Page 7 of The Right to Remain

12. BB’s mom

It went on for the full length of the page:BB’s mom.Helena averted her eyes, as if to say she’d seen enough.

The detective tucked the evidence bag into a folder. He gave Helena a moment and then asked, “Who’s BB?”

Helena caught her breath. “BB is short for Big Boy.”

“Who’s Big Boy?”

“It’s a nickname.”

“For?”

It had been six years since the adoption. Six years of arguments that had started at the hospital on the day their baby was born.

“Our son, Austen.”

“So, BB’s mom would be... you?”

“I’m his mother. So, yes, presumably. I’m ‘BB’s mom.’”

He took a notepad from his coat pocket, jotted something down, and then looked at Helena. “I’d like to talk to Austen.”

“He’s finally asleep. And it’s midnight.”

“I didn’t mean tonight. Do you mind if I talk to him in the morning?”

Helena considered it, but not for long. “Yes, actually, Idomind,” she said, rising.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” he said, but Helena walked right past him, heading toward the kitchen.

“Mrs. Pollard, you can’t go inside there,” said the detective. “Our team is still working.”

Helena stopped at the entranceway. She didn’t need to go all the way inside the kitchen to have a clear view. Owen. Dead on the floor. Behind him, white cabinets sprayed with blood. A shotgun lay beside him. The back of his head was missing.

Helena turned and faced the detective. “No one is to speak to Austen about this. Ever. Not as long as I’m his mother.”

Chapter 2

Jack Swyteck was at his desk preparing for his milestone one hundredth jury trial. He was literally sweating but not because he was nervous.

Jack had tried his first case just weeks out of law school, a “baptism by fire” that led to a four-year stint at the Freedom Institute, where lawyers defended only capital cases. He’d since opened his own practice, a mix of criminal and civil, but even if the case was “just about money,” Jack still treated it like a matter of life and death. Preparation was key.

Jack checked the thermostat on the wall. The digital display was flashing on and off in spastic bursts, making the setting and temperature indecipherable, and his office felt like Uganda at high noon.

“Why is it so god-awful hot in here?” asked Jack.

His assistant, Bonnie, popped into his office and left a stack of mail in his inbox. She was waving a laminated file folder like a handheld fan to keep cool.

“January is the new July. Haven’t you heard?”

It was Miami’s new climate mantra, and it was no compliment to January. Jack had grown up in South Florida. He’d always thought of January as perfect for anything outdoors, the one time of year to live without air-conditioning, the month of Miami’s only recorded snowfall, ever. July meant unbearable humidity, tetradactyl-sized mosquitos—and unmitigated panic when the AC was on the fritz.

“I hope we don’t have any clients coming in today,” said Jack.

“Just one. Your referral from Patricia Dubrow.”

Dubrow had been on the losing end of Jack’s ninety-ninth jury trial.It wasn’t every day that opposing counsel referred a client, and they’d spoken about the matter by telephone, but Jack had completely forgotten. “When?”