Chelsie nodded. “I know this first step was difficult. How old is your son?” Chelsie asked.
“Three. And I don’t want...”
Silence surrounded them, but Chelsie waited. She hoped Griff would take his cue from her and do the same. He leaned forward in his seat, but remained quiet.
Slowly, the woman unbuttoned one sleeve of her cotton blouse, lifting the cuff to reveal angry bruises on her arm. “I’ve lived with this for so long, but I couldn’t bear it if he hurt my little boy.”
Though she felt the heat of his gaze, Chelsie refused to look at Griff. He knew when they’d become partners he’d be taking on cases like these, and she’d promised her expertise from the beginning. But that had been before she’d revealed her own personal history. His request had been based on her experience with battered women. Now that he knew she fell into the category of the abused, Chelsie couldn’t cope with his pity.
She forced herself to focus on Amanda, to look at the bruises, so similar to the ones Chelsie’s own husband had left on her upper arms.
“It takes courage for you to be here, Amanda. Where’s your son now?” Griff asked.
“With a friend.”
“Okay. What do you want from us?” Chelsie asked. The words, the decision had to come from the woman herself. No one could force her to press charges or file for divorce or any of her other options unless she wanted to. Chelsie had learned that from personal experience as well.
“I left three days ago, when I first called you. I’m staying with a friend, but I can’t put her in such a compromising position much longer. Every time the phone rings, I jump. Each time someone hangs up or breathes heavily, I think it’s him.”
“You have options,” Chelsie assured her. “The first is to continue to stay with friends or relatives, but I tend to agree with you, and I don’t recommend that for now.”
The other woman nodded.
“The second is a much more difficult decision, but wiser in the long run. There’s a women’s shelter. I volunteer there, so I know it well. You’d be safe and your friends wouldn’t be in any danger. Once we decide how to proceed, depending upon the course of action we take, you could always return home or to a friend or family member.”
Amanda’s face went pale at the mention of the shelter. Chelsie had been right. The concept drove reality home. Sometimes, facing the truth, realizing you had to rebuild a life alone, was more difficult than an actual physical beating.
“Do you have any money?” Chelsie asked. Despite the woman’s expensive clothing, whether she’d managed to leave with any personal belongings or cash was anybody’s guess.
“Not much. I still have my credit cards, though.”
“No. No paper trails.” Chelsie took the woman’s hand. “Do you trust me?” she asked.
“Implicitly.” Amanda spoke without hesitation.
“Good. Then we have to do things my way. Not only for your safety and your son’s, but also for the courts. Agreed?”
Amanda nodded. Griff rose and seated himself behind his desk, pulling out a legal pad and pen.
“We’ll need some information,” he said, refocusing on work.
After drawing a deep breath, Amanda nodded. “Okay.”
“I need your full name.”
The other woman looked towards Chelsie, who nodded in encouragement. “Amanda Davis...” She hesitated before continuing. “Amanda Davis Sutton.”
Chelsie’s vision blurred and she sucked in a deep breath. Coincidence, she told herself. A brief glance told her Griff was jotting down pertinent information.
“Your husband’s name?” Griff asked.
“Jeffrey Sutton.”
Chelsie glanced at Amanda, hoping she was wrong. The other woman met her gaze and nodded almost imperceptibly.
Jeff Sutton. Nausea roiled in Chelsie’s stomach. The one slice of dried toast she’d managed to choke down for breakfast threatened to come back up. She swallowed over the lump in her throat and asked, “How long have you been married?”
“Four and a half years.”
Griff continued to take notes. He hadn’t yet appeared to notice anything amiss.
“Your husband’s occupation?” Chelsie asked. She forced the question from somewhere deep inside her.
Amanda choked on a laugh. “Attorney.”
“For what firm?” But she already knew. This was no coincidence. And judging by the woman’s penetrating stare, Amanda knew that, as well.
“Stevens and McLaughlin, downtown Boston.”
Chelsie stood. Her gaze darted from the bruises on Amanda’s arm to the rest of her well-dressed but well-covered body. The nausea threatened again. “Excuse me,” she murmured. “I’ll be right back.”