Page 2 of Where Secrets Lie

“You had a cut on your head where it hit the bench on your way down.”

He rubbed his head. “I was afraid I was bleeding all over your dress. I’m glad we aren’t replaying that fiasco.”

She took a sip of her sweet tea and waited while the server delivered their oysters. “A simple sheath will suit me fine.Maybe a pale blue one. You can wear a suit instead of a tux. Jess will be my maid of honor, of course. Who do you want for your best man? Maybe Blake?”

“I was thinking about asking Simon. He might actually say yes if he doesn’t have to wear a tux.”

“Oh, Hez, he would love that! I’d assumed you’d ask Blake or Jimmy. Jimmy’s done a lot for you.”

“It would be hard to choose between them, but they’d both understand if I ask Simon.” He took an oyster shell and slid the meat into his mouth. “Wow, these are good. Have one.”

She picked up one and ate it. The salty taste tantalized her taste buds, and she swallowed it down with a cracker. “So good.” She gave him a mischievous smile. “We could ask Jimmy to be the ring bearer.”

Hez chuckled. “That’s quite a mental picture. He’d make four of Simon.”

“We could tell the guests he’s your bouncer and is there to keep you from backing out.”

“Or maybe to keep you from running away.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere. I have a chain in the car ready to use on you, though.”

His smile vanished. “I will never leave, Savannah. I learned from my mistakes.”

“We both did.” She withdrew her hand to take a look at the menu. “The specials sound great, but I must have my favorite shrimp étouffée.”

A server carried a bottle of wine and two stemmed glasses past their table. Hez’s gaze followed the trajectory as the man delivered the wine with a flourish to the couple next to them. The familiar bottle with its black-and-copper label remindedher of the last time Hez had ordered his favorite Nth Degree chardonnay. After too many refills, she’d had to steady him for the walk back to the Bayfront Inn.

Hez cleared his throat. “I love it too, but I’m not sure it will taste the same with water instead of a good chardonnay.” He inclined his head toward the other table. “Looks like a few more people have discovered our favorite label.”

Hisfavorite label. She struggled to keep her smile in place. She’d be happy if she never saw another bottle of wine in her life. She’d read that 85 percent of alcoholics relapsed in the first year and 90 percent in the first four years. Knowing Hez, she was sure he was aware of those statistics and was determined to be in the small percentage of people who stayed the course. She didn’t understand the struggle he faced, but she wanted to. And she wanted to help in any way she could.

She studied his wistful expression. Was he missing the taste of the wine, or was he thinking of happier times and the things they’d celebrated? Or were good wine and good times inextricably intertwined in his memories? It began to dawn on her that this might be a lifelong battle for him.

Chapter 2

Hez sat in the front row of the old courtroom gallery, stomach full of razor-winged butterflies. He was a veteran of dozens of felony trials—many in this very courtroom—but he’d always been one of the attorneys dueling in the front or a spectator watching from the gallery. This would be the first time he experienced one as a crime victim—and a witness.

Hez’s old friend Hope Norcross stood from the prosecution table at the front of the courtroom. “The People call Hezekiah Webster.”

Hez walked down the aisle and across the open space known as the “well of the court” to the witness stand. He could feel every eye on him, and for once he didn’t like the sensation.

The bored-looking bailiff pushed himself to his feet as Hez approached. “Raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.” Hez took his seat on the witness stand. The courtroom seemed bigger and more intimidating from this perspective. Rows of reporters filled the gallery benches, watching expectantly. A man and a woman in expensive suits sat at the defense table. The defendant was Beckett Harrison,the slimy former provost of Tupelo Grove University who had first tried to steal Savannah’s heart and then attempted to murder them both, along with their nephew, Simon. Beckett’s dark hair was perfectly coiffed, and he looked relaxed and comfortable, like he was waiting for a board meeting to start. But his brown eyes followed Hez with cold hatred.

The woman beside Beckett watched Hez with an unsettling smile tugging at the corners of her perfect lips. Beckett’s attorney, Martine Dubois, wore a charcoal-gray suit and a white blouse that set off her tan. A silver clip gathered her blonde hair at the nape of her neck, accentuating her strong cheekbones and almond-shaped brown eyes, the only features hinting that her mother was half Vietnamese. Hez had known her since law school, and he did not look forward to being cross-examined by her.

Hope arranged her notes on the lectern. She was five years younger than Hez and barely reached five and a half feet, even with the three-inch heels she wore to court. Still, she managed to project strength and confidence—a confidence Hez knew she didn’t feel today.

Hope couldn’t tell Hez what she thought about the Beckett Harrison case, but she didn’t have to. She and Hez had been friends since she first walked into the DA’s office as an intern a decade ago and he became her mentor. Ordinarily, she’d be bubbling with excitement over a high-profile trial like this. She couldn’t say anything specific because Hez was a witness and not her co-counsel, but her enthusiasm and energy should have been palpable over the past few weeks. They weren’t. In fact, she had been tense and unhappy whenever they got together for coffee or a run.

It wasn’t hard to guess Hope’s problem. There was a right way and a wrong way to try the Harrison case—and she was doing it the wrong way.

The right way to prosecute Beckett Harrison would have been to do it in at least two trials, maybe more. Beckett had committed a series of crimes, including two murders. The case against him for some of the crimes was a slam dunk. But the evidence for others—including both murders—was much thinner, at least for now. Hope could have tried Beckett on the slam-dunk charges now to put him in prison for a few years. Then she could have built her case on the murders and other crimes while he was safely behind bars and charged him whenever she was ready. Instead, she had charged everything at once. That decision would have come from the DA himself: Elliot Drake.

Drake was up for reelection, and he considered himself an excellent candidate for governor someday. Future governors didn’t bring piecemeal cases that would barely merit a mention in the local newspaper—they brought big, splashy cases that would capture the media’s attention statewide. So Hope was stuck trying a big, splashy case that she could well lose.

Compounding Hope’s problem, Beckett had hired a smart lawyer. Defense attorneys usually wanted months or even years to prepare for trial because the prosecution had a huge head start since they’d finished investigating the case before bringing charges. But Martine correctly read the situation and pressed for the earliest trial date she could get, gambling that her odds of an acquittal would only go down if both sides had time to do a full investigation.

---