Chapter 22
I’m rattled the entire elevator ride down and continue to be as we walk into the lobby.
It’s raining outside, and we pause at the door.
Rain is pelting the sidewalks so hard it’s like a curtain of water making it impossible to distinguish individual droplets.
It’s a terrible time to have forgotten our umbrellas.
The thought of walking in the rain as I contemplate my life feels dramatic.
In real life, I’ll just smell like a wet dog and have to suffer a subway ride home in drenched clothes.
“Are you okay?” Amaya asks, a rare tenderness in her voice. She always seems to be directing things and managing crises with the authoritative nature I expect to see in an attorney.
“I can’t believe he thinks I did it.” I feel stupid saying it aloud. The New York Post was impersonal and detached; this accusation came from someone who loved him, and it was directed at my face. It hit so much harder.
“Well, everyone probably thinks you did it,” Amaya says matter-of-factly, returning to her normal demeanor.
I grimace at her words. She does have a point, especially after that front-page spectacle.
I am the only suspect, and the most obvious one.
I remember hearing about Occam’s razor in a college philosophy class.
The most straightforward answer is also the most likely.
I’m the clear culprit. I have the most convenient means and the easiest opportunity.
He was stabbed inside my locked taxi. But what’s my motive?
“That doesn’t mean you did. I’m here, aren’t I?” Amaya adds quickly, upon seeing my frown.
“Because you have to be!” I feel like a pouting child throwing a temper tantrum, in need of being soothed like a baby. Is there anyone outside of my own parents who believes me?
“That’s true, I am your court-appointed representative, and I’m going to do everything within my power to keep you out of jail.
” I’m not entirely thrilled with Amaya’s refusal to make a sweeping statement about her belief in my innocence or with her formality.
I’m not special to her, I’m just like any other client. Any other guilty client.
The storm clouds start to look less angry, and the rain begins to slow.
I feel guilty even using the lobby of New Frontier as shelter from the elements, as if the mere accusation of murder means that I have no right to seek solace from any place associated with James.
I want to get away from this building, and from Amaya, as quickly as possible.
I want to be alone. Anonymous. Like I am in my taxi.
The past few days, I have been constantly surrounded by people and the center of attention, a position I’m not used to and do not relish.
All eyes have been on me at the precinct, in the holding cell, in court, and on this investigation.
The rain stops just as suddenly as it began.
“I’m going to go to the office. My colleague dropped the footage off from the intersection where you stopped.
I want to watch that to see if there’s anything there.
Maybe we’ll see someone entering or exiting the taxi.
It may be too blurry to see a face, but at least we can argue someone other than you had access to the taxi.
“I also have court this afternoon. And I need to find some frozen mice for Frankie.” Amaya shudders visibly. “Why don’t we part ways for now. If there’s anything I think I need your help on, I’ll ask you,” Amaya says as she walks toward the door.
This feels like a polite way of telling me to get lost. Again, I’ve been a hindrance.
Now it’ll be just Amaya fighting for me, and while I believe she is a brilliant and qualified attorney, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s only a matter of time before we’re crushed by the powerful district attorney’s office completely.