Page 34 of The Wrong Side of the Law

A slow smile spreads across Cooper’s face, though his eyes are filled with cold calculation as he finally leans forward, reaching for the memory stick.

“Drop the ‘sir’ crap, will you please? Nobody else does that. My name’s Gabriel.” He looks at the sticky note, then back up at me. “David Banks? Who’s that?”

“He’s the District Attorney in Kern County, California, sir.”

“I said to cut it out with calling me that, Miss Wilson,” he says, smiling again. “Emily. May I call you Emily?”

This smile is different, though: it’s warm, and it actually reaches his eyes. Suddenly I feel awkward, unsure of myself. I don’t know what to do with my hands. Why does that even matter?

“I- ah, that is, yes. Of course. Gabriel.”

“Thank you,” he says. “And thank you for this, as well,” he adds, holding up the flash drive. “I’ll have a look at everything, and I’ll give this… David Banks? Yes. I’ll give him a call.”

“I think you’ll be very interested in what he has to say, si-Gabriel.”

What happened to the dynamic here? Five minutes ago we were ready to yell at each other again, and now we’re on a first name basis? Fighting the urge to fidget, I fold my hands behind my back.

“You should go home now, Emily,” he says. His voice is gentle, filled with kindness now, but when he says my name I feel goosebumps forming on my arm, and my scalp feels tingly. “Your family could probably use your strength right now.”

It takes a lot of long, deep breaths on the walk back to my car before I feel fully in control of myself again, and even then I need two tries to get the key in the ignition.

It has nothing to do with Gabriel Cooper, I tell myself. It’s just the stress of Francis Junior’s situation, piled on top of Margaret. That’s just overwhelming me right now. The only thing I felt when he looked at me, when he said my name, was relief that he wasn’t yelling at me. Ofcoursethat’s all it is. It’s not that I liked it when he looked at me, I just liked that he wasn’tangrywhen he looked at me.

Content with my rationalizations for the moment, I focus on the drive home. Tonight’s going to be ugly.

I told Margaret that there would almost certainly be nothing new to tell her during the work day, but she’s been endlessly texting me, looking for updates. If only she could put that much energy into finding bank statements and checkbooks, not to mention working with the property management company to find out what happened to our rental income. It’s so infuriating how she’s all over me when she wants to know something, but completely retreats and hides when I have questions.

“Oh, Dad,” I say, even though he’s not listening. “How could you do this to us? I know we were kids when you wrote the will, but how could you not see her for what she really is? Does love really just make you that blind?”

My stepmother descends on me the second I make it inside the house.

“Did you get the charges dropped?”

“Sure. Why not,” I say, suddenly exhausted. “Of course I did.”

Margaret’s jaw drops. Does she actually think I’m serious?

“You’re unbelievable, Margaret,” I sigh. “No, I didn’t get the charges dropped. I can’t do that!”

“You work for the State Attorney, don’t you? All of my friends tell me that you can do it.” Margaret recovers her poise and condescending tone quickly, turning this around as ifI’mthe one who doesn’t know how the world works. “You could make a case go away just like… like…” She waves an imaginary magic wand in the air. “Just likepoof!”

“No, Margaret, I can’t,” I say, raising a hand to preempt and possible protest. “Look, I’m not saying that some stuff, somesmallstuff, doesn’t ever get swept under the rug. But this isnotgoing away.”

“But-”

“No. No buts. Margaret, these are very serious charges. We’re going to have to make this go away the old-fashioned way: prove that Francis Junior is innocent.”

I look around the foyer. Down the hallway, the kitchen is dark; through the arch I see no lights in the living room, and it doesn’t sound like the television is on.

“Where is he, anyway?” I ask.

“In his room,” my stepmother answers. “He’s packing, I guess.”

“Packing?” I know what the word means, but it doesn’t make sense. Where could he possibly be going… at a time like…oh, shit.

As soon as it clicks, I bolt up the stairs and into Francis Junior’s room.

He has a suitcase open on his bed, and he’s folding things up, stacking them neatly in the case.

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