Caldwell addresses his answer to me. “Yes, I’m accusing him of being a scumbag.”
I stare him down. “I really don’t like your fucking attitude, Tom. It’s been a rough day—you don’t want to push me.”
He backs down, but only a little. His hands are still balled into fists, his gaze still throwing knives. “I told her I could proceed without her testimony—I would submit her statement as evidence.”
“Which I would never let you do,” I say, interrupting him. “I can’t cross-examine a statement.”
“She was scared out of her mind, Becker! Doesn’t that bother you at all?”
I don’t answer. Because sometimes, there’s just nothing you can say.
“She went so far as to tell me that she would testify on her husband’s behalf if I went forward,” Caldwell goes on. “That she would claim she was confused and it was all a political witch hunt against him. I said I could charge her with perjury.”
Stanton laughs. “Wow, prosecuting your victims? That’s gonna make you real popular with advocacy groups.”
“I wasn’t going to actually do it,” Tom tells him. “I just wanted to see if she’d change her mind. She didn’t.” He glowers at me for a few seconds, then he asks, “Have you looked at her medical history? She’s not his wife—she’s his punching bag!”
I rub my eyes. Suddenly . . . so fucking tired. Of all of it. “What are you looking for here, Caldwell? I don’t get it—what do you want me to do for you?”
His eyes rake over me, filled with loathing. With disgust. “Forget looking at yourself in the mirror—I just want to know, how do you live in your skin?”
The words hang heavy in the quiet of the room, until Tom shakes his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter and you’re not worth my time.”
And he marches out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
I run my hand over the back of my neck. Then I stand and pack files into my briefcase. “I’m heading out,” I tell Stanton.
“You want to come over tonight? Have dinner with me and Sofia?”
“Not tonight, man. The faster I get to sleep, the faster this fucking day will end.”
? ? ?
But I don’t go home. Instead I drive over to a small hole-in-the-wall kind of place—a real dive bar—with grouchy staff, almost nonexistent clientele, and fantastic scotch. Instead of having to deal with friendly, tip-hungry bartenders and female patrons looking to hook up, here I know they’ll leave me the fuck alone. Which is exactly what I need at the moment.
I sit on the threadbare stool as a muscular bartender with a thick, black goatee pours me a double scotch—neat. I toss several bills onto the rotting wood bar, more than needed.
“Just leave the whole fucking bottle.”
20
Hours later, I find myself stumbling onto Chelsea’s stoop, without any clear recollection of how I got there. I glance back at my car—parked crookedly.
And on the lawn.
Glad that valet gig didn’t work out—I obviously suck at it.
The lights inside the house are out, and all is silent at the McQuaid compound. It registers that it’s probably too late to show up here, and it’s damn straight too late to knock on the door.
Then I remember the spare key. ’Cause I’m a fucking genius.
I lift the mat and see the silver, sparkling little piece of metal. I unlock the door and tiptoe in—as much as my two-hundred-twenty-five-pound frame allows, anyway. The fur ball approaches, tiny nails clicking on the hardwood floor, smelling my feet.
“Hey, Shaggy. Where’s Scooby?” I laugh—even though that wasn’t really funny.
I walk into the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. Midchug, Chelsea jumps through the kitchen door, a baseball bat in her hands, raised and ready.
The panicked look on her face fades when she sees me, shifting to annoyance. But at least she lowers the bat. “Jake? You scared the hell out of me!”
I swallow a gulp of water and slur, “How many times have I told you to move that goddamn key? It’s the first place burglars will check. I mean—sheesh—look at me. I got in and now you’re stuck with me.”
Her head tilts and her brow puckers. It’s adorable. I want to kiss the pucker. And her whole face. I want to lick her, lather her, rub myself all over her until she smells like me. So anyone who’s near her knows she belongs to someone.
Is that as gross as it sounds?
“Are you drunk?” she whispers.
Does she really need to ask? I used the word sheesh—of course I’m fucking drunk.
“Oh yeah, off-the-ass drunk, I am.”
Thanks, Yoda.
“Are you . . . is everything okay?”
“It was a rough day at the office, honey. I deserved a shitfacing.”
“What happened?”
I avoid her question and say softly, “I had to see you. You just make everything . . . better.”
She stares at me for a few seconds. Then she props the bat in the corner. Her hand reaches for me. “You have to be quiet, okay? Don’t wake the kids.”