‘True,’ Frederick allowed. ‘But that’s a matter of record. Thorne is registered as her counsel.’
‘But they knew details,’ Wayne pressed. ‘They knew that it was even possible that she’d be run off the road.’
Frederick nodded. He’d thought of this already. ‘True again. But Mr Brown’s stalking is also known because it was covered in the newspaper. Having said that, it doesn’t mean we don’t have a leak in our own firm.’ It was Frederick’s fear, one he hadn’t expressed to Thorne in Gwyn’s living room. Thorne only kept a handful of employees in the firm, and as far as he knew, all were loyal. But it was a possibility, and Frederick would not allow it to go unexamined. ‘I’m investigating that.’
Wayne’s nod was shaky. ‘All right. Should we move again?’
Frederick sighed. ‘It might not be a bad idea. Just in case.’ He gave them his card. ‘If you do, contact me. And keep that disposable cell phone charged and on your person at all times. If you are afraid someone is coming after you, call 911, then call me. All right?’
Bernice took the card in trembling fingers. ‘All right. Thank you, Mr Dawson.’
Frederick got to his feet. ‘It’s my job, ma’am. We’ll proceed with your defense.’
Wayne also rose. ‘At the same rate? Mr Thorne was giving her a discount.’
‘I work pro bono,’ Frederick explained. ‘I’ll bill Mr Thorne for any expenses I incur, but my hours are free.’
Bernice’s shoulders sagged. ‘Thank you.’
He smiled down at her. ‘You’re welcome.’
He was opening the front door when she called his name. He turned, brows lifted. ‘I . . . Please thank Mr Thorne. For being willing to come and help me, even though I didn’t really need him.’
‘I’ll tell him.’ There was something in the woman’s eyes, something she was holding back. ‘If you think of anything else that can help him, please call me.’
‘I will.’ She drew a breath, and he waited. ‘I have this friend. Sally Brewster. She called me on Friday. Said she’d gotten a weird call from someone claiming to be a cop. They said they were trying to locate me to ask me questions about my husband. She told them that she didn’t know where I was, which is technically true. But she also told them that they should be ashamed of themselves, that I was too afraid to leave hiding because my husband wouldn’t leave me alone. They called her on her cell phone.’ She frowned. ‘She’s listed on my paperwork with your firm. As my emergency contact, after Wayne. You might call her.’
Frederick smiled at her. ‘Thank you. I will. And I’ll make sure she knows to be careful too.’
Baltimore, Maryland,
Sunday 12 June, 11.40 P.M.
‘Sit, Thorne,’ Phil said, reaching up to push at his shoulder.
Thorne turned away from the large kitchen window that looked out into the blackness of Phil and Jamie’s backyard. In the daytime it was a tranquil place, their inground pool surrounded by weeping willows. A babbling brook ran through the trees along with a paved path for Jamie’s chair. At night, though, it was inky darkness, the surrounding trees blocking out not only the lights from the city, but the starlight too.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, but it had been long enough to put a worried look on Phil’s face, and he hated that, so he sank obediently into the chair at the kitchen table.
‘I made hot chocolate,’ Jamie added, ‘just the way you like it.’
With the milk frother, Thorne noted, thankful for that as well, because the whir of the machine had drowned out the sound of the shower. Which Gwyn had been in at the time. Naked.
She hadn’t said no, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. That she hadn’t said no outright was . . . He sighed. A piss-poor hope to hold onto.
His old friend slid the cup of chocolate across the table, making Thorne wonder if Jamie had timed his use of the frother that way on purpose. When Thorne caught the sympathy in Jamie’s eyes, he had his answer.
Well, that’s just perfect, he thought crossly, dropping his gaze to the frothy chocolate that really had been made exactly how he liked it. He pushed Gwyn to the edge of his mind and made himself remember the first time he’d sat here, at this very table. ‘You made me hot chocolate that day too.’
Jamie reached across the table to squeeze his forearm. ‘A genius move on my part,’ he acknowledged.
‘Which day?’ Gwyn asked from the kitchen doorway where she waited hesitantly. Her face was flushed from the hot water and devoid of makeup, the way Thorne liked her best. Her damp hair was pulled back into a ponytail that made her look so damn young. Her loose sweats and oversized sweatshirt hurt Thorne’s heart because that was exactly what she’d worn in the weeks and months after Evan tried to kill her and Lucy. It was like she’d been trying to hide in the baggy clothing. Like somehow she’d . . . enticed the bastard. Like she’d caused him to notice her, which of course hadn’t been true at all.
Now she stood there watching him. That she wasn’t sure of her welcome – that she was hiding from him too – made Thorne’s heart hurt even more. Damn me to ever-fucking hell. I should never have said anything. I have ruined everything.
‘Come in,’ Phil said warmly, gesturing to the chair opposite Thorne’s. ‘We’re just having a snack before bed.’
Thorne schooled his voice to something he hoped sounded polite as he answered her question. ‘Jamie made this for me the day he and Phil bailed me out. It’s good hot chocolate. You’ll like it.’
Phil put a cup in front of her and took the chair at the head of the small table while Jamie parked himself at the other end. ‘It’s my recipe,’ Phil asserted. ‘Jamie just likes to run the frother.’
‘At my age, my entertainment options are limited,’ Jamie said, and Thorne snorted, because Jamie still participated in wheelchair races and still won them.
‘I’ve seen the photos of your limited entertainment,’ Gwyn said dryly. ‘Thorne’s papered his office walls with them. The skydiving one is my favorite. I only hope I’m half as spry when I’m as aged as you.’ She pronounced ‘aged’ with two syllables and a roll of her eyes, because Jamie wasn’t quite sixty. She pointed to the folders neatly stacked on the table. ‘What’s this?’
‘I’m compiling a file, just like I would for any client,’ Jamie answered.
‘This stack is what we’ve uncovered on the major players in the trial nineteen years ago,’ Phil added. ‘We’ve started pre-planning tomorrow’s visits. We figure someone could have gotten all the information about Thorne’s trial from the newspaper, but . . .’ He let the thought trail off and glanced at Jamie.
‘Somebody dug up all this shit for a reason,’ Jamie said. ‘It will call Thorne’s innocence into question – today and nineteen years ago.’
Gwyn bit at her lip, her habit when she was trying to stay calm. Thorne wasn’t sure if she even knew she did it. ‘This is so wrong,’ she said. ‘All of it.’
Jamie hesitated. ‘Stevie’s point is still ringing in my head. Richard Linden’s killer was never caught. He’s still out there. And he’s the only one who truly knows what happened the day Richard was murdered. Assuming it was a he.’
Thorne jerked his attention back to Jamie. ‘You’re proposing we find the true killer?’ he asked, unable to keep the acid from his voice.
Jamie met his gaze, unfazed. ‘Yes. Why not?’
Thorne took a deep breath, forcing himself to be polite once again, because he really wasn’t sure why the thought made him so furious. Because he wished he’d done it already? Which he knew was illogical. He’d been a kid, not a detective. But I should have at least tried. Richard’s killer was running free, but so was Sherri’s. I’m sorry, Sherri. ‘Because the police couldn’t do it nineteen years ago?’
‘We’ll take a fresh look,’ Jamie said, sipping his hot chocolate calmly.
Gwyn opened the top folder and began sifting through its contents, pausing to look at a grainy photograph copied from an old newspaper article. ‘Is this Richard with his family?’