Chapter 1
It had been exactly twenty-nine days since her half sister had brutally stabbed their father to death.
FBI Special Agent in Charge Laurel Snow sat in the back row of the courtroom, her suntan already fading after being home for three days from a much-needed vacation in Cabo.
In Mexico, she’d done nothing but sit in the sun, stroll the beaches, and work through feelings with the hard-bodied Fish and Wildlife officer sitting next to her.
She wasn’t accustomed to dealing with feelings, and neither was he. But they’d done their best, assisted along with too much tequila, to handle the loss of a baby they’d never met. Huck had been kind, open, and had wanted to cement their relationship for the future.
Her practical nature liked a plan. Of course, now they were home, sitting in this courtroom, waiting for a hearing that had yet to begin. She studied him from the corner of her eye, noting that the Cabo carefree Huck was gone. His face now appeared carved from stone.
Not granite. Not slate. But diamond—the strongest stone. Though nothing about Huck Rivers sparkled. Not even his eyes right now. Now? They were a cop’s eyes. Flat. Hard. Determined.
Did her eyes look like that?
Without moving his focus from the front of the courtroom, he reached over and took her hand in his.
She jolted and then allowed herself to appreciate the warmth of his touch.
Up front, an armed bailiff, a tall blond female with a sharp cut bob, walked through the door by the judge’s bench, scanned the courtroom with light blue eyes, and then stood at post. Her uniform was so starchily pressed it could probably stand up without its wearer.
Laurel’s shoulders tensed and she forced them down and back.
While the defense table remained vacant, the prosecuting attorney currently sat at her table, reading through a file folder. She had thick black hair and appeared to be in healthy shape, but she hadn’t turned around yet. “Who’s she?”
“Her name is Tamera Hornhart, and she’s as ambitious as they come. She’s won twice by a large margin and already announced her candidacy for governor. Taking down Abigail will be good for her career,” Huck said.
Behind Laurel, the exterior door bisecting the benches opened and FBI Special Agent in Charge Wayne Norrs from the nearby Seattle office strode inside, his badge at his belt and his gun in a shoulder holster.
He wore sharply tailored black slacks, a pristine white shirt, and a cobalt-colored tie.
His bald head and compact, muscular frame projected an austere, almost formidable presence.
He glanced at her, nodded at Huck, and walked to the front to sit in the first row, right behind the defendant’s table.
“That answers that,” Huck murmured.
“Abigail is keeping him close,” Laurel said, her tone almost academic, “not out of trust, but utility. His endorsement confers legitimacy.”
Huck glanced down at her, the different brown and golden hues in his irises sharpening. “Meaning it looks good to have him on her side? Believing in her?”
“That’s what I said.” It was the first time Laurel had said Abigail’s name in more than two weeks.
She and Huck had agreed not to speak of her half sister while they’d enjoyed their break from reality in Mexico.
Although that hadn’t kept Laurel from considering Abigail’s next moves.
Surely she’d plead not guilty to the murder, even though she’d been found holding the knife over the body, covered in blood.
The door opened again and the hair prickled down Laurel’s arm.
She automatically turned to see Abigail walk in wearing a blue skirt suit and white shell, with taupe-colored kitten heels.
Her true auburn hair was down around her shoulders, and the suit jacket sleeves fell almost to her knuckles. Not quite.
She turned her heterochromatic eyes, the same as Laurel’s, toward her. “Dear sister, it was so kind of you to come support me at my pretrial hearing.” She glanced up at Agent Norrs in the front row of the other side. “Although you’re sitting on the wrong side of the courtroom.”
A man holding a shiny black briefcase and wearing a ten-thousanddollar suit patted her arm. “Abigail? We need to go to the defense table.” He had to be at least three or four inches taller than Abigail, who stood at about five-foot-nine in the heels.
She faltered and then gave him a tremulous smile.
“Of course. Thank you, Henry. Laurel, we’ll speak later.
” Her chin up, she maneuvered up the aisle with the male following her as another man, this one just as tall but probably twenty years younger than Henry, hustled inside with a stack of file folders in his hands.
He glanced at Laurel and then stilled, his gaze swiveling from her to Abigail and back to her. “You must be Abigail’s sister.”
“I must be,” Laurel replied. Both she and Abigail had true reddish brown hair and one blue eye as well as one green eye, which was incredibly rare.
Throw in the fact that they also had a star of green in their blue eye, a heterochromia in already-heterochromatic eyes, made them truly unique.
And look-alikes, unfortunately. “You are?”
“Bud Thomas, one of the lawyers for your sister. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you?” His blond hair was mussed and his gray suit not worth ten thousand dollars. He probably worked as an associate at whatever law firm Abigail had hired. “I’d like to interview you.”
Laurel was under no obligation to speak with the defense. “Captain Rivers and I were interviewed twice by the police regarding your case.”
Thomas straightened, his eyes a deep green. “I can subpoena you for a pretrial deposition.”
“Perhaps,” Laurel said. “But you’d need permission from the judge as well as the DOJ first, and as I’m sure you know, depositions in criminal matters aren’t often ordered in Washington State.”
His brow furrowed. Showing confusion? “You don’t want to help your sister?”
“No.”
The judge walked through the doorway up front and moved behind his desk, followed by a court reporter and another woman who must be his scheduler. The judge had thick salt-and-pepper hair, sharp features, and dark brown eyes.
“All rise,” the bailiff said.
Laurel stood, releasing Huck’s hand. As soon as the judge sat, so did the spectators in the courtroom. The silence was blissful. Outside the building, cameras, news vans, and gawkers all created a frenzy of noise.
The judge slammed his gavel down and then reached into a pocket and drew out thin, black-rimmed glasses to perch on his nose.
He flipped open the top of a file folder, read for a moment, and then looked up.
“I’m Judge Warren Delaney. This is the matter of the state of Washington versus Abigail Caine.
” He read off the case number. “Who do we have here today?”
Abigail’s attorneys, flanking her, both stood. “Henry Vexler from Vexler and Symons for the defense,” said the obvious lead in his expensive suit. His voice was smooth and thick. Warm, even.
The prosecuting attorney also stood, wearing a deep red skirt suit with white shell and black pumps. “Tamera Hornhart for the state.”
The judge nodded. “As you know, I cleared the courtroom today of press and other cases due to the lack of security, but the press will be allowed going forward.” He glanced at Abigail. “Ms. Caine? Please stand.”
“Doctor Caine,” Vexler said quietly.
The judge’s bushy eyebrows rose. “My apologies. Dr. Caine.”
Abigail stood, looking diminutive between the two taller men.
Huck leaned toward Laurel. “Why is her suit too big?” He studied Abigail up front. “And not her usual style at all?”
Laurel lifted her chin. Her half sister favored black leather and high-end red dresses usually.
“She looks vulnerable. Fragile. Defenseless.” Frankly, it was a good look, and no doubt Abigail had come up with that herself.
Like Laurel, she most likely ranked in the profoundly gifted IQ range and had attended college very young to earn multiple doctorates.
The judge stared at Abigail. “Dr. Caine? You are charged with murder in the second degree, for the death of Zeke Caine on April fifteenth. This is a Class A felony under RCW 9A.32.050. Do you understand the charge?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Abigail said.
“And how do you plead?” he asked.
Vexler gave her a brief nod.
“Not guilty,” she answered. “It was self-defense, Judge.”
An unnecessary addition to her plea, but now it was out there. In the judge’s mind. Laurel studied him, wondering what he saw when he looked at Abigail. The woman was beautiful and often used men. Easily.
As if in tune with that thought, Abigail partially turned and looked at Special Agent Norrs, her lips trembling.
They’d been dating since December, and Norrs was truly hooked.
He couldn’t see the malignant narcissist or psychopath or whatever deviant lay beneath Abigail’s fragile looks.
It would take years of meetings, tests, and studies to ever truly diagnose that woman.
Norrs leaned toward Abigail and said something, but Laurel couldn’t hear the words.
Tears filled Abigail’s eyes. She nodded and visibly steeled her shoulders, turning back around and facing the judge.
“Give me a fucking break,” Huck muttered next to Laurel.
Judge Delaney looked to the prosecution table. “Ms. Hornhart, do you wish to be heard on release conditions?”