Shame on Him

Due to my parents’ careers, I grew up in a home that some might call a mansion among some of the wealthiest people in Indiana. Every weekend we attended one function or another at country clubs or the lavish homes of these friends. And with my law career, I’m used to being around people of wealth and stature and spending evenings in their large homes. But even I’m a little bit in shock as I pull into Richard Covington’s circular driveway.

The house looming in front of me is a beautiful English manor situated on a large wooded lot with professionally landscaped shrubbery and flower gardens. Though it’s large, it doesn’t quite block the lake and boat dock behind it. I get out of my car and smooth my hands down the front of my Chanel suit, checking my reflection in the car window to make sure my shoulder-length straight brown hair is still in order.

My mother would have a field day if she knew I was walking up to Richard Covington’s front door right now. She’s been trying to get Richard to attend one of her charity events for years now. According to the Forbes magazine article that Paige referred to, he is the richest man in Indiana. His fortune, now in the billions, was made when he invented a medical device in his final year of med school.

Clutching the subpoena in my hand, I ring the doorbell and wait.

And then wait some more.

I parked behind a brand-new Cadillac in the driveway, so I’m assuming someone has to be here.

I ring the doorbell again and, after waiting another few minutes without an answer, I reach up and knock. The door pushes open as soon as my knuckles rap against the wood.

Looking nervously back over my shoulder first, I slowly poke my head through the doorway. “Mr. Covington?”

There’s no response to my shout except for the tick of a clock in the entryway. Something doesn’t feel right about this. My gut is telling me to leave and try again at another time. Unfortunately, my brain is reminding me that I should just suck it up, because this is what I want to do with my life. Not deliver subpoenas, per se, but detective work—something thrilling, challenging, and that actually makes me happy.

Deciding to listen to my brain like I always do, I take a tentative step into the house and try calling out again. “Mr. Covington? Hello? Is anyone home?”

I crane my neck around the door and listen quietly for any sounds of movement in the house. Although with a house this big, someone could be driving a dump truck through one of the rooms in the east wing and I wouldn’t even hear it.

He must have hired help in a place this huge. It’s hard to believe that even if he isn’t home, someone else isn’t in the house somewhere and wouldn’t have heard the doorbell. Even in my parents’ home, their housekeeper, Mrs. Cooper, is always there.

“HELLO?” I try again, louder than before.

My voice echoes around the massive cathedral ceiling in the entryway.

I finally decide to give up and try again another day. Regardless of whether or not the door was open, it’s not a good idea for me to just walk into someone’s house uninvited. Especially when I’m here to deliver them a court document that is most likely going to anger them. Plus, the quiet emptiness of this house is starting to unnerve me.

As I turn to leave, the loud screech of a hysterical cat shatters the silence. I scream in surprise and stumble back against the open door as a white Persian races by me, hissing and yowling as it goes. My eyes widen in shock when I see that it left little red paw prints in its wake.

Swallowing thickly, I step over the paw prints and look in the direction the cat came from. The red markings start in the next room to the left. Without even thinking, I head in that direction, my heels clicking loudly on the floor as I go. As I step into the room, the hardwood floor switches over to carpet and my heels sink into its plushness.

I’m in the library—full bookcases line every wall of the room. The rest of the décor loses my focus as my gaze narrows in on something completely out of place in this otherwise spotless home. The red paw prints I had been following lead right up to a body on the floor in the middle of the room. A body that is sprawled across the cream carpet with a bullet hole between its wide-open, lifeless eyes and a pool of blood soaking into the carpet under its head.

All the breath leaves my lungs with a whoosh when I see that the body in front of me is that of Richard Covington.



“One more time, Lorelei. Tell me exactly what you saw when you walked into the library.”

Kennedy’s brother Ted was the first on the scene after I called the police, and he’s been questioning me for the last half hour. I’ve gone over the details so many times now my brain feels like it’s going to explode. While the medical examiner and a few detectives process the scene, Ted pulls me into the kitchen and away from the chaos to question me more.

“Here, drink this,” Kennedy says as she holds a glass of amber liquid in front of me.

I reach for it without thinking and down it in one swallow, the burn of the alcohol making a fiery path down my throat and into my stomach. I cough and sputter as I slam the glass onto the counter in front of me.

“Where did you get that?” Ted demands.