Page 55 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)

CHAPTER

TWO

“I can’t believe it! Three counts of capital murder!

” Tasha hugs my neck, then pulls back, her cool professionalism abandoned now that we’ve retreated to the offices of the district attorney on the fourth floor of the courthouse.

From the looks of it, everyone employed in every office of the courthouse—D.A.

, Clerk of Court, Probate, bailiffs—have come to celebrate the win.

“I know,” I say, and hug her again before finally stepping away. “I couldn’t tell from their expressions. They were so flat and…for a minute there…”

“You and everyone in this office,” interrupts Keel Evers, the other Mitchell County ADA.

He wasn’t at the table in the courtroom, but he was just as involved behind the scenes as the rest of us.

Tasha, Keel, and I spent many late nights poring over the evidence together, sleep-deprived and running on fumes.

His blue eyes are bright with victory, echoed in his ear-to-ear grin.

Keel hands me a champagne flute.

“I can’t stay,” I say, actually disappointed that I can’t. “It’s already four o’clock and I have somewhere to be soon.”

“Oh, come on. I’ve got a date too,” Keel says, pushing the flute at me.

“You’ve always got a date,” Tasha says, rolling her eyes.

“My appointment is business, not a date,” I tell them .

“Look, it’s just ginger ale,” Keel assures me, running a hand through his short, spiky auburn hair. “We’re still on the clock for another hour.”

A couple of minutes can’t hurt. “Okay, you win,” I say, taking the flute. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” they echo, and we clink our glasses together. We all take a sip, then stand there, grinning stupidly at each other because we don’t know what else to do.

It’s finally over.

“Sophie.” The voice comes from behind me, and I turn to see District Attorney March approaching from his private office, his outstretched hand large enough to grasp three of mine.

We shake as he towers over me, and though I’d like to remain guardedly pleased, I can’t help but smile. “Sir.”

“I can’t thank you enough for your excellent work. I know it was a long time coming, but in the end, you got us there.”

“Teresa Anders got us there.”

“Mmm. You’re right about that,” he says, his deep voice taking on a somber note.

“How are the families?” I ask. When the verdict was announced, their reactions ranged from weeping to utter silence and bowed heads.

March tips his head toward the elevator. “Gathered them in the conference room downstairs. They’re…coping. Grateful for the verdict, but starting to realize it doesn’t bring the peace they were hoping for.”

I know that truth all too well. I learned it the hard way.

“They’re anxious for the sentencing phase to begin,” March continues, “to see if Fogerty gets the death penalty.”

Keel raises his glass in a mock toast. “If anyone should…”

“We’ll see on Monday,” March says. The sentencing phase begins next week, allowing both sides to prep over the weekend.

March gives my shoulder a job-well-done pat.

“I need to go speak to someone, if you’ll excuse me.

Excellent job, Tasha. Keel,” he says, nodding at them in turn, then crossing to the other side of the room.

They both look at me, their eyebrows shooting toward the ceiling. “Were those compliments?” Tasha asks.

“Couldn’t be,” Keel says, smirking .

“I think they were,” I say, knowing how rare compliments from March are.

“Guess it’s a day for miracles,” Tasha says.

“Thank God,” I echo, and mean it literally.

“So,” Tasha starts, “we’re taking a break for a couple of hours, then meeting back here to start prepping for sentencing. Want to join after your meeting?”

I shake my head. “My job’s done here. New case is calling.”

“Movin’ on already?” Keel asks.

“Isn’t that what your dates say when you don’t call them back?” Tasha taunts.

“Mmm. Just because you haven’t had a date in two years?—”

“I’m married. There’s a big difference between that and?—”

“While you two battle it out over who’s got the better love life, I’ve got actual work to do,” I say, setting my flute down. I pick up the leather backpack I use for a purse off a nearby desk and throw it over my shoulder.

“Headed to Grace’s?” Keel asks, then tosses back the last of the soda in his flute.

I point at him and wink. “Right in one.” I walk backwards so I’m still facing them, closing the distance between me and the elevator. “Don’t work too late. You’ve got Saturday and Sunday to get ready.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tasha replies, her expression sliding into neutral, “but I want to be sure and get this right.”

Nodding and still moving toward the door, I say, “If you do need me…call.”

Even though I make the offer, I know they won’t need my help. At this point, they’ve got everything they need to make their case for removing Fogerty from this life.

Whatever Tasha and Keel’s personal choices might be between the death penalty or life without parole, D.A. March has made it clear that their job is to convince the jury that the only appropriate outcome for Fogerty is the same one he gave his victims.

Death.

When I reach the first floor, though it’s an hour after the verdict, the place is still a madhouse.

It’s not a big building as county courthouses go, so it doesn’t take much to turn it into a zoo.

I push through the clumps of people milling around and journalists preparing for live or recorded reporting.

A few of Teresa’s family members are sitting on a bench in the hall and I give them a sympathetic nod. They soberly return the gesture.

I’m forcibly reminded of the time when I was in their position—working to process a guilty verdict, to absorb that outcome, wishing it filled more of the hole inside than it does.

I steel my core and give my head a shake.

Enough reminiscing. You’ve got a client to meet.

Outside on the courthouse steps, a breeze catches the strands of my long brown hair that have fallen out of its loose twist. Holding back the dancing ends in one hand, I head for my Jeep Cherokee, which I parked in the employee lot on the side.

I’m glad I don’t have to walk several blocks like most of the folks here.

A primo parking spot is one of the few perks of working on and off for the District Attorney and/or the Sheriff’s Department.

Mother Nature has finally woken from her winter sleep, and as I cross the asphalt, the potent scent of blooming Bradford pear trees hits me like smelling salts.

The long day has drained my energy a bit, but this revives me.

I’ve never particularly enjoyed the aroma, but it definitely is an eye opener.

And I’ve found being alert is helpful when meeting a client.

I’m nearly to the SUV when I notice a yellow sheet of lined paper, folded in half, then half again, stuck beneath the driver’s side windshield wiper.

I stop walking and scan the lot. Though loads of people are in the vicinity, no one seems to be looking at me or carrying themselves in a way that suggests they’re watching me.

I snatch the note and hold it up to the light.

Nothing appears to be hidden inside the folds.

After another glance around me reveals no one waiting to pounce, I unfold it.

Capital letters scrawled in black ink fill the center of the page .

CONGRATULATIONS ON A JOB WELL DONE. PROUD OF YOU.

I look up, sweeping the area again before checking the street. Then the building steps. The courthouse entrances.

Nothing.

I can’t imagine who would have left this. Tasha and Keel wouldn’t need to—they could have just told me upstairs—and D.A. March certainly wouldn’t be leaving notes of approval on my Jeep.

I skip right over my fiancé. This isn’t his kind of thing. Flowers delivered to my home, sure, but not this.

I’ve got no family in Riverview.

Not that my family knows what my car looks like—or is proud of me.

My landlords, Grady and Ellen, might have left it, though I didn’t see them here today and, frankly, it’s not their style either.

The only other person who might say something like they’re proud of me is Grace, but the wording doesn’t sound remotely like her.

Plus, I’m about to head to her place, so why would she come all the way down here to leave me a note?

Could it have been one of Daniel’s buddies? Someone who would feel silly saying this to my face, but wanted me to know how they felt?

Possibly, but I doubt it. Something about the message strikes me as…off. Not necessarily dangerous, just…weird.

Whatever it is, I don’t have the time or energy to solve this mystery today. I thrust the note into my bag, then turn to unlock the door, determined to give what little oomph I’ve got left to my client.

“Get a love letter?”

The drawling voice dripping with menace growls from behind me. I spin to find Harlan Fogerty standing a dozen feet away. I have no idea how I didn’t see him.

Unless he made sure I didn’t. There’s plenty in this lot to use as cover.

“Did you leave it?” I accuse more than ask, hardening my tone to match his.

I’m not alone out here, but that doesn’t mean I’m not in danger.

Guys like Harlan act before thinking and worry about the going-to-jail consequences later.

If he’s decided to finally give in to his lesser angel and lash out, the fact that several sheriff’s deputies are within striking distance won’t make any difference.

“Leave you a love letter?” he says, then scoffs. “I’ve got something different in mind.”

He takes a step toward me. I would move backward, but I’m already pressed against my Jeep and have nowhere to go. If I try to jump inside—the door auto-unlocks with the key fob I carry on me—I’d still have to swing the door open, slide in, then shut and lock it before he reaches me.

I’m fast, but he’s moved closer, so now we’re only separated by a few feet.

I’m not that fast.