—Faith’s uncle—enough said.
—Kasey, or another staff member at the winery, but Kasey would be the one who knows intimate details of the winery and family—sleeping with Meredith Winter?
—Any one of Meredith Winter’s lovers, with a focus on the long-term boyfriend right before my father which Beck has found.
—An unknown I have yet to identify or see a link to connect them to Meredith and my father.
My coffee finishes brewing and I fill a cup, bring the pot to the island, and ready it for future pours before reviewing my new list several times over. My focus on why my father would pay Meredith Winter a million dollars and in installments. Somewhere in that act is an answer to every question I have and some I probably don’t know to ask. Yet. I will.
The doorbell rings, which says the 25k bottle of booze has Abel showing some manners for once, and of course, he chooses now, while Faith is sleeping. Fully intending to soften his edges where she’s concerned, and before he meets her, I make fast tracks for the door. Abel doesn’t wait on my arrival. Clearly impatient, he’s used my back-up key, and is opening the door as I arrive. He steps inside the foyer, his typical designer suit, replaced with his weekend faded, ripped jeans, and a t-shirt that sports the Harley logo, and supports the man’s obsession with the brand and the bikes. “Take me to the wonderland of whiskey,” he says, shutting the door, and sliding his key back into his pocket. “Because I do have something to celebrate.” He runs his hand over his buzzed blond hair as he adds, “Remember that ex-Navy SEAL judge I buzzed my head to impress?” He doesn’t wait for my confirmation. “He dismissed my case, and I landed a six-figure pay check.”
I back up to give him space to pass down the hallway. “Not bad for a week’s work.”
“Not bad at all,” he agrees, heading down the hallway.
I follow him, his destination the island, or rather, long-ass bar that serves as the island, but he doesn’t stop there. He drops his briefcase on a seat, and heads to the bar. I walk back to my seat behind the island and face the living area, keeping the stairs that Faith would have to travel to join us, in view. While Abel’s view is on my many whiskey choices. “Was the client guilty or innocent?” I ask, thrumming my pen on the shiny, white granite counter.
“He says he was innocent,” he replies, walking toward me with a bottle of Scotch in hand, and two glasses. “I have to believe a client is innocent to take a case.” He stops at the end cap by the chair his bag has now claimed and sets the bottle and glasses down. “I have to believe, man.” He opens the bottle and fills one of the glasses. “You know that.”
I narrow my gaze on him, not so sure we’re celebrating after all. “But was he innocent?” I ask, waving off the pour he’s about to give me. “I’ve had my share today.” I lift my coffee cup. “I’ll stick to this.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, his tone impartial. He really doesn’t care. That’s one of the things that I like about Abel. He is what he is and I am what I am. We are night and day in some ways, especially when it comes to women, who he tends to allow replays with that I do not. Not until Faith, I add silently and quickly refocus on Abel and our similarities. We like control. We like to win and we hit hard. And considering we’ve known each other since law school, I know he has some baggage, as Faith calls one’s history, and like me, Abel trusts almost no one. Which means he won’t be quick to trust Faith.
“And as for my client’s guilt or innocence,” he continues, snapping me back to the moment, as he downs the contents of his glass and refills it. “He was guilty as sin, but I didn’t decide that until I got him off when he smirked and said: Who says only the innocent go free?”
“Ah shit, man.”
“I know, right?” he says. “I thought I was good at reading people, but holy hell. I missed this one. But there wasn’t even a semi-good case built against him, and I can’t turn back time. Which is why I have to focus on the payday and celebrate that.”
“What was the crime?”
“Murder,” he says, his lips tightening. “And don’t ask me who he killed. I don’t want to talk about it.” He scrubs the light stubble on his jaw. “I really don’t want to talk about it.” He refills his glass.
We’re not celebrating. He’s come to swim in the sea of guilt Faith is splashing around in, and I get it. Defending a killer sucks. Thankfully, Faith isn’t a killer, but the guilt is killing her. I don’t really understand guilt. I don’t feel it. I do something. I did it for a reason. I own it. And so I only know one way to help with it. A good fuck, which Abel is on his own on that one. And a good drink. I stand up and round the counter, open a cabinet above the bar, and pull out that 25k bottle of booze before returning to the counter, and setting it down beside him. “This and a trip to the club and you’ll forget the asshole you just banked on,” I say. “But tell me again why you stick with criminal law?”
“Because the innocent ones need me and paydays like this one let me help people who don’t have a bank account as big as the likes of that asshole I got off.” He taps the bottle. “You really going to give me that?”
“You need it.”
“I need a trip to the club to get fucked ten ways to next Sunday, but I was never going to take that bottle, man. But hey. I’ll work for the sentiment behind it.” He opens his briefcase and pulls out a file. “The gift documents and the dummy documents,” he says, setting the file on the counter. “But seriously, man. What the hell are you doing with this woman, Nick?”
“Protecting her.”
“Protecting a woman who might be a killer.”
“She’s innocent.”
“And you know this how?”
“Because I know and you know when I say I know, I know.”
“Like I knew my client?”
“I know Faith personally now.”
“Yeah well, you’re fucking her and that tends to cloud a man’s judgment.”
“Not mine. You know that.”
“And I’ve never known you to mix business and your personal life.” He taps the file. “And these documents tell me you’ve either lost your fucking mind or you’re brilliantly working a woman who doesn’t know she’s being worked. And you can tell me either way. I’m cool. You know that.” He removes the lid from the scotch.
“She and I just downed a bottle of Macallan No.6 together and she’s in my bed right now.”
He’s about to pour another drink and sets the bottle down, looking stunned. “You shared your No. 6 and she’s in your bed?”
“Yes and yes.”
“You don’t share your No.6 or your bed. What happened to keeping your women confined to the club?”
“Faith isn’t going to the club,” I say, once again wishing I’d never bought the damn place. “Ever.”
“So she’s vanilla and you’re chocolate, and that shit will get old.”
“Faith is not fucking vanilla,” I snap.