“Please. Make yourself comfortable, Ms. Fletcher.”
She glares. “Oh, I intend to.”
I sit down across from her, crossing my legs. I beat my thumb in time to the ticking clock on the wall. I start talking without wasting a second.
“You said your company was tricked out of money, is that correct?”
She nods. “Yes.”
I gaze down at my notes. “You also say that one Chris Jackson was the man who tricked you out of said money.” I glance up. “Is that also correct?”
Her red lips purse. “Yes, that is correct.”
“You invested with Chris Jackson’s company?”
“Yes.”
I grit my teeth. “And you didn’t know about the rumors, Ms. Fletcher? The whispers about Jackson’s wanton ways?” I lean forward. “You didn’t know about the double-dealings, the back-stabbings?” I inch closer. “You didn’t know about the illegal activities, the slander, the fraud, the broken promises?” My eyes drill into hers, dragging the truth out. “You didn’t know, Ms. Fletcher, that you were consorting with the most crooked man in all of New York City investment business… Is that correct, Ms. Fletcher?”
The time ticks away. Ms. Fletcher’s regal stare never wavers from my face, and for a second there, I believe she’s going to get up and walk away. But she doesn’t. Smoothing out a line of wrinkles across her forehead, she throws her shoulders back, her brown curls bouncing as she gazes at me through eyes of steady conviction. She nods once more.
“Yes…” She breathes out slowly. “That is correct, Mr. Sparrow. And I’m not so sure we both needed that recap.”
“You called for this appointment, Ms. Fletcher. If you didn’t want a thorough recap…then why did you come?”
I slide backwards in my leather chair, running a thumb along my jaw as I admire the older woman still sitting across from me. Her tenacity is stronger than I assumed, and I find myself fighting the urge to grin. I like her goddamned style.
“I came because I was asked to come. I was sent to make sure you were still on the level.”
I point at her. “Are you?” She blinks again, and I continue. “Are you so sure that this isn’t a lost cause, Ms. Fletcher?”
“Missus Fletcher,” she corrected, sighing. “And you wouldn’t be here if you thought my company’s case was a lost cause, Mr. Sparrow. We carefully vet everyone we bring on.” She takes a peek at me through a pound of carefully applied makeup on her face. “Even you. And yes, we went to Chris Jackson, hoping he could build our business. We’d hoped the rumors weren’t true. We’d hoped he’d help us make money. We…” She shakes her coiffed head, a glaze starting to grow over her green irises. She looks up. “We hoped he could help us grow the cash we needed to save my husband from the cancer that ravaged him…” She raises her chin. “But he didn’t. And now Howard’s dead. We hoped we could count on someone else to help solve our problems.”
I shrugged, feeling the weight of the heavy suit jacket on my shoulders.
“A useless exercise.” I glare. “I’m sure you know enough about my reputation by now, Mrs. Fletcher. Some people are born this way. Others… are built this way piece-by-piece. And then there are those of us who are bred this way. Siphoned. Cultivated. Molded before we ever left our wombs, weeping—crying because we knew that the fucked-up place we just entered into would be so much worse than the last.”
She inhales deeply and I keep going.
“Only those last type of people come to a place like this, Mrs. Fletcher. They’re not meant for this world or…” I look around. “Even this room. They’re meant for something deeper, darker. They’re not meant to reveal their true selves. If they did…the world would want to shove them right back into the womb where they belonged.”
I narrow my eyes and watch her lively green ones widen.
Hell, this client of Violet’s was handling my resistance better than I expected. Most, by now, would be hanging on by a very thin thread, but she was determined.
Maybe she really thinks we can help her. Maybe she believes every word I’m saying. Or, hell, maybe Violet was right; maybe we do have a shot in Hell at justice against a man who escaped judgment for so long.
Either way, I’d find out within the next sixty seconds or so.
I settle in, standing to my feet. I walk towards her.
“But there’s a reason you wanted to work with King & Sparrow. There are lots of reasons why people want to work with King & Sparrow, Mrs. Fletcher.” I finally reach her, sweeping an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “What are yours?”
She bites her lip. Adrenaline singes under my skin, and after several seconds of silence, I grow impatient, circling back to my desk so I can sit down.
I think of Violet. My sensuous Violet…with no idea the trouble she’d walked her pretty legs into. Doing the right thing was harder than she had imagined; I knew it better than most.
This wasn’t her world. But it was mine.
And I knew better than most the bitter connections that wealthy men like Chris Jackson and my father had built were as solid as brick, knew that some scandals were meant to lay buried, secreted—unsheathed.
Fifteen hours after last night’s warning to her—fifty long, hard hours of contemplating the ramifications of going after a man like Chris Jackson, and I had finally separated myself from the situation, staring down at my body as I cursed myself a fucking fool.
But it was worth it to me. To my better conscience. To Brett.
And in some ways, it was worth it to Violet, the sharp-shooting vixen with the wicked mouth and even more wicked tongue.
I remembered that tongue. And everything surrounding it.
At last, after what feels like an eternity, Ms.—excuse me, Mrs.—Fletcher sighs, her shoulders straightening as she regards me.
“I can tell you my reasons. My reason…” she trails off, her tone twisting with grit. “Is that I want to nail that fucker Jackson to the goddamned wall.”
Her wall of decorum comes tumbling down. It is just what I need from Mrs. Fletcher. A fighter. Because it’s sure going to be a battle in court. But for the first time, I feel good about the decisions I’ve made concerning this firm, concerning myself, concerning this world.
That pen I borrowed from Violet on my way in actually comes in handy. I sign the contract with a smile, scribbling my name across the surface, before sliding the sheet over to our newest client. I stand on the spot.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Fletcher.” I reach my hand out to shake hers. “You just found the lawyers you were looking for.”
Chapter Sixteen
VIOLET
I can’t remember the last time I thought about homicide.
I mean, real, genuine, bone-splinting homicide.
The hire-a-contract-killer-and-wait-in-the-bushes-to-watch-it-go-down homicide.
The eat-popcorn-drink-a-beer-while-the-person’s-house-is-on-fire type of homicide.
That one.
Maybe it was high school.
Imagining that Heather Palmgreen had suddenly choked on one of the many jersey-covered cocks she’d sucked behind the bleachers before football games. Or maybe it was when I’d daydreamed that Greta—the nasty, scowling cafeteria lady from fourth period lunch—had smothered in her under-seasoned mashed potatoes.