Page 27 of The Wrong Side of the Law

I swallow with difficulty—my mouth and throat have gone suddenly as dry as the Sahara—but there’s at least some comfort there.

“He’s okay, ma’am. Er, miss. He’s okay, but he is in custody.”

“In custody? You mean he’s under arrest.”

“Yes,” Mayfield answers. “But, listen, your mother is back now. She’s the one who was calling you. I’ll let you speak to her.”

“Stepmother,” I snarl, but nobody is on the other end to hear it.

Muffled voices come through the phone, then sniffling and finally Margaret’s choked-up voice.

“Em,” she whispers.

“I’m here, Margaret. What happened?”

“They arrested Francis Junior,” she says. “Right after the show. He went to put his guitar back in its case, and they arrested him! They say they found-”

Margaret’s voice drops so low that I can’t hear what she says.

“Speak up,” I tell her. “I couldn’t hear what you said.”

“Drugs!”she wails. “They founddrugsbut you know your brother would never do that! They’re not his! We swore we didn’t know what they were doing there, but the police arrested him anyway!”

“Okay, okay. I hear you now,” I say, fighting to keep my own calm. “We’re going to figure this out.”

“But-”

“First thing, you have to get him out on bail,” I tell her.

“I-, I- ca-han’t do it,” Margaret sobs. “I ca-han’t even post bail for him!”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

Margaret sobs for a moment more, then sniffles, composing herself before she continues speaking.

“It’s all gone, Emily,” she says quietly, with a brittle dignity so fragile you could shatter it with a breath. “There’s nothing left.”

“You know perfectly well that’s not true, Margaret,” I snarl. Her helpless act has me absolutely seeing red. “I’ve looked into the real estate. Those buildings that my father bought? They’re still owned by the Wilson Trust. All those tenants? They’re still paying rent. Why don’t you just skip a couple of Botox injections and use some of that money to pay for his bail and his lawyer?”

“Emily,” she says, softly. “There’snothing. At all.”

It takes every scrap of my willpower not to scream at her. It’s flat out impossible. Rita was able toprovethat we still own those buildings. Sheprovedthat the tenants are still paying their rents.

“Stay put, Margaret. I’m on my way.”

I hang up, stabbing my finger into the screen hard enough that the phone flexes in my hand. I’d throw it against the wall just for the satisfaction of watching it shatter, but I have a feeling that I’ll need every penny I have—and more than a few that I don’t have—to handle this fresh new hell into which my family has plunged me.

In a matter of minutes I’m dried off and dressed again, and considering my options as I drive back into town.

It can’t be true. It simply can’t. I keep repeating it to myself while driving, almost like a mantra. But what if it is? If there is even one thing in this world that is even more certain than death and taxes, it’s how much Margaret loves her son. I truly do believe that if there were any possible way for her to do it, she’d get Francis Junior a get out of jail free card. Even if it meant spending the rest of her life as a wrinkled hag dressed in rags, I believe she’d rescue him. If Margaret says she can’t do it…

The Point Lookout police station is quiet when I arrive. An officer behind a wire-reinforced bulletproof window calls Officer—no,Lieutenant—Mayfield downstairs for me. That name sounds familiar. Why?

“I’m Emily Wilson,” I tell him. “There has to be some kind of confusion here. This just… it’s insane. It’s ridiculous. Not all musicians are junkies!”

And then it hits me. LieutenantMayfield.

“And for God’s sake, youknowour family! Your sister. LisaMayfieldHatcher. Your wife! Jeanne-Michelle was our headmaster at All Saints’ Prep! She’s-”

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