Page 64 of The Wrong Side of the Law

Chapter Twenty

Emily

Someone took the last of the coffee in the break room and didn’t make a new pot.

Normally I’d be annoyed, but right now I could use an extra few minutes to think.

All my resolve from this morning faded into oblivion the moment I got to work and found Gabriel Cooper asleep at his desk. That poor man, all alone but for his work. What impulse was it that made me roll up my sweater and carefully slip it under his face? Was it only pity?

I don’t think so. Pity might explain the ersatz pillow, but it doesn’t explain why I wanted to reach out and massage his neck and shoulders.

No, it’s not just pity. It’s deeper than that. Sure, I wanted to help with his pain… but I also just wanted to touch him again.

I sigh and pour grounds into the filter and push the button. The deep, earthy smell helps to clear my head all on its own, even though it’ll be minutes yet before the first drink.

So, fine then. I want to touch him. I want to put my hands all over that gorgeous son of a bitch. I’ll admit it. It’s been far too long since I’ve had time in my life for anything but law school, and now that school is missing, I’m filling that space up with work and my brother’s case.

Except that I’m not. Not completely, anyway. There’s still something missing, and some bit of my inner monologue is screaming for me to pay attention to Gabriel Cooper. But is it because I like him, because I care about him and want him? Or is it because subconsciously I knew—even before Margaret brought it up—that I could help my family by doing it?

I need to work that out in my head before I make any bad decisions.

When my phone rings, I’m so wrapped up in my own inner turmoil and mesmerized by the slowly-rising level of wonderful brown nectar in the coffee pot that I answer it without thinking.

“Hello?”

“Hi there!” It’s a man’s voice, raspy from years of chain smoking. “Paul Cove, Point Lookout Herald. Are you Emily Wilson?”

Well, there’s one bad decision made already this morning. Frank’s ties to Robert Ferry made him instantly fascinating to the press, and I’ve been so careful to screen calls at home since the arraignment. Until now, though, they’ve only called the house.

“May I ask how you got this number?” Icicles drip from every word.

“Oh, good! So, you are Emily Wilson, then?”

He pauses, waiting for me to confirm my identity, and the phone carries nothing but dead air broken by his raspy breathing. I let the silence drag on. If he’s going to ignore my question, then I certainly don’t feel obliged to answer his.

“Okay, okay. Fine then,” Cove says, after several long seconds. He seems cheerful, excited about something. “I’m just calling to give you a chance to tell me your side of this whole story. I want to make everything here just as fair and square as possible.”

Fair and square? Like hell. He’s been a columnist at the Herald since I was a little girl, and he’s notorious for writing with a poison pen inked in bile. This is a man who hates the entire world and believes the absolute worst of everyone in it, and his column is well-loved by that sort of person who always wants to believe that they’re so much better than the horrible people around them.

I continue with the silent treatment, but it doesn’t seem to dampen Cove’s enthusiasm.

Aimed in the right direction, his poison pen could be an incredibly effective weapon. My problem is that I don’t know where he’s aiming right now, and I have no idea how to point him in a useful direction. Doing the wrong thing, saying the wrong thing, would be suicide.

Problem is… I have no idea what therightthing would be.

“Here we go, then,” Cove’s voice rasps in my ear. “Just wanted to let you know, this conversation is on the record. Gotta keep everything completely above-board here at the Herald. And when I sayon the recordwhat I mean is that I’m recording it.”

Again, he waits for a response; again, I give him none.

“Miss Wilson,” he says. “This would be a lot easier if you’d talk to me. Don’t you want people to know your brother the way that you know him? Don’t you want them to know that he’s innocent?”

My heart flip-flops at the reporter’s words. Could he already be on track to help Frank?

“Uh,” I say, shocked.

It’s not a word. It’s barely even a sound, but Cove seizes on it.

“Good, good!” he says. “So, I wanted to ask you about a rumor. And again, this is on the record. What can you tell me about the rumor that the prosecution in your brother’s case is dragging their heels?”

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