Page 92 of Walking Away

A muscle ticked in Evan’s cheek. “I’ve already got a deal in motion.”

“A proffer,” the lawyer said, as if the word bored him. “You got a letter that protects your statements—in exchange for cooperation. That’s very nice. It’s also very… provisional.”

He flipped open the folio—paper sliding like silk. “Here’s the reality. You’re going to prison for a while. Whether you end up with a full commissary and a soft landing, or you spend your nights bartering for toothpaste, depends on how clean you keep this.”

Evan went very still. “Clean.”

“You plead not guilty at arraignment.” The attorney’s tone never rose. “Standard posture. Then your public defender chases the best offer. On the morning of trial—if they hand you something worth taking—you take it. You’ll plead to assault-related counts. You will not mention my client at any stage. You will not weave his name into your narrative. Ever.”

“If I don’t?”

The lawyer’s mouth made something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Then you’ll discover how small a cell can feel without commissary—and how long a year is when your name isn’t on anybody’s list.”

Evan studied the cufflinks. They caught the fluorescent glare and threw it back.

“They already know I gave them the ridge cabin,” he muttered. The lease was in his name, like all the others. Jason had made sure of that. Jason’s name was nowhere—only on the rental car.

The attorney’s gaze never moved. “Then you’ll tell the truth about the assault. You’ll be very brave about your mistakes. You will not allege any conspiracy beyond your own poor judgment. You will not—under any circumstance—attempt to implicate Mr. West.”

The vent ticked as it cycled to stop.Jason’s hand on his shoulder—friendly, heavy, temporary.The room felt smaller.

Finally, he nodded once. “I’ll plead not guilty.”

“Good.” The attorney closed the folio with a soft thud. “We’ll revisit your courage on the morning of trial.” He stood, adjusted his cuff, and added, “Keep your mouth shut in the meantime. To everyone.”

The deputy opened the door. The attorney didn’t look back. Evan watched him go.

He looked at the card. Then at his own hands—steady now, not shaking. He hated that the stillness felt like relief. But the sound of her falling still found him in the dark.

Across town, the hum of another room took over—the steady rhythm of people who hadn’t slept in days.

Rhea Lancaster

Rhea hit the bullpen like a cold front—boots with her suit, copper hair twisted up, a yellow pencil speared through the knot.

A leather folio hugged her ribs; a violet-black fountain pen rode her lapel like a dagger.

“Where’s Parker?” she asked, scanning. “And I need the chain on the Tahoe—every hand that touched it, printed out.”

The bullpen hummed—a steady, relentless kind of sound that matched the hours and the work.

Sara Parker popped up from behind a monitor, already sliding a stapled packet across. “Chain of custody through eighteen-hundred last night; added my supplemental on the cabin sweep.”

The bullpen buzzed with ringing phones and clattering keyboards. Two deputies at the back whistled low as Parker walked past. She ignored them, but heat crept up her neck. Before she could snap, Scout shifted in his chair and leveled a stare. The grins vanished. Both men bent to their reports.

Heat rushed through Sara. That was Scout all over—quiet, intimidating, the kind of man who didn’t need to speak to make his point. She pretended not to notice, but a spark flared in her chest anyway.

“Good,” Rhea said, flipping pages as she walked. “You corrected the timestamp on your radio log.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Parker said, mouth twitching.

Lancaster tapped Scout’s shoulder with the folio as she passed. “Deputy Wilson. Your supplemental on the Tacoma—write what you saw. No loopholes.”

“Noted,” Scout said.

Every deputy in the county liked Lancaster and hated her at the same time. She’d gut you for sloppy paperwork, then stand like a wall in court when defense came swinging.

Izzy Moreno