Bad Behavior(43)

"This is just business. Just work." She snapped her briefcase closed and pushed through the balustrade, never giving me even a sideways glance.

Had she been working me the whole time? Was she really the bad bitch like they all said? I didn't want to believe it. But anyone who would take advantage of bad blood and turn his own brother against him wasn't someone to be trusted, to be loved. I thought she was something different, someone who was strong enough to fight her demons. I realized that she didn't fight them. She gave in to them. She let them run free. She was ruled by them the way I had been.

Wash followed her. He wasn't gloating, exactly, but I could tell he was pleased with himself. She set a brisk pace, almost running from me though I was standing still, not giving chase.

"Evan," I said again, not a question this time.

She halted her flight.

"Everything they say about you is true."

Then she was gone, Wash following in her wake.





Chapter Nine


EVAN

Wash and Jonesy set up a huddle in the largest conference room. Drew flitted in and out, bringing additional bits of information and case prep. I retreated to my office, slamming my door behind me. Do not disturb was implied.

I sank down on my couch and kicked off my heels. I rested my head in my hands. The look on Lincoln's face when he'd seen Wash haunted me. Confusion first, then shock, then betrayal-a parade of horribles that I had laid before him. 

"Shit!" I kicked the coffee table away and lay back, stretching out and draping my arm across my eyes. I didn't want to see anything. Just darkness, blackness, what I looked like on the inside.

I was a coward. Now Lincoln knew it. The tears ran down and dripped into my ears. I let them fall. I didn't deserve to cry. After all, I was the one who'd done wrong. But I wasn't crying out of self-pity so much as I was crying for what I'd destroyed, what I'd lost.

Lincoln's green eyes emerged from the soot of my mind. He was looking at me with his mix of mischief and curiosity. He'd wanted to know about me, the real me. Was there even a real me anymore? I'd been the bad bitch for so long that I'd become it. Did this fall into "be careful what you wish for" or "fake it until you make it" territory? No, it was in "you've fucked it all up" land.

I'd wanted to knock Lincoln off his game, to take the fight out of him so I'd have an easier time courting reasonable doubt. I'd accomplished my goal. I didn't realize how much it would hurt to see him wounded. How much I would regret it. How hard it would be to walk away from him after he'd called my name.

Everything they say about you is true. His words reverberated through my mind, an indictment. All the counts against me were accurate. I was the worst of the worst, far nastier than any of my clients. He hadn't wanted to believe it, thought I was better than I seemed. When I was with him, in his arms, I'd started to think maybe I was better, too. He was wrong. We both were.

I continued sinking into my pit of self-loathing, soaking in it until I dozed off.

I woke up the next morning, sun streaming through my windows. The office coffeemaker had clicked on automatically, brewing the first pot of the morning. It was six thirty. I freshened up in my private powder room, trying to make it seem like I hadn't spent the night crying in my office.

Lincoln zipped through my thoughts. I blocked him out. I imagined building a wall between us, separating us brick by brick. I'd already done it in real life; adding one in my imagination couldn't fuck things up any worse. I had to erase him from my mind as best I could. Otherwise, I would never be able to function. I'd caused him pain he didn't deserve. Used his secrets against him, betrayed him to save myself.

I had reasons, I reminded myself. Big reasons. Death. Dismemberment.

Besides, it was done. It could never be undone. I served myself a cup of coffee, black and bitter, and started my day.

Castille's case took up the lion's share of our time for the next two weeks. We tracked down witnesses, arranged experts, and drafted preliminary motions. Wash proved invaluable for finding information in New Orleans. After he'd made his dramatic appearance, I'd sent him back south to be boots on the ground. In reality, he'd served his purpose for the time being. I'd bring him back out for trial, parade him around in front of Lincoln like a garish show pony.

Wash had agreed to serving as co-counsel for me, but he didn't seem to enjoy it the way I'd suspected he would. He never discussed Lincoln at all. I got the feeling that he'd thought the whole thing would be more gratifying than it actually was. Maybe time did heal the wound, after all? If it did, I went in with a jagged knife and did my best to open it right back up again by adding Wash to the case. Pallida & Associates, turning brother against brother in the name of survival-maybe I could get some new pens with that slogan.