Page 57 of Pulling Strings

Still standing, the investigator appeared pensive. Ienvied the sunglasses giving her the ability to discreetly stare, but she wasn’t very sneaky about it now. I hadn’t been let out to shower since the cafeteria fight, and I could tell she was inspecting me from my cheese sauce-ratted hair to my bloodstained coveralls.

At last, she sat. She crossed and uncrossed her legs a few times before asking, “How are you holding up? You look—”

“Like I’ve been sleeping on a wood board for the past five days?” I interjected. “Trapped under a nonstop spotlight like a lab specimen? Surviving on the shit they sweep off the cafeteria floor?”

Heat singed my face. Anger. At her, at Grimm, mostly at myself. I’d passed the denial stage of grieving while staring at the walls in the isolation cell. After this came bargaining, which may have been what Holland counted on. I’d get there soon enough. I’d experienced enough loss in my life to know how to power through a step program.

“I was going to say tired,” she said.

Breath left me like a teakettle’s whistle. “What do you want, Investigator?” I asked.

There were no snacks this time. No pretense. This meeting was as bare bones as the room that housed it.

“I want to give you one last chance to consider the trajectory of your life,” she replied. “And your ability to change it.”

Was I worth all this effort? According to Ripley, he’d taken this bait over a decade ago and the Capitol gained little, if anything, from it. He didn’t come out of it looking like much of a winner, either.

But they had me against a wall. Cooperate or die. I’d faced that decision when the commandoes surrounded me with guns in Jacoby Thatcher’s den. I’d gone along then and, while I had some cause to regret it, I wasawfully young to die.

The door opened, and a briefcase-toting man burst in. Not a guard, judging by his green velvet suit with a black shirt and tie underneath. A lime-colored orchid boutonniere adorned his jacket lapel. He beamed a smile at me and Holland, who rose quickly from her seat.

“Now, Miss Lyle,” he said, “I hope you aren’t conferring with my client in the absence of his legal counsel.”

20

Legally Speaking

I recognized Talbot Collier from local television ads touting him as the premier attorney for those accused of magical crimes. He was a floramancer, made obvious by his Poison Ivy color palette, and from the way his commercials were crowded with leafy plants and twisting vines.

Botanical skills contributed nothing to legal prowess, so I had to wonder at the truth in his advertisements, and why he referred to me as his client when I’d never spoken to him in my life.

Holland was equally confused, judging by the scrunch of her brow. She fished her phone out of her pocket and began flipping through it.

“I was under the impression Mister Farrow had been assigned a public defender,” she said, rapidly tapping the cell’s screen.

Talbot’s smile turned saccharine sweet. “The prosecution would like that very much, I’m sure.”

The lawyer completed his approach, looking like a peacock and acting like one, too, as he slid into the seat Holland had vacated. He slung his briefcase onto the table then opened it, lifting out folders and paperwork.

“But no,” he continued while unpacking. “My clientis a well-connected fellow. Of course he can afford more than a bumbling, barrel-bottom lawyer.”

He paused to give a wink that was more puzzling than anything. I’d been so consumed with avoiding trial that I’d made no preparations for the event it actually happened. I hadn’t hired a lawyer or even tried to call one. Not that I’d ever been offered a phone call.

Silence and the shuffling of Talbot’s papers filled the room.

Holland gave up clicking through her phone and switched to looking back and forth between the well-heeled lawyer and me.

Talbot glanced up. “Well, carry on,” he said. “I’m here now. What was it you wanted to speak to my client about?”

Holland floundered for a moment before regaining her mental footing. “Mister Collier, I believe it’s in Fitch’s best interest to consider a plea deal.”

I sighed and slumped in my chair. I was tired, Holland had been right about that. Exhausted, frankly, with people making decisions over my head and asking for my cooperation in things I didn’t want any part of. Maybe I could sneak in a nap while these two duked it out.

“Normally, that sort of thing would be presented by the Capitol’s legal team,” Talbot told her. “Are you authorized to negotiate on their behalf?”

“I am.” Holland nodded.

The lawyer beamed another sugary smile. “Whatdon’tyou do, Miss Lyle? Investigator, public relations specialist, and now legal consultant? You’re quite the Renaissance woman.”

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