Page 58 of Only Fate

I slide the folder off the desk, settle it on my lap, and flip through the top three pages. “What’s this?”

“A man from Blue Beech requested our services. We did our research and accepted his case. And since you apparently live there now,” she says with annoyance, “I’m asking you to help me. My caseload is full, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s innocent.”

Ninety-nine percent sure is huge for my mother. As someone who called it blasphemous to ever state you were one hundred percent about anything, it’s a rarity to even hear ninety-nine.

I flip back to the first page. “Reckless driving and felony manslaughter.”

“Prosecutors claimed he purposely hit a vehicle head-on with two teenagers and killed one. The entire town loved the kids and hated the man. He was the easy fall guy, and other than hearsay, the information doesn’t match up.”

“There are photos of his wrecked truck.”

“The man was drunk that night and had an alibi, and they never looked into anyone else.”

I close the folder. “I’ll look into it. Ask around.”

“An innocent man is behind bars, Adrian. I’m asking you to make this a priority.” She grabs her coffee mug, the PEP logo on it, and takes a drink. “I arranged for you to meet with him at the prison tomorrow. I’ll text you the details.”

“I’ll be there.” It’s not like I have a choice, but if an innocent man is in prison and I have the means to help, I will.

“Thank you.” She trades her cup for her phone and unlocks the screen. “I’m working late and ordering Chinese. Do you want to stay and eat?”

I close the folder and tuck it beneath my armpit before standing. “I can’t, but rain check?”

She nods. “Rain check.”

When I return to my car, I text Essie. She still hasn’t replied by the time I’m back in Blue Beech. On the drive to my mother’s office, I called and asked my abuela to make her infamous sopa de fideo—we call it the medicine soup. Anytime we get sick, she brings it over. It’s a miracle worker.

“Knock, knock,” I say, walking into her home without actually knocking.

She’s in the kitchen with Terrance. He’s washing dishes while she’s in front of the stove, stirring the soup. She drops the spoon on the counter and marches up to me, smacking her hand against my forehead to check my temperature.

“You’re not sick,” she says.

I shrug. “I had a craving for it.”

“What did I tell you about fibbing?” She swipes her oven mitt from the counter and whacks me on the side of the head with it. “If you’re taking this to someone else, don’t fib about it.” She retreats a step and returns the mitt from where she took it. “But one rule.”

Terrance laughs in the background while turning off the faucet.

I shut one eye and massage my head. “What’s that?”

“Don’t you dare take credit for making it.” She shakes her head, as if running out of patience with me. “No way will I allow a woman to start a relationship with a man she believes will cook for her, only to be disappointed later.” She skeptically stares at me. “And unless you plan to spend time with me in the kitchen, she’ll definitely be disappointed, my dear.”

I cross my arms and fake offense. “Well, that’s rude.”

She smiles brightly and pats my chest. “Rude but honest.”

“How do you know it’s for a girl?”

“Because I know everything.”

I kiss her cheek, not even bothering to argue.

She’s always had an intuition like that.

“Thank you,” I say. “I promise to tell her you’re the brains behind the soup.”

I never planned to take credit for the soup. I’d look more like an idiot by faking I could cook rather than telling her my expertise was in ordering pizza or blending a protein shake.

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