I knock on the door, although pound might be more accurate. There’s no answer. No footsteps. Nothing.
It’s Saturday. She’s gotta be here. I need her to be here.
I pull out my phone and make the call. “Come on . . . come on . . .”
From inside the apartment, I hear the unmistakable sounds of the Golden Girls theme song that Banner picked as my ringtone.
Thank God she’s home.
“What’s goin’ on, G?” Banner’s voice sounds huskier than normal.
“Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Umm. Yeah. No biggie. What’s going on?”
“I’m outside your door.”
“Oh. Shit. Okay. Hold on.” And then she hangs up.
The dead bolts slide back moments later and Banner opens the door partway. She’s dressed in a man’s white T-shirt and nothing else.
“Oh. Shit.” I echo her words. “Am I interrupting?”
Banner shakes her head but doesn’t open the door further. “No. Of course not. You’re never an interruption. What’s up?”
The deep rumble of a voice coming from behind her means that if my best friend were wearing pants, they’d be liar, liar, pants on fire.
The voice grows louder and the drawl strikes me as familiar. Banner’s face pales in color, but she’s pretending he’s not inside.
That can’t be Logan Brantley. It’s not possible.
Except it is him.
Banner closes the door a fraction of an inch, but it’s too late. She adopts a casual mien, leaning against the doorjamb like there’s not a shirtless giant of a man standing in her living room, just within my range of vision.
“What’s happening? You’re awfully dressed up for an unemployed Saturday morning. When did you get back? Did they give a cause of death? What’s happening?” Banner’s questions come at me rapid-fire, but that’s not the unusual part. It’s the bouncing of her leg.
I don’t know what’s going on here, but whatever it is, my friend doesn’t want me to know yet. And right now, I can live with that.
“Uh, yesterday. Not yet on the autopsy. I . . . just wanted to see if you were up for grabbing lunch. But we can do it tomorrow or whenever.”
Banner nods enthusiastically. “Tomorrow’s good. I want all the details. Call me?”
She’s already pushing the door shut when I agree and turn for the elevator.
Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe today isn’t real. How can any of this be real?
Banner’s doorman waves down a cab, and I climb in. Creighton’s address comes out of my mouth instinctively. When in doubt, I run to my big brother.
Holly opens the door and draws me in for a hug over her huge belly.
“How you doin’, girl? You okay?”
I shake my head when Holly pulls back. “No. I—I’m not. Is Crey here?”
“No, he’s at the office taking care of a few things. I expect him back in a few hours.”
Hours. I don’t want to wait minutes to tell someone what’s bottled up in my head. I question the wisdom of laying this on a pregnant woman, but Holly’s one of the most grounded people I know.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Of course. Anything. But if you need to hide a body, we’re gonna have to call your brother. I’m not allowed to lift anything heavy.”
Choking out a laugh, I follow as she leads me into the living area and pulls me down onto the couch beside her. As soon as we’re seated, she pauses. “Should I have grabbed the moonshine? Because you look awfully serious, Greer.”
I can’t contain it any longer. I blurt out the words. “Cav might have killed someone.”
Both of Holly’s dark eyebrows shoot toward her hairline. “Come again?”
“I think Cav killed someone. And framed someone else for the murder.”
To her credit, Holly doesn’t freak out. “You’re gonna have to start from the beginning.”
The story pours out of me. The prisoners’ rights case. Rikers. Dom Casso being taken in for questioning. And then what Stephen Cardelli told me. With every word, I fight to hold back the impending tears.
Holly must hear it in my voice because she reaches for a box of tissues on the side table and sets them between us. “Well, hell, that’s a lot to take in on decaf coffee.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know what to believe.” I feel like I’m fighting for every breath.
Holly lays a hand on my knee. “It’s going to be okay, Greer. If I learned anything over the last year, it’s not to jump to conclusions. If you’re thinking of running, don’t. You need to know the truth first.”
A vision of that iconic scene in A Few Good Men runs through my head. The one where Jack Nicholson is yelling about Tom Cruise not being able to handle the truth.
Can I handle the truth? I squeeze my eyes shut and bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t want to put the possibility out into the universe, but the words come anyway.
“What if Cardelli is telling the truth?”
Holly nods, as if lining up what she’s going to say in her own head. “So what if he is? Can you live with it?”
My stomach revolts, twisting into knots and flipping in a double back handspring. Good to know one part of my body is capable of that.