Page 4 of The Heir
"Well, that's what we have you for, isn't it?" I lean back in my chair and scowl at him. His retainer fee isastronomical, and his hourly rate is even higher. I don't give a shit. I'll spend every cent in my bank account—I'll clear out the Consortium, as well, as long as I get her back. Out of the state's clutches. Out of the federal government's clutches.
What good is all this money if I can't fucking use it to get what I want?
"Thatiswhat you have me for." Vetter smirks. "My winning record speaks for itself, of course. And I don't intend to tarnish my reputation here. Otherwise, I wouldn't have taken her case."
"I don't give a shit about your record," I grunt, hefting my feet to rest on his desk. He glares at the soles of my shoes but doesn't tell me to move. I win. "I don't give a shit about your reputation. The only fucking thing I care about is Melody returning to my side. Is that clear?"
"Crystal." A softdingsounds from his computer. "Fuck."
"What?"
Vetter grimaces, bracing himself before returning his attention to me. "The trial date is set."
"Already?" My heart races in my chest. "When?"
"Onefuckingmonth—Sandra!" Vetter shouts. "They set a date for a month! Draft a continuance—they can't do this!"
Dreadsettles in my bones as I listen to this expensive fucking lawyer and his expensive fucking staff flutter about. One month. One fucking month. On one hand, I'm surprised it's not sooner. Ella desperately wants the accolades for putting away my wife. On the other hand, I thought we had judges for this sort of thing? I'll need to make a call to The Belial—he has his hands everywhere.
"Mr. Lyons." Vetter scurries back into his opulent office. "You're free to leave—my staff and I will work this out. You have nothing to worry about."
I don't believe him, but I gather myself to leave, anyway. Roman silently stalks behind me, watching my every move. He stays quiet as we descend to the ground floor in a shockingly smooth elevator. He stays quiet when he unlocks the car door, holding it open for me. He stays quiet through the drive back to my home.
As soon as we enter the house, he turns to me with concern. "Sir… I don't know how well this is going to go."
"Neither do I, friend," I reply with a sigh. "But we have to fight. We have to win. I don't care what it takes."
"I know." He pours a finger of whiskey for both of us. "I sent a text to The Belial's assistant. They're working to get the case reassigned to a judge we… are acquainted with."
"Thank fuck for that."
Like every night before Melody, Roman and I fall into silence. Back in those days, it was comfortable. It was serene. It was just two men who worked hard decompressing after a long day. Now? I'm anything but serene. The sirens and flashing lights haunt me every time I close my eyes. I was so close—unbearably close—to rescuing her.
And yet, I failed. She was torn from me. She's in the hospital under constant guard—hell, she might be back at the jail, I don't know—for a crime shemostlydidn't commit. Charlie, yes. Barry Lennox? Absolutely fucking not. I don't need Vetter to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that she's innocent. I just need him to introducereasonabledoubt. Isn't that what court cases are about? Reasonable doubt?
"Sir," Roman whispers. He's staring at his phone with horror. "It… didn't work."
"What didn't work?"
"Her case. We don't get our judge." He swallows. "And the motion to delay was denied."
Fuck.
One month from today, I'll be sitting in the courtroom, staring daggers at every single one of the bastardsworking to put my wife away. I don't care if I go to jail. I'll find every juror's home, family, job—it doesn't matter. If they vote guilty, I'll fucking kill them myself. I'll make it hurt. I'll make them bleed. I'll write my love note to Melody with their entrails. She'll love it.
Interrupting my violent daydreams, Roman clears his throat. "Sir, we need to talk about Valencia's replacement."
"Whoever you select will be perfect, I'm sure," I mumble back, swirling my third whiskey of the day. The alcoholic burn doesn't help anymore. Nothing in this house feelsrightwith her gone.
He sighs. "Alright. Well, then I'd like to extend an offer to Nora Ellison. Harvard Business School graduate—she's got an impressive resume, and I know she won't be squeamish about any of GoCon's extracurricular activities."
"Okay. Sounds good. Tell me where to sign." I reach for a pen, but he shakes his head.
"Here, just use your finger." Roman holds out the tablet he's working from, and I scribble something that looks vaguely like my signature.
It doesn't matter. None of this matters. The money, the objects, the house—nothing. Not if I can't share it with Melody. Looking around the living room, I cherish each of the items she left strewn about the place. Her drawing supplies. The cross-stitch thread.The short-lived attempt at crocheting, complete with wonky granny squares in red and black. I don't want to move them. I want them to stay exactly as they are, so she'll feel like she never left. Like everything is waiting for her.
"Sir, if I may." Roman interrupts my misery again. "We have to keep the business running. We can't just wallow in self-pity. With that shark of a lawyer… you'll run out of money."
