Page 38 of Pulling Strings

“Sorry,” he muttered, dodging my gaze.

“Five minutes, gentlemen,” one of the guard chaperones rumbled.

Sweat prickled on the back of my neck. I leaned in, cupping a hand over my mouth and the phone receiver.

“Tell me they have something else in mind,” I whispered. “I know it won’t be easy, but it’s doable, right? If they really try?” It was harder and harder to keep things vague while my anxiety mounted.

My brother’s blank expression was the furthest thing from comforting. I tried again. “Did he know you were coming here? Were you supposed to tell me something?”

Cognition flashed in Donovan’s eyes. “Oh, yeah!”

I nodded. “Thank God. What is it?”

“He wants you to talk to a guy named Ripley Vaughn.”

My fingers fell away from my lips, and I slumped in my seat. “You’re kidding.”

Donovan frowned. “Do you know him?”

A breath escaped through clenched teeth. “No, I don’t know him, and I don’t want to, either. I want…” I paused, rephrasing in my mind before concluding, “I want to talk about the trial. Or, you know, the eight days I have left until the trial.”

“Maybe this Ripley guy is supposed to help?” Donovan said hopefully.

My jaw tightened. “Sure, sure. So, I talk to him. Then what?”

“You’re supposed to tell him he’s welcome back.”

“Back where?” As soon as I asked, I went cold. “They’re replacing me?”

“No!” Donovan shook his head, unsettling his mussed brown hair. “No, I don’t think so.”

My shove back from the table stretched the phone cord to its limit. “They’re fucking replacing me. And they wantmeto tell this bitch he’s in? Fuck that.”

“Settle down, inmate.” One of the guards closed in from behind, pulling a baton from his duty belt.

Donovan glanced from the approaching threat to me with fear in his eyes. “Fitch, that’s not it. It can’t be.”

“Tellhim—” I snarled the word with the same vehemence I wished I could say Grimm’s name, “I’m not doing any favors until I get a goddamned guarantee I won’t be in a courtroom next Friday. Lack of evidence, my ass. I’m not going.”

There were no goodbyes, which I regretted before I even made it out of the visitation room. I tried to lookback at Donovan, but he’d been whisked away. By the time the guard and I arrived at my cell, my stomach was roiling with a mix of anger and unease. The withdrawals weren’t helping, either.

“Hold it, inmate.” The guard stopped me with a gruff command.

I tried and failed to clear the agitation from my face before turning toward the other man.

“I have something for you,” he added in a low voice, leaning in.

Was it contraband? Cigarettes? Booze? I hoped for too much, which made the black ribbon and pendant he produced a bitter disappointment.

“Take it!” He shoved it into my chest.

Catching the jewelry in my palm, I looked down to inspect it. A cameo necklace, blue and white set in silver. It was vintage and strung on a piece of satin that bore creases from frequent wear. It ranked among the strangest presents I’d ever received, right up there with the toupee Avery stole from that human ambassador last year.

The guard lingered, whispering. “Came from your visitor. He said you might need it. For a welcome gift.”

It took every ounce of my self-control not to drop the necklace on the ground and stomp it.

“Thanks,” I told the guard through gritted teeth.

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