Jacinda peeks out into the narrow hallway as I head for the stairs. “Hold up there, Samson.”
That’s Jacinda’s thing, too. She calls us by our last names like we’re already in jail.
I clench my jaw. If she thinks I’m pitching in on the housework for one of the older residents because they were pulled in to take a double shift again, she’s out of her mind. Keep in mind, I’m nearly always pissy on days I go to PT.
I move back around the corner, waiting for her reply. She motions to the kitchen, a sharp nod encouraging me to step inside as her dark eyebrows pull in severely.
I steel myself and walk forward. I’ve been trying to stay on this woman’s good side. Not that it has made a difference because she’s miserable to every last one of us no matter what our attitudes are. “Got someone here to see you,” she says, eyeballing me.
My heart kicks into gear. I try not to seem eager, but I pick up the pace, moving quickly to the outdated kitchen, decorated in sunburnt orange. Trust me, it’s as unfortunate as it sounds.
I turn the corner but pull up when I find a businessman in a suit, and not the kind of suit guys like Johnny wear in the Heights. This suit is off the rack. Probably from JC Penney’s. It’s a means to an end, not a fashion statement.
The guy’s head moves toward the sound of my footsteps skidding to a stop on the linoleum floor. He smiles at me and stands. His eyes are sharp, even if he does look like he should be living in a different decade.
“Kyla Samson?”
“That’s her,” Jacinda says in a sickeningly sweet tone I’ve not heard uttered past her lips yet.
I glance up at her, brows furrowed, but she doesn’t give me the time of day. She only has eyes for the stiff. “What’s this about?” She tries to smile, but it just looks awkward on her face. The frown she constantly wears is more her style.
The guy removes his gaze from her and greets me again. “Kyla?” he asks again.
I nod, hesitantly. I don’t know who this guy is. It could be one of Gregory’s men, a cop, or someone the Crew sent, but my money’s not on the latter.
The gentleman turns an alarming smile on the house manager. “I need to speak with my client alone.”
My back bristles at the same time a swarm of confusion settles over me. Client?
“Samson’s not allowed to have visitors.”
The guy in the suit grins. He’s all teeth, and warning bells ring inside my head. The suit is a cover-up or just poor fashion taste. “I believe you’ll find it’s alright. Feel free to check in with Detective Reynolds on the matter. Kyla?” the suit says, motioning toward the kitchen doorway.
I step through, back bristling still. I don’t like giving people I don’t know my back, so I look over my shoulder at the man following me down the narrow, dimly lit hallway.
“Your room?”
I give him an incredulous look. If he thinks I’m going to take him to my room alone, he’s crazy.
“Ahh, yes. How about we just step out onto the porch then?”
I open the porch door, listening to it scream in protest before taking a seat on the wide railing that boxes in the small porch. He stands in front of me, clasping his hands together at his waist. The first thing I notice is that he doesn’t have anything with him. No briefcase. No bag. He called me his client, yet he has no evidence that we’re doing business here. I sweep him again for any bulges that could be a telltale sign of hidden weapons, but I don’t see any.
Comforted a little, I try to unlock my muscles to appear relaxed. “It’s time you told me who you are,” I nudge after he doesn’t say anything for the first few moments.
The wind tracks a piece of hair over my face, so I bring it back around, tucking it behind my ear and wait for his response.
“I’m Mr. Lordson, attorney for Rocket Enterprises.”
I recognize the name—obviously—but I don’t show any outward signs to that fact, even though my heartbeat starts to pick up. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Mr. Lordson.”
“He’ll be pleased with that response.” Mr. Lordson reaches into one of his interior pockets, a smile playing over his cracked lips.
I still, unable to figure out if he’s reaching for a weapon or something else.
He notices my reaction, so he lifts a finger to tell me to hold on a second. My fingers itch to grab the contraband knife I won off another resident from my pocket, but I resist. Finally, it pays off. Mr. Lordson pulls a white packet from his pocket. He takes it in his hands, smoothing it out. With a grin, he passes it over to me.
I take it, instantly recognizing the logo of the hot chocolate I love. I crush it in my fingers and slip it into my pocket. I nod at Mr. Lordson to go on, instantly relaxing. This guy is a friend.
“Now that we got that settled...” He takes a seat on the wide railing with me. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he runs it over his forehead before putting it away. “I’ve been working with Mr. Marx from the beginning of your...delicate situation.” He takes a deep breath, resting his hands casually on his thighs. He’s older than a lawyer I would’ve pegged the Crew hiring. His hands are weathered and wrinkled, but with those wrinkles probably comes a hell of a lot of knowledge. “I’m here to tell you that not thirty minutes ago, DA Schneider has decided not to press charges against you for the death of Dominique Jenkins due to lack of evidence.”
A whoosh of air releases from my lungs, and I grip the railing with my hands. I’m not being charged with murder. I don’t think I’ve ever heard more glorious words.
Mr. Lordson nods. “They had your fingerprints on the murder weapon, however, just because your prints were on the weapon doesn’t mean you pulled the trigger. The eyewitness—”
“Bogus eyewitness,” I interrupt, silently seething. There’s no way there could’ve been an eyewitness because I definitely didn’t shoot that poor young girl. The whole thing has reeked as a setup from day one.
The corners of Lordson’s eyes crinkle. “Well, he has changed his tune, much to the dismay of Detective Reynolds and the DA.”
I can’t even feel bad about the possibilities that come to mind regarding how the Crew handled that situation, considering the fucker was lying in the first place. “So, not enough evidence?”
“Not at this time,” Lordson says. “In cases such as this, they’ll usually wait to acquire more evidence. They don’t want to charge you formally if there’s any possibility a jury wouldn’t convict.”
His words burn my brain. Something similar was uttered to my aunt and uncle about Big Daddy K murdering my parents, though I suspect that was just bullshit. They were too scared to go after him and what he represented. As far as my case goes, I suspect it’s a lot more accurate. “So, it’s not over?”
Lordson shakes his head. He glares at the peeling paint that surrounds the picture window. “I’m afraid not, Ms. Samson, however, since they’ve decided not to pursue you at the moment, you’re allowed to leave this place. In fact, I believe—”
The attorney cuts off just as a sleek black car pulls up to the curb. My mind whirs. He’s here. One of them is here. Someone is here.
For me.