I glance at Jacob. “Your wife?”
Jacob gives a fast nod. “She’s NYPD but she has a connection at the FBI that proved helpful, even beyond Blake’s deep connections. She wasn’t involved in this case, but she managed to insert herself in the right places.”
“Thank you to her,” I say. “I’ll make sure Grayson knows.”
“Not necessary, ma’am,” Jacob assures me. “We just like to see the good guys win.”
“As do I,” I say, glancing at Reese, “which is why I appreciate this meeting, Reese.”
“Well then,” he says. “Let’s get to it while I have time.”
I nod and we head toward the restaurant. “I’ll wait at the entryway,” Jacob says, while Reese and I step into the doorway to the hostess stand to find Delaney sitting and waiting at a side bench. She pops to her feet, a petite, pretty woman with red hair and the kind of luminous pale freckled skin that money and good genes delivers. Her black dress, boots, and matching purse are Chanel, which I know because I love Chanel and only have Chanel because Grayson buys it for me. I won’t buy it for myself. That was a bonding topic for me and Delaney as it was the same for her. Her husband bought her nice things, but unlike Grayson, who does it because he loves me, hers did it to apologize or hold her captive. She was also expected to present herself as an appropriate trophy wife. I feel as if she doesn’t know how to be anything but what he literally beat her into becoming. Or else.
She hurries our direction and she’s nervous when she joins us. I see that in the twist of her fingers in front of her before she shakes Reese’s hand. “Delaney Wittmore. Or it is now. I’m going to change it back to Adams, soon.”
“Understandable,” Reese replies. “Sorry to rush this, Delaney,” he adds, “but I have to be in court in an hour.”
“Of course,” she says. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Her voice is small, but her will is not or she wouldn’t have lived through the abuse she endured.
The hostess seats us and I have Delaney sit across from Reese, and it’s not long before we all have steamy cups filled with coffee. I don’t try to direct the meeting, not quite yet. I let Reese and Delaney start things out.
“I’m interested in your case, Delaney,” Reese says. “but I don’t represent anyone I don’t believe is innocent. Once I believe in you, I’m passionate about winning, as I know Mia is as well. I need to feel the passion she does for your case. I need you to tell me your story in your words.”
Once she begins to speak, I plan to lead her to my controversial defense that really shouldn’t be controversial at all. Not once the entire story is told.
“I don’t think there’s a reason for me to tell my story,” Delaney says, which doesn’t surprise me. I know where she’s going: to that honest place that won me over.
Reese arches a brow. “And why is that?”
“Because you just said that you don’t represent anyone you don’t believe is innocent. I’m not. I killed my husband.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Mia
At Delaney’s declaration that she killed her husband, Reese doesn’t so much as blink. He doesn’t look at me, either. He stays focused on Delaney. “Why?” he asks.
“Does it matter?” Delaney challenges. “I killed him.”
“Do you want to go to jail?” Reese counters.
She cuts her stare, swallows hard, and then meets his stare again. “No, but,” her fingers curl into her palms where they rest on the table, “I killed him.”
Reese doesn’t miss a beat. “Why?”
“He wouldn’t stop hitting me.”
I pull a folder out of my briefcase, open it, and slide a photo of her from the night of “the incident” in front of him. In the photo, Delaney’s face is beaten black and blue and her eye is swollen shut. He glances down at it, shows no reaction, and then looks at her. “Tell me more.”
She swallows hard. “I was—desperate—for him to stop. I reached for anything and I grabbed the fireplace—the metal thing by the fireplace. The fire poker.” She presses two fingers to her temple and then powers through the words. “I hit him. I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“How often did he beat you?” Reese asks.
“Daily,” she replies.
“Did he rape you?” Reese asks, getting right to the point.
“Daily,” she repeats.
“Why didn’t you leave?” Reese asks next.
“He threatened anyone and everyone I knew.” She makes a choked sound. “He even threatened the grocery store bakery manager I chat with every day who has three kids. And he had the money to make people dead and not get caught.”
Reese arches a brow. “Did he tell you that?”
“Every day for sixteen of our seventeen years together.”
My chest and eyes pinch just looking into her tormented stare. “Who inherits if you don’t?” I ask, leading her to my strategy for her defense.
“My daughter,” she replies.
“Who inherits if your daughter doesn’t inherit?” I ask.
“His brother.”
And we’re almost to the sweet spot I’m reaching for. “What’s your relationship with his brother?”
“He knew everything,” she explains. “He told me I had two choices. Fight back or shut up.”
“Fight back how?” Reese asks, traveling exactly where I want him to travel.
“He offered to buy me a gun.”
Reese’s head tilts slightly. “Are you or have you ever slept with him?”
“Never.”
“Are you intimate with him in any way?”
Her lips flatten. “Never.”
“Are you friends?” he asks, continuing to press.
“No,” she says, as she said to me as well.
“Then how,” Reese says, “did you have a conversation about buying a gun with him?”
She inhales and exhales. “He saw my bruises. He caught me off guard one day or he wouldn’t have. I had practice. I knew how to hide them.” She gives a choked laugh. “That’s why everyone wants me to do their makeup. I’m good with makeup.” She swallows hard. “He said—he wanted to talk to Mitch.”
“Did he reject the idea of his brother beating you?” Reese asks.
She scoffs. “No. He didn’t even blink, but he insisted on talking to Mitch. I begged him not to. He said he would not.”
“Did he talk to Mitch?” Reese asks.
“He says he didn’t. I believe he did.”
“Why?” Reese asks.
“Because that night I was lectured on keeping our life private.”
“Lectured or beaten?” Reese asks.
“He broke my arm,” she states matter-of-factly.
“The medical records are in the file,” I interject, tapping the folder still in front of him. “There are five separate incidents that required she see a doctor. All of which she called accidents.”
“Did the brother,” he glances at me and I supply, “Jim,” before he continues with, “Did Jim know about your broken arm?”