Maybe I am biased. However, I have no reason to lie to you. Hell, I have no stake in your relationship. I probably shouldn’t even be getting involved. I don’t even know why I am,” he shrugs. “Yet…I guess some things just have to be said. So here it is—Peter told your father not to contact you. He said that if he did, he wouldn’t forgive him.”
More disbelief fills me, then confusion when his expression doesn’t change.
“That’s it. He’s made mistakes but haven’t you made some too? If I remember, you barged into my office and mistook me for someone else.”
“And then you snuck into my office, hiding under the desk and eavesdropping on my conversation. Dare I remind you of the times you accosted me in the hallway and the—”
I place my hand over Michael’s mouth before I even know it and my eyes widen with the realization. I slowly withdraw my hand, putting it behind my back.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
The look on his face is mostly unreadable but I can tell that he is regretting bringing up the topic. Michael gets up.
“I shouldn’t have,” he sighs. “I’ll be down in ten minutes to take you home.”
I watch him walk away, my shoulders slumping and a heavy sigh escaping my lips. Michael Stone might not be the man I thought he was.
Or maybe, I muse, he is—but he is other things too. Kind, in the oddest of ways. Compassionate, when you least expect it. He can be brute, rude, and mean, but he’s loyal and true to his word.
I, on the other hand, realize I need to do some self-reflection. And get some answers, even if it means having a civil conversation with Peter for the first time in the better part of a decade.