Page 13

TWELVE

SARAH MORGAN

I’m greeted with an unpleasant but expected sight when I pull my Range Rover into the Morgan Foundation office parking lot. A half dozen reporters are leaning up against their respective news vans. Cameramen stand at the ready, waiting for me, eager to get the first sound bite. They’re probably the same ones who were lingering at the end of my driveway this morning when I left to run some errands and drop Summer off at school. I’m sure as soon as I was out of sight, they packed up their stuff and raced to beat me here.

I park in my designated spot, which is thankfully numbered rather than marked with my name. It gives me a moment to gather myself before anyone notices my arrival. I considered staying home for the day, but the foundation needs me, and I have work to do. Stealing a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, I check my makeup and find in my reflection the woman I need to be today. There she is. She looks almost the same, but there’s more depth behind those green eyes. I reapply my lipstick and smile back at her.

As soon as my stilettos hit the pavement, I hear it.

“There she is!” followed by hurried footsteps as reporters race, trying to get to me first.

I close my car door behind me, toss my bag over my shoulder, and start walking.

“Ms. Morgan.”

“Sarah!”

They swarm, yelling over one another, making it impossible to hear any of their questions—not like I’d answer them anyway. Cameras click and flash, and microphones are thrust into my face. One of them bops me in the mouth, and I swat it away.

A deep voice cuts through it all. “Hey!” he yells. “Get the hell back and give her some space.”

Alejandro appears from within the crowd, pushing through the flock of pesky reporters. When he reaches me, he turns and stretches his arms out at his sides, creating a barricade of sorts between myself and them. My eyes skim over his back, taking him all in—his broad shoulders, hair cut short and neat, and his thick neck. A collage of colorful tattoos extends the length of it, continuing beneath his fitted, long-sleeve Henley. Alejandro flicks his hands at the reporters, demanding they move back. He has the physique and stature of a bodyguard paired with the hardened look of a criminal, so they do as he says.

The media falls silent as they take their new places, a safe distance from me. Satisfied, Alejandro looks over his shoulder and bobs his head. I press my lips firmly together and return the gesture, signaling to him that I’m good. He then steps to my side, giving me full view of the crowd.

One reporter finally speaks up, saying, “Ms. Morgan, will you be making a statement?”

I steal a deep breath and nod, knowing I have to say something but unsure as to what that something should be. I know what they want to hear. I can see it on their faces. I should be outraged, crushed, devastated. Given the news of Sheriff Stevens’s connection to the Kelly Summers case—which was only news to them, not me—I should want to scorch the earth beneath me. That’s the sensationalism they crave, so that’s what I’ll give them. I clear my throat before I begin and summon a sadness from somewhere deep inside. Emotion sells, and what they’re looking to sell is outrage.

“Good morning. My name is Sarah Morgan, and twelve years ago, I defended my husband Adam in a court of law after charges were brought against him for the murder of Kelly Summers and her unborn child. As his wife, I knew he was innocent. I knew he was incapable of murder, but I was unable to convince a jury of that fact, and now I know why. One of the great unknowns in the Summers case was the identity of the third set of DNA found inside the victim. The Prince William County Sheriff’s Office assured me they had done their absolute best to uncover the truth.” I dramatically scan the crowd, watching them hang on my every word. “That was a bald-faced lie because they were playing by their own rules. My husband did not receive a fair trial, which was his right under the Constitution of the United States, one I swore to uphold, and one former sheriff Stevens swore to uphold too. Only one of us kept that oath.” I pause for a moment because it’s a nice sound bite, and I hope the media will run with it.

“I started the Morgan Foundation because I believe in justice, but I also believe in reform and second chances. To learn that my Adam never got a chance to begin with is beyond devastating.” I stare into the lens of the camera belonging to the biggest news station. “And what I can’t stop thinking about, what kept me up all last night, and maybe what will forever keep me awake... is what Adam’s fate might have been if the truth had been allowed to present itself in that courtroom all those years ago.” I conjure thoughts that I know will bring me to tears—my beautiful daughter lying in a casket, me standing over her, looking at a life cut short. Losing her is the only thing I’m afraid of. My eyes instantly well up.

“Sorry,” I say, pretending my emotions are raw and out of my control. I clear my throat and continue. “My husband was taken from me at the hands of the commonwealth of Virginia, in the name of justice. But you tell me—how is it justice when the evidence that could have set Adam free was buried? How is it justice when the person overseeing the investigation was engaged in an illicit affair with the victim? That’s not justice at all; that is corruption; that ... is murder .” I add some fire to the word murder as I make eye contact with each reporter, ensuring they not only hear my words but feel them too. I want them to remember this moment, and I want them to carry it with them when they go off and do their reporting.

“If our legal system isn’t able to provide justice... then I will. Thank you, and I won’t be taking any questions at this time.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence when I finish my statement, and Alejandro immediately escorts me through the crowd, toward the office building. The haze that has overtaken them wears off after only a few seconds, and they start to swarm again, trailing behind us, questions erupting in a fury. The media can never help themselves. They always want more. Give them an inch, and they’ll take your whole life. I keep walking with the intention of not saying another word. But one question stops me dead in my tracks, and a reporter following closely behind collides with me due to my sudden halt.

“Get back!” Alejandro yells, creating more distance between us and them. He leans into me and whispers, “Are you all right?”

I lock eyes with him and nod before slowly turning to face the ambush of reporters one last time.

“Can you repeat that?” I say to the woman who asked the question.

All eyes fall on her, and she clears her throat. “What’s your reaction to the statement Eleanor Rumple gave to the media this morning? Adam’s mother... your mother-in-law or former...”

I hold my hand up to cut her off. “I know who Eleanor is, but unfortunately, I haven’t had a chance to listen to her statement, so I can’t comment on it.”

“Eleanor stated that she plans to file a lawsuit against the Prince William County Sheriff’s Office for concealing exculpatory evidence, and if successful, she’ll follow that up with a wrongful death suit. Do you support her?” The reporter extends the mic in my direction.

I consider my answer, but I can’t bring myself to say I support Eleanor.

Instead, I land on, “I support justice.”

“How do you feel about the fact that she’s also accused you of mishandling Adam’s case?” the same reporter quickly adds.

How am I even supposed to answer that stupid question? I feel great. I love that my crypt keeper of a mother-in-law is continuing to screw with me after all these years.

I should refuse to comment any further, but I know that old, vile woman is watching, grinning ear to ear, and if I can wipe away the smug smile that’s surely plastered across her face, I will.

“I’ll be honest, it saddens me that Eleanor would even think that, let alone say it out loud, but I do have to give her grace. She lost her husband before she lost her only son, so she’s been alone for a long time. Eleanor has spent many of her golden years grieving, and given her age, she may not have many more left, but I do empathize with her.”

I bite my tongue to stop myself from chuckling because I know the mention of her age will piss her off more than anything. “I’d also like to note that Eleanor’s memory of her son’s trial is not the best, and with the recent discovery of new DNA evidence, I can understand how confusing that must be for an elderly woman.” I’m sure she’s blowing a gasket now. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and her heart will give out, and she’ll just drop dead. Then again, Eleanor never had a heart to begin with.

“Despite what my mother-in-law has falsely claimed regarding my legal work, I’d like to make it clear that I did everything in my power to defend my husband Adam. However, when pertinent evidence was intentionally withheld from the case, that power was taken from me, and now that the truth has finally been revealed, I will be taking it back. Thank you.”

I turn to leave, and Alejandro walks in step with me while the media, once again, follows closely behind, yelling over one another. But this time, I won’t answer any more of their questions. I’ve given them enough to run with.

We reach the office building, and Alejandro holds open the lobby door so I can pass through first. He jerks it closed behind him, leaving reporters shouting on the other side. I walk farther into the empty lobby, my heels clicking along the tile floor. Roger, the building’s security guard, isn’t at the front desk, and I assume he’s out on a cigarette break since he takes at least a dozen of those a shift.

Alejandro strolls toward me, a look of concern plastered across his face.

“What are you doing here?” I ask before he can say anything.

“I was driving by when I saw all the news vans and curiosity got the best of me, so I decided to stop and check out what was going on. Then I saw you and figured you could use some help dealing with them.” He shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.

“Well, thanks. I appreciate what you did out there.” I tightly smile.

“Of course.” He shrugs. “It’s the least I could do, especially considering you’re giving me something no one else has.”

“And what’s that?”

“A second chance.”

His eyes lock with mine, and it’s like we’re studying each other, deciding on boundaries, whether to keep them where they are or maybe push them a little. The reporters are still standing outside, yelling muffled questions.

“It’s the least anyone can do,” I say.

He smiles, and then his face turns serious. “Ya know, I don’t know everything that’s going on... I picked up the gist of it from those banshee reporters.” Alejandro motions to the door. “But I’m here if you wanna talk.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I say because this isn’t something I want to talk about with him or anyone, for that matter. This all should have stayed in the past where it belongs.

“How’s the apartment?” I ask only to change the subject before he pries any further.

“It’s great. I wasn’t expecting it to be so nice.”

“It’s meant to reflect what you’re capable of achieving. Sometimes we have to see ourselves as the person we want to be before we can become that person.”

“That’s a good sentiment,” Alejandro says. “The clothes fit nicely too.” He gestures to his outfit.

My eyes skim from the white tennis shoes to the blue jeans to the waffle-knit, long-sleeve top that fits like a second skin.

“They do.”

He rocks back on his heels and cracks a small smile. “Well, I should leave you to it. I don’t wanna take up any more of your time, and I’ve got some more job applications to fill out anyway.” He folds his lips in.

“How’s that going?”

“Really well... that is, until they find out I have a felony conviction.” He shrugs. “I’ve actually been looking for a while, but I’m hoping with the help of your foundation’s career resources, I won’t be looking for much longer.”

“I hope so too. Removing the barrier to employment for people with felon status is a major focus for the foundation.” I stare into his eyes, mulling over an idea that’d be mutually beneficial for the two of us. “You know, I might have something for you. If you’re interested. It’s temporary, but it’d give you something to do and some extra cash.”

“I am,” he says without hesitation. “I’d take anything at this point.”

“Anything?” I arch a brow.

“Anything legal, I mean.”

I notice a shade of crimson settles onto his cheeks as I fish a pad of paper and a pen from my purse and scribble down an address.

The sound of heels rapidly crossing the lobby floor catches my attention, and I glance over my shoulder to find Anne racing toward me. I tear the paper from the pad and fold it up before slipping the pen and notebook back in my bag.

“Sarah! Oh, thank God, there you are!” Anne exclaims, slowing her pace now that she’s located me. “I’m so sorry. One of the associates just noticed all the news vans parked out front. I swear they weren’t here when we arrived. Did they swarm you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, and yeah, they did. But luckily, Alejandro happened to be in the area, and he got me out of there.”

Anne looks up at him, grinning as she extends her hand. “That is lucky. It’s nice to see you again.”

“Likewise,” he says, shaking her hand.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Roger yells as he shuffles into the lobby. He’s an older man with a bad back and a nicotine problem. Despite that, he’s tough as nails.

“It’s the media, Roger,” Anne says.

“You mean, fake news?” He chuckles to himself. The stench of cigarette smoke reaches us before he does. “What do they want?”

“Doesn’t matter what they want, because they always want more,” I say.

“Ain’t that the truth.” He makes a humph sound. “Buncha bloodsuckers.”

“Can you make sure they stay out of the building?” Anne tightens her eyes.

“That won’t be a problem at all.” He grins and pats the revolver clipped to his hip.

I press my lips firmly together. “Roger, you can’t shoot them.”

An amused look settles on his face as his other hand goes to his Taser. “Who said anything about shooting?”

Anne scolds Roger while I extend the folded paper to Alejandro. “Saturday morning at seven,” I say loud enough for only him to hear.

He takes it from me and bobs his head as he pockets the slip. From a professional standpoint, I shouldn’t be offering him this, but I feel like I owe him. Plus, there’s something intriguing about him, and I want to find out what that is.

I turn my attention to our security guard. “Roger, would you mind escorting Alejandro through the back entrance?”

“Sure thing, boss. I could go for another cigarette anyway.” He looks to Alejandro, beckoning him with his hand. “Let’s go, Muscles.”

Alejandro mouths thank you to me and then waves before he and Roger exit to the back, disappearing around the corner. My gaze veers to the lobby door, where reporters are still loitering, peering through the window to try to get a better look inside. I’m going to be under a microscope until this whole thing gets settled, and it’s the last thing I need. All eyes on me, the devastated widow. It’s not what I want right now, but I can play that part and I can play it well. Because I’ve done it before. It’s like I’m an actress reprising a role that fans just couldn’t get enough of.

Anne rests a hand on my shoulder, startling me, and I turn my head to meet her gaze. “I saw the news segment. I can’t believe it. Does this mean Adam was innocent?” she says softly, furrowing her brow.

“He always was to me.”

“I know, but legally, I mean... What’s going to happen now?”

I blow out hot air before I speak. “I’m not sure. There’s no road map for these sorts of things, but I presume the sheriff’s office will be forced to reopen the Kelly Summers investigation, due to the blatant corruption involved with their initial one.”

Anne tucks her chin in like she’s thinking about the question she wants to ask next. “Do you think Sheriff Stevens killed Kelly?”

“I don’t know.”

She squeezes my shoulder and then drops her arm back to her side. “You already have so much going on with the divorce, and now... I can’t even imagine. The timing is just insane.”

Anne’s right about that. With the impending divorce... things could get messy, twisted even. The truth and Summer are the only things tying Bob and me to one another—but it feels more like a bow that could easily be unraveled rather than some intricate fisherman’s knot. If I had known this was going to come out, I would have waited until it blew over before I started the separation process. But it’s too late now. I can’t unring that bell. Plus, I really don’t want to. I acknowledge Anne’s sentiment with a nod.

“Shall we?” I say, motioning to the elevator that will take us to the Morgan Foundation offices. Anne gives me a tight smile, and we start toward it.

The word timing swirls around my brain as we wait for the elevator. The doors open, and Anne and I step inside, pressing the button for the third floor. The timing is a little too perfect. Last night after the news hit, Bob begged me to stay with him, to be a unified front, so we could get through this together. But now I can’t help but think: Did he have something to do with leaking it to the media? Like me, he has friends in all places, both high and low. Would he be that stupid or desperate? Would he think it would stop me from leaving him? No, I’m being paranoid. I shake the thought away.

“If the sheriff’s office reopens the investigation, what does that mean for the courts?” Anne asks. The doors close and the elevator starts to ascend.

“Nothing yet, but if they’re going to move on this, we should try to get ahead of it.”

“And how do we do that?”

I take a deep breath. I know the right answer, the one that will look best in the public’s eye. But it could make me vulnerable, and that’s the last thing I want to be. Doing nothing, though, might cast suspicion on me. The elevator doors open, and Anne steps out first. I stay put, mulling it over. I know what I have to do even though I don’t want to.

“We need to file a motion with the court to reopen Adam’s case,” I say.

Anne turns back, a determined look on her face.

“I want you to get a couple of associates on it right away. Plus, get in contact with our friends in DC. See what strings we can pull or favors we can cash in to get this moving through the court system ASAP.”

“I’m on it,” she says. The doors start to close, and she thrusts her hand out to stop them.

My phone rings, and I quickly retrieve it from my purse, seeing the word Unknown splayed across the screen.

“You coming?” Anne asks.

“No,” I say. “I’ve got some things I need to take care of, and I should answer this.”

“Okay. I’ll be in touch with any updates. Let me know if you need anything. But don’t worry. You’ve got the whole Morgan Foundation team behind you, Sarah.”

“Thanks, Anne.” I softly smile. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She withdraws her hand, allowing the doors to close.

I press 1R on the elevator, so I can go out the back to avoid the reporters. My phone continues to ring, and I hit Accept before bringing it to my ear. “Sarah Morgan speaking.”

“Sarah, this is Sheriff Hudson.”

I’m not surprised to hear his voice. I figured he’d be in touch sooner rather than later. The fact that it’s a call and not a visit tells me how ashamed and embarrassed he must feel. He’s got to backpedal and plead for forgiveness, or at least some understanding, during this trying time at the department.

“I assume you’re calling about the Kelly Summers case.”

“No,” he says. “That is now an open investigation, so I can’t share any details on that matter.”

It appears someone in that department finally knows how open investigations work. I liked it better when Stevens was the sheriff. He did nothing by the book, sharing details of the case with me and allowing me to walk through crime scenes—although that was all just to cover his own ass. I won’t be getting that type of insider information this time around, but I don’t think I’ll need it.

“Then, what’s this about, Sheriff?”

“I was calling to inform you that your client Ryan Stevens attempted suicide a little over an hour ago. He’s currently in critical condition at UVA.”

The elevator doors open, and I exit into a dimly lit back vestibule.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Sheriff. Stevens is no longer my client, though, but I do appreciate the call,” I say, hanging up the phone.