“Can we move on from my fashion faux pas blouse choice and go over the schedule for the day please?” Settling into my chair, I opened my planner to check or cross off the appointments based on Connor’s up-to-date information.
“Nothing has changed except your four o’clock with that slimeball defense attorney. He had to reschedule for Monday. Something about a witness schedule conflict, but if you ask me, they’re hoping the evidence we have against his client will mysteriously erupt into flames over the weekend.”
“Which slimeball defense council are you referring to this time?” I teased.
“Take your pick,” he muttered. “And most importantly, what are we ordering for lunch?”
“I don’t care. There are no better choices when my paralegal is a vegan who has a nut allergy, a nightshade sensitivity, and is gluten free.” I made a face. “Just pick a vegetable and I’ll pretend to eat it.”
“Leeks are in season.”
“Yummy,” I replied with a frown.
Connor bounced up from his chair. “I’m going to get to work on the Marks case. I’ve got to chip away at the file before our meeting this afternoon.”
“We’re interviewing the older sister of the girl who’s alleging her father’s molesting her?”
“That’s the one.” Connor clicked his pen, heading for the door. “Really fosters this sense of good in the world, doesn’t it? When fathers who are supposed to protect and love their children turn out to be the monsters?”
“It’s why we do what we do,” I said, scratching out my four o’clock meeting.
“Yeah, but nothing we do actually prevents the trauma from happening, you know?” He turned to face me, continuing to back away. “We’re well-paid custodians. We take out the trash, but we can’t stop it from piling up.”
“Thank you for that cheery morning thought. I’m going to do my best to not question my life’s work and get back to believing putting bad guys in jail makes a difference in the world.” I waved him away, not having to remind him to close the door when he left.
“Oh, to live in the Land of Delusion.” Snapping his fingers, he was about to close the door when one of the receptionists appeared.
“A package just arrived for you, Grace.”
“Thanks, Margie,” I said, taking the box.
“Only good things come bundled up in those colored boxes.” She gave a little wink before leaving, patting Connor’s arm as she passed.
Margie had been a receptionist since my dad worked here, and she had become the unofficial office grandmother. She took her title seriously too, bringing in enough baked goods to put the whole place into diabetic shock if we actually attempted to eat everything she boxed up, and she was always the first one to notice when someone was having a rough day.
Connor’s eyes dipped to the silver box in my hands. “Someone was either very good or deliciously naughty.”
I ignored Connor’s quip, hoping my face wasn’t changing colors. I guessed what Noah and I did last night would fall into one of Connor’s categories.
After pulling the silver ribbon free, I slid off the box lid to reveal a hand-penned note on top.
Apologies. For more than the neck.
My forehead folded as I read Noah’s note once more. His handwriting was tall and precise, impossible to mistake despite there being no name attached to the note or gift.
When I unfolded the tissue paper, a smile stretched across my face. I reached into the box and ran my fingers over the unexpected gift.
“Well? What is it so I’ll know if you were a good or bad girl last night?”
I pulled it from the box for him to see, still smiling.
In my hands could have been a jar of mustard from the look on Connor’s face. “A scarf.” His brows pulled closer together. “A scarf?”
After folding my cashmere turtleneck down a ways, I wound the silk scarf around my neck, tying it where the mark Noah had left was located.
“What the hell does a scarf say?” Connor’s tone was the equivalent of scratching his head.
Slipping the note into my planner, I closed the box and tied the bow back the way it had arrived. The smile had not dimmed from my face. “It says”—I touched the scarf around my neck, considering what it meant—“he cares.”
The rest of the day was tinted brighter given the start. Not even the leek and celery gazpacho Connor showed up with at lunch time or the text I got from my mom with an attachment to an article preaching the benefits of a “Mommy Makeover” could dampen my spirits.
Connor was waiting in the conference room with the witness when I coasted in a little after two. “Sorry I’m late. My last meeting ran longer than expected.” I approached the witness, holding out my hand to shake. “I’m Grace Wolff, the prosecuting attorney.”
“Mary Marks,” she replied quietly, not making eye contact.
“Can we get you anything to drink?” I asked as I set my things on the table. “Coffee, tea, water?”
She shook her head, radiating a nervous vibe. “No, thanks. I’d like to get this over and done with as soon as possible.”
“Of course.” Taking a seat across from her, I opened my notepad and readied my pen. Connor, knowing the drill, hit the record button on the audio. “It is October 2th, 2019, approximately two in the afternoon, and prosecuting council is interviewing Mary Marks, older sister to the alleged victim, Maggie Marks.”
Mary muttered something indistinguishable.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.” I leaned in, indicating at Carter to scoot the microphone closer to Mary.
“I said, please don’t use that word,” she said a bit louder. “Alleged,” she clarified when she noted the puzzlement on my face. “It implies she’s not telling the truth.”
Connor’s and my head shook at the same time. “That’s not at all how I mean it, Ms. Marks. It’s simply a term I’m required to use before a verdict has been made.” Scribbling the witness’s name on my notepad, I asked, “What leads you to believe your sister is telling the truth? From what I understand, you moved out of the house over three years ago, correct?”
Mary’s head bobbed in acknowledgement, then she became very still.
Ice crystalized in my veins as I watched her. I’d interviewed enough people in my life to recognize the signs. I knew them so well, sometimes I dreamed in shades of gray and hanging heads.
“I know because . . .” Her throat moved as if she were swallowing a knife. Her eyes lifted to mine for a moment, so brief it barely registered. “Because he did the same thing to me.”
I set down my pen and got up to retrieve the box of tissues kept on the credenza by the door. “Ms. Marks, I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
I grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge as well. In my experience, most people liked to have something to drink as a distraction, if nothing else, from the questions we asked and the answers they possessed.
“If I’d known, or even thought, he might go after Maggie, I never would have run away like I did.” She pulled a few tissues from the box when I placed it beside her, though she wasn’t crying. Sexual abuse victims followed no standard pattern of behavior when opening up about the abuse. Some cried hysterical, gasping sobs, while others recounted the details as if they were reading from a history book.