Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
The thought of Cody being just a fuck buddy sends a sharp pain straight through my chest, one I don’t expect.
I’ve always struggled when it comes to men. I suppose I have my father to thank for that, I think bitterly as I slip on my red wool coat and cinch it tight around my waist. My sister would argue it’s our mother I should blame.
The wool strap digs into my palms as I pull the belt even tighter, staring at one article on the wall and then the next, the light from the large window behind my desk shining against the pristine glass.
Nostalgia lingers for a moment, back to the moment I started hanging the articles. I focused on putting monsters behind bars and got the hell out of our Podunk town in upstate New York.
I was so proud of this office. I thought I’d really made it and it would only get better. I thought I would only get better.
The door swings open without an invitation and Claire stares at my desk for a moment, her tall figure draped in a brown twill pantsuit. The expression on her face is foreboding but loses its strength when she takes in an empty desk.
“Right here,” I speak up, squaring my shoulders and giving her a questioning look in return to her stricken expression.
“Did you see this?” Her voice is lowered and it’s only after she hands me the paper that she turns away from me to shut the door to my office. It’s not a loud bang, it’s gentle. Nerves prick at the back of my neck as the rolled newspaper crinkles open between my fingers.
Claire Eastings is never gentle.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I scan the article.
“‘Fuck’ is right. They’re having a goddamn field day.” Claire’s comments are accompanied by her pacing back and forth in her short heels, muted from the modern woven carpet until she steps on the hardwood flooring. Then back onto the carpet and so on and so forth.
That rug is the single piece in this room that differs from the rest of the offices. Everyone else has framed photos like me, although mine are articles. Everyone else has the same black leather stationery set on a mahogany desk and an entire wall lined with bookshelves filled with necessary reference texts.
My coat is the only splash of life and color in this place. Disappointment carries to my lips, pulling them down as I refuse to read any more of the article.
“I’m not surprised,” Claire comments with her arms crossed as she stands in front of me, her pacing momentarily paused. “You opened the door for criticism.”
She’s referring to my unfortunate “rot in hell” experience, mentioned in the article … twice. “I know,” I answer her with a heavy breath and suddenly my rendezvous with Agent Walsh doesn’t seem to matter anymore.
“He walked, there’s no proof if we can’t use the evidence,” I say and frustration coats every word. “Ross Brass got off. The press will fade. It’s not going to trial. It’s done.”
“It should have been done. The press can keep it alive and compare to any other case they want.” It surprises me that she’s letting it get to her.
“Do you want me to issue a statement?” I offer, feeling that insecurity creep up my spine. “I can’t be blamed for the PD’s errors.”
“No, no. …” Unfolding her arms, Claire looks past me and her gaze seems far away. There’s no anger, no fire blazing there. Defeat wades in the depths of her irises. It sends a chill down my spine.
Clearing my throat, I question her, “What is it that you want me to do? How are we handling this?” Although my voice is strong and I’m able to stand tall, crossing my arms at my belly and still gripping the paper, I feel anything but when Claire looks me in the eyes again.
“Someone’s looking into your background. We were alerted to the files being opened, including cold cases.”
Chills flow down my arms and I stand there breathless, expertly maintaining my composure.
“You can’t believe the press—” I didn’t read it all, but the first line suggests that I’m either incompetent or mishandling cases. I have no doubt that the journalist is good friends with Jill Brown.
“That report is nothing but the product of a wild imagination and a witch hunt,” Claire says confidently, cutting me off.
“Exactly.” Stress pushes down my shoulders as I respond. “They can just say whatever they want and we … what?”
She nods, continuing before I can make my own guess. “We assume someone is doing an exposé on a member of the Assistant Attorney General’s office. A member with an impeccable record, but whatever ghosts you’re hiding, I think you should prepare for them to come to light.”
“Is there really nothing else they have to write about? Especially given that I’ve closed how many cases? My reputation is solid and one of the best on this team.”