“Uh-uh.” Alex holds up a finger stopping me. “The last thing I need you to do right now, though, is to lie down and let this trainwreck of a situation run you over. You need to decide when—not if—the judge determines this is frivolous, what you want to do.”
Confused, I fall back into the overstuffed cushions of my couch and shake my head back and forth. “What do you mean?”
“Defendants in cases like yours can turn around and sue the plaintiff for malicious prosecution. This includes suing for damages, and we can also tag on the harassment of the whole situation and, if you want to go further, we can talk about how it’s affected your mental state.”
“My mental state?” I look down at my feet, noticing for the first time in who knows how long that I need a pedicure. Does that count for my mental state? “I mean, if you’re trying to say my mental health has been impacted…”
“Yes?” Alex says as he leans closer to his monitor.
I shrug my shoulders. “It really hasn’t. I’m irritated, but I’m not losing sleep over it yet.”
“Okay, well, I want to keep it that way.” He smiles. “I’ll be in touch if I need anything. Remember, if he reaches out, do not engage. Let the court handle this, okay?”
Closing my computer disconnects us, an end to a conversation I don’t want to have anyway. If there is one word I hoped I’d never have to utter in my lifetime, it is the D word: divorce. I knew women when I lived in D.C. who approached getting married as something you can take on and take off, like a pair of jeans. Too tight? Get another pair.
Not me. At least I hadn’t wanted that to be the tale to come out after my marriage, but unfortunately it is. The thing that has me so baffled here, though, is the fact Steve and I parted amicably after realizing we’d outgrown each other. I mean, it’s not like we had a party when we split up—it was sad and we both hurt—but we’d remained business partners and chose to stay cordial with each other. It was a hard road, but I thought we’d gotten there…wherevertherewas.
A bark followed by some commotion on the other side of the living room steals my attention; my two schnauzers, Thor the traitor and Hercules, have tumbled to the floor, landing in a cuddle puddle of glory in a sunshine beam streaming through the living room window.
My heart always goes pitter patter when I see my dogs; they’ve been my sanity through all the chaos life has become. You can bet when I left D.C., these two were put in the car first. As long as I have them, I feel like I can handle anything.
My heart squeezes as I look around my little bungalow. It had taken me a little time to find a three-bedroom with a fenced-in yard, and this one was a steal due to the work that has to be done to it still. Work that one day I’ll deal with, but right now the thought of renovating anything makes me break out in hives.
Outside, the world has been painted in an autumnal brilliance of golden strokes, touched with splashes of blazing orange, only to be further complemented by the most brilliant ruby reds as trees cover the ground with their leaves. Grinning, I wrap my arms around my middle knowing that the fall evening means only one thing: Mama is gonna light her fireplace tonight.
THREE
Zac
Since Hurricane Etta left the building yesterday, I’ve been trying to cleanse my mind of her. Something about that woman gets to me. Not in the kind of way that’s bad, like poison ivy, but for some reason whenever I see her I feel a little hitch in my heart.
Etta McCoy is beautiful, and if someone asked if she was my type, I’d nod my head because she is absolutely my type. She’s headstrong, fierce, independent…definitely not a pushover. However, I gotta be honest with myself—I think she scares me.
Now, I don’t mean scared in the way where I tremble when I see her, out of fear, but more like scared because anytime I’m around her, I get this feeling. It’s a humming sound that starts in my ears, blocking out all other noise. It swells to an eclipse, before it reverberates into my chest, pinging around inside that hollow cavity like a pinball, until it flows with the force of a garden hose turned up to the hilt, swirling and swooshing this chill through my body.
The stack of paperwork Sergeant Lane drops on my desk hits with a thud so intense, my teeth almost rattle. Almost. But it does take me out of my daydream about she-who-shall-not-be-named.
Glancing up, I find him grinning my way as he pushes the stack closer to where I sit.
As I eye the pile suspiciously, I thumb a sheet of paper. “What’s this?”
“This,” he says as he pats the mound of documents and pulls a chair up on the other side of the desk, “is a project I really need your help with.”
Leaning back in my chair, I fold my arms and settle in to listen. I’m the new man on the roster, so there’s a lot of grunt work I’m asked to take the first run at. “What do you need?”
“Before you started working here, we found out that the state had allocated a nice chunk of funding for police departments. There is a project I’ve been wanting to start here for ages, but money has always been the issue.”
Taking a folder off the top of the stack, he slides it over, the bold print on the front of it proclaiming “K9 MENTAL HEALTH UNIT PROJECT.”
I pick up the folder and study it.“You want to get a canine unit in here?”
“No, not really.” Lane leans over the desk. Taking me into his confidence, he whispers, “I want to have a few dogs available for mental health reasons only.”
Well, now my interest is officially piqued. “I guess you saw on my resume I used to train dogs?”
“Guilty.” He plants his elbows on my desk and clasps his hands. “You’ve got a ton of experience, and you can bet I want to use it.”
“Fair enough. So, what’s the project?”
