“Who the fuck is she?”
“Blanchet,” one of them mumbled under his breath with a snicker.
Another of the pricks shoved me her way. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning, if you wish. If you decide to answer any questions now, without an attorney present, you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney.”
I turned to face the cop before getting into the back of the car. “I know my rights. I am a fucking attorney.”
DAY 1
ELLE
Imprinting, according to folklore, begins when you are gravitationally pulled toward another. When this occurs, your connections to everyone else become secondary. You’ll do whatever it takes to protect the one you love. Keeping that person safe is the only thing that matters.
Imprinting doesn’t only apply to romantic love interests. I imprinted on Clementine the moment I laid eyes on her.
At first sight, she took my heart.
Her lips were so pink.
Her skin was so soft.
Her big blue eyes so beautiful.
And her heart-shaped face was perfect.
The minute I saw her, I knew I loved her—that I’d do anything for her.
Now, her little hands patted my cheeks as she babbled on. I took one of them and kissed it. “Ready to see Daddy?”
Clementine’s legs started kicking against my hips and her entire body quaked with glee.
She loved her daddy.
It was the first day of spring and I might have been a little too anxious for the warm weather. I attempted to take Clementine to the small playground around the corner from Michael’s office to watch the kids play, but the wind was too much for her.
Due to our early departure, it was closer to five o’clock than six when we entered the reception area of the Michael O’Shea Law Firm. Michael had fired his secretary this past Monday, and he had yet to replace her. And the paralegals left promptly at four thirty every Friday. So as I’d expected, the office was empty.
Michael’s door was closed as usual. I removed our jackets and hung them on the iron coat tree before knocking lightly.
“Come in,” he called.
I opened the old wooden door and it creaked loudly enough to make me cringe.
Michael looked different than usual. His dark hair was sticking up everywhere and when he raised his gaze from the yellow legal pad beside the stack of papers on his desk, I could see how tired he was.
“I hope you don’t mind that we’re a little early?” I asked.
He glanced at his watch. “I’m expecting a call from someone anytime now. Can you just bring her home and I’ll meet you there?”
He seemed more distracted than usual, too.
Clementine held her tiny arms out and cooed, “Daddy.”
“How’s my girl?” he beamed as he stood. His suit was neatly pressed, his tie in place, his shoes shined. But his thirty-five years were showing. Lines creased his brow and there were bags under his eyes. For the first time, I could see the toll the past three months had taken on him.
“Sure,” I answered him, and then I set Clementine down. “Just let her say hi and we’ll go.”
Clementine turned one last month, and took her first step shortly after that. Ever since, she doesn’t like to be restrained. She toddled toward Michael in her hot-pink patent leather shoes and I couldn’t help but smile.
Suddenly, the front door burst open. The echoing sound of the doorknob slamming against the wall made me whip around. A man stood in the doorway, anger and hatred shooting through his eyes, looking like whatever he wanted was personal. Michael’s office was located in an old brownstone in Boston’s South End, and I considered the neighborhood relatively safe.
Until then.
Instantly, fear flowed through my veins. Horrified, I froze. My purse. My purse was all the way on the other side of the room. Clementine. All the air seeped from my lungs as terror ripped through me. I had to get to her. My head spun back around to calculate just how far away from me she was.
Not that far. My rubbery legs inched backward. She was between Michael and me.
The crazed man didn’t seem to notice me, though. His eyes were on Michael, who was standing in the doorway to his office beside me. As soon as their stares locked, his voice boomed. “O’Shea, what kind of game do you think you’re playing?”
His Boston accent was thick like Michael’s, but his words were crystal clear. My heart stopped at the malice in his tone.
Fury covered Michael’s face. “Sean, I’m not playing any game.”
Michael knew the man?
The man’s face screwed into a different position and his stance remained dominating, although his demeanor seemed to ease slightly.
Pitter-patter.
No, Clementine, stay in Daddy’s office, I thought.