Page 24 of The Plan

Holland looked down at his papers. “Mr. Atkins?”

The opposing counsel, Ward’s guy, stood, all stoop-shouldered and sloppy looking, and gave some polished nonsense about property values and economic development. Holland let the words wash over him, barely listening. He already knew how this was going to end. It didn’t matter what Hiller argued, not today. Not with Ward watching. Hiller had lost before he’d even arrived. Holland just had to find the words to make it sound convincing.

Holland shifted in his seat, sneaking a glance toward the back. Ward caught his eye and gave the smallest shake of his head. Don't even think about it.

Holland wiped his palm on his robe and nodded slightly. “Let’s move on.”

The case dragged on. Hiller pushed every chance he had, laying precedent after precedent at Holland’s feet.

Hiller wouldn’t give up.

And he was setting up for an appeal. Doing a damned fine job of it, too. Holland could see Ward getting more and more pissed as the case dragged on. As Hiller just continued.

And damn it, Hiller was the brightest attorney to have stepped foot in Holland’s courtroom. Holland didn’t know how long he could keep this going, keep playing cat and mouse with George Hiller. The man just saw too much.

Holland’s head pounded. He could feel the sweat building under his collar, but he didn’t wipe it away. He just wanted it over. Finally, Holland brought down the gavel.

His voice cracked as he found against Hiller, and he hated how it sounded in the near-empty courtroom. Hiller hadn’t lost. Not really. And Holland was jeopardizing his own damned career right now. He was tightening the noose on himself. Just because of Ward.

Damn it, he hated Ward and he hated Hiller. Most of all, Holland hated himself for getting messed up with Wyatt Ward in the first place. The money just wasn’t worth it any longer.

Hiller didn’t say anything at first. He just sat there, staring at the papers in front of him, like he was trying to decide whether or not to say what Holland knew was sitting on the tip of his tongue. Then, too slow for Holland’s liking, he stood and walked toward the bench.

Holland stiffened.

Hiller set an envelope down. “Motion for reconsideration, Your Honor.”

Holland stared at it like it might catch fire. Hiller had already had it prepared. Because he’d known exactly what Holland would do today. They were in a chess game now. And Hiller was winning. Hiller didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked out, his steps slow and deliberate.

Holland snatched the envelope off the desk, stuffing it under the stack of papers. He barely heard the shuffle of people leaving the courtroom.

Hiller had known—Hiller had known what he was going to say, even before he said it. Because he saw right through Holland and always had.

Back in his chambers, Holland dropped into his chair and yanked open the bottom drawer, pulling out a half-empty bottleof whiskey. He poured a shot into a coffee mug, his hands shaking just enough to slosh a little onto the desk.

The door creaked open. Ward didn’t knock. He never did. He didn’t think he had to now. They knew who really ran things around here now.

“You’re losing your touch, Judge.” Ward walked to the desk, helping himself to the whiskey bottle, pouring a bit into another mug. “Hiller’s got you nervous.”

Holland scowled. “He has nothing.”

“Sure about that? Seemed like he had something today. You going to do something about it?”

Holland wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll handle it.”

Ward leaned in, resting his hands on the desk, too close, too comfortable. “Do it fast.”

Holland sat there long after Ward left, staring at the empty mug in his hand. He’d handle it.

He had to.

Holland just didn’t know how.

18

The Value IGA'sfluorescent lights cast a harsh glare across the nearly empty parking lot. She had escaped George—and ended up here. It was that whole eat thing. Her cabinets were completely bare right now—she’d been trying to save up some money to fix the car and everything.

Anthony had taken one look at her cabinets and started lecturing—before he’d even noticed the pregnancy books in her kitchen. He’d given her a couple of twenties out of his wallet and told her to buy food for herself—or he would scoop her up and take her home with him. To Olivia.

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