I didn’t trust myself to speak. I’d never been tempted by a client before, but this was new and dangerous territory. We already knew how our bodies fit together. Knew the sound of our pants, the groan of our orgasms, the rough yet tender heartbeat between our bodies.
In a normal scenario, he’d be stepping closer, and I would be leaning in. Yielding to him. Surrendering. Instead, I cleared my throat and circled back to the elephant. “Why are you defending Randall Thompson?”
He gripped the sharp edge of the table. “I believe he’s innocent.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I need you to prove.” He nodded to the folder. “Other than concern for my psychological well-being, do you have any insights into Gabe’s killer?”
“You’re not answering the question. I’m not asking how you’re going to convince a jury of his innocence, I’m questioning why you believe it.”
“I read people for a living, Dr. Moore. Much like you do.” He smiled, but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes.
“No.” I shook my head. “You manipulate people for a living. Manipulation to fit and believe your narrative. You play with emotions and, sometimes, facts.”
He chuckled. “You have a low opinion of lawyers. Fine. I’m used to that. To be honest, shrinks aren’t my favorite people in the world, either. I’ll do my job, you do yours. Right now, you’re the one avoiding my questions. What do you know about my son’s killer?”
His voice was steel, and maybe he was right. I’d sat here for ten minutes and hadn’t told him anything. I had theories, but it was hard to be secure in anything when you were just looking at one-sixth of the evidence.
“I need to see the other files. Identify patterns. I don’t know much now, other than that he’s smart and patient. Someone who plans things out and doesn’t act on impulse.” A new thought occurred to me, one I should have considered as soon as I heard about his role on the defense. “Are you going to put me on the stand?”
“It depends on what you think, after seeing the evidence. If your conclusions match my suspicions, then yes.” His eye contact was a drug, one that stayed with me longer than was appropriate.
“And if I think that Randall Thompson is guilty?”
He let out a half laugh, and if there was a joke, I had missed it. “I won’t put you on the stand if you think he’s guilty.” He pushed Gabe’s file back toward me. “Keep this. I’ll send over copies of the rest. Once you have a chance to review them, I’ll set up an interview with you and Randall.” He stood, and the material of his suit pants brushed against my bare knees as he passed.
I rose and turned to face him. “Why me?”
He paused. “That’s the second time you’ve asked me that.”
“The last time I asked, it was with the understanding that you wanted a psychological profile on your son’s killer. This is something else. Something bigger. You could be fighting to free a killer. Lives are at stake.”
“My son’s life was at stake, and I will spend every day I am breathing on this earth to make sure that anyone who could have prevented or who caused his death answers for what they did.” He glowered at me with a look so hateful, I took a step back.
“We slept together,” I reminded him. “A cross-examiner could use that to discredit my testimony. There are other psychiatrists you could use who wouldn’t expose you to that risk.”
“No one’s going to find out about that. I didn’t tell anyone.” He studied me. “Did you?”
“Yes. I told a colleague.” I flushed, embarrassed by the admission.
“You trust them?”
“I do.”
He shrugged. “Then we’re fine.”
We weren’t fine. This wasn’t right. This was a broken equation. Him defending Randall. Gabe only dead nine months. Me, battling attraction while digging through the most intimate details of his life.
We were a wrecked car, barreling down the highway without lights, our steering locked into place. I could put a seat belt on. I could reach out and jab the hazard lights on. But I couldn’t turn off the car, and I couldn’t seem to open the door and fling myself out.
There was calamity ahead—I just had no idea what it would look like.
CHAPTER 20
Scott was halfway onto the side porch when Nita spotted him carefully pulling the door closed, his hand keeping it from hitting against the frame.
“Scott!” she called.
A guilty look flitted across his face. Just as quickly, it was replaced with a bored teenage stare. “Hey.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just for a drive. Thought I’d go by the school.”
Beverly High. The scene of his abduction. The private school where he no longer attended classes, his assignments now delivered each week with offers of tutoring and special assistance steeped in apologetic guilt. One of their own was responsible for this. The man who ate doughnuts in the faculty break room had pressed lit cigarettes into her son’s ribs. He had forced objects into him. He had tied him down, naked on his bed, for days at a time.
“I’ll drive you,” Nita offered, looping her purse over her shoulder and pulling the door open so she could squeeze through.
“Oh no. You said Susan was coming over.” He blocked her path.
“I don’t need to be here for that.” She waved off the concern. Susan had been cleaning their home for the better part of a decade. She could figure out what to focus on without Nita’s help, though Nita did make a mental note to text her a reminder to dust the fan blades in the loft.
“Mom, I can drive myself.” Scott held up his truck keys, which she would have sworn were locked in their safe.
“The battery isn’t charged,” she protested. “You haven’t driven it in months.”
“Dad put in a new one yesterday.”
Damn George. He knew she didn’t want Scott driving. She wasn’t ready for this, couldn’t stand to watch him drive away and potentially never come back.
“I need to go by the grocery store anyway.” She elbowed her way through the door. “I’m making fruit pizza tonight. The one you like, with the strawberries and mangoes. We can swing by the grocery store after we go to the school.”
“Mom. Stop.”
She met his eyes and silently pleaded with him to let her come. He didn’t have to go to the school. He could go next week. Or the next. She needed just a few more days to conquer the fear that was closing its fist around her heart.
“I love you, but I need to get out of this house and be normal for a few hours, okay? I don’t need a chaperone.”
“Promise me you won’t get out of the truck,” she said desperately. “Just drive around. And if you get a flat tire, or break down—”
“I won’t.” He carefully steered her back inside. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“One hour,” she countered. “The school’s ten minutes away. One hour is plenty.”
He groaned. “Fine.”
“I love you.”
He grinned, and it was almost like it used to be. “You, too, Ma.”