“And I thought you were supposed to be in second-period English.”
Farrah Miles was a high school senior who also doubled as Henry’s babysitter. Brooke and Farrah had met in September after Brooke had given a career-day talk about law at the local high school. Most of the teenagers had napped or stared at their phones during her talk. But the next day, Farrah, a petite blonde with a tiny gold nostril stud, blue-green streaks in her hair, and a penchant for cowboy boots and supershort cutoff jeans, showed up at her office and proclaimed herself interested in the law and a job.
The girl was smart and efficient—when she wanted to be—so they’d struck a deal that Farrah would work five days a week after school and pinch-hit as a babysitter for three-year-old Henry, as needed.
Farrah sat down and resumed her pedicure, dabbing a bit of purple polish on her big toenail. “Mr. Barnhart’s a prick. We’ve only got two more weeks of class before graduation, and I’ve already got a solid A, but he still won’t exempt me from taking the final exam like my other teachers.”
“So you’re cutting class? Farrah, he could still flunk you. I thought we talked about this. You’ve got to keep your grades up if you want to get into Georgia.”
The girl scowled. “They wait-listed me, Brooke. I’m not gonna get in. I’ll just go to Community College like everybody else. It’s no biggie.”
Brooke rolled her desk chair over to Farrah’s desk and sat inches away from her. The girl lowered her head, pretending to concentrate on her toes. Brooke reached out and tilted Farrah’s chin, lifting it until they were eye to eye.
“Listen to me, Farrah Michele Miles. You still have a really good chance. You aced your SATs and your ACTs. You’ve got a solid 3.9 grade point average in mostly advanced placement classes, and plenty of extracurricular activities. You wrote amazing essays, and your teachers wrote you great recommendation letters. Do not screw this up. Please?”
“I’m not screwing anything up.” Farrah changed the subject. “So what happened this morning with Brittni?”
“I went over to the jail. Her stepfather still won’t post bail, and her court date’s not ’til next week, so there’s not much I could say except hang tight and try not to get in any more fights.”
Farrah shook her head. “I know she’s my cousin, but she is such a dumb bitch. She shoulda just paid the ninety-nine cents for the damn cup of ice. It’s not like she was broke!”
“I told her the same thing,” Brooke said, “but she says the KwikMart cashier was some kind of high school frenemy who thinks Brittni stole her boyfriend.”
“Right. That’s Kelsy Cotterell, and she hates Britt because she totes did steal Kelsy’s boyfriend. And also because Brittni had his name tattooed right across her chest, which is not even hot, despite that boob job of hers,” Farrah said. “She thinks because she used to be a cheerleader the whole world owes her something. Mama says she gets that and her lard butt from Aunt Charla.”
Brooke pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at Farrah’s dead-on assessment of her client and her client’s mother. “Okay. Enough about Brittni. As long as you’re here, you might as well get some work done. I need you to go online and do some research. See what you can find out about State of Georgia v. Josephine Warrick. Print out what you get and start a file.”
“Josephine Warrick? Is that the old lady who owns Talisa? What’s up with her?”
“She called me yesterday, wouldn’t say what it’s about. Just that she wants to see me about an unspecified legal matter. I’m headed over there in a few minutes.”
“Awesome. A new client. So that’s why you’re all dressed up today. You look nice, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Brooke said. “I kinda like that nail polish of yours too. What’s it called?”
“Violet Femmes,” Farrah said. She held up the bottle. “Want a hit?”
“No, thanks. I’ll stay with my Bubble Bath. Gotta look conservative in my line of business.”
Shunning her usual casual office attire, Brooke had reached to the back of her closet and brought out an expensive tailored navy pantsuit, which she wore with a white silk shell, pearl earrings, and a pair of black lizard-skin Tod’s loafers, throwbacks from her Savannah wardrobe, which rarely saw the light of day in St. Ann’s.
“That old lady’s, like, filthy rich, you know,” Farrah said.
“I doubt that she’ll end up hiring me. I don’t practice the kind of law it sounds like she needs.”
“You’re a lawyer, right? Why wouldn’t she hire you?”
“I’m a general practitioner, remember? From the little research I’ve done, it sounds like she needs somebody who does eminent domain law. But she seems like quite a character, so I’m gonna go see her anyway.”
“Text me some pictures of the house, okay? I’ve never actually been inside. Jaxson and I used to ride over to the island on his brother’s boat last summer to party at the top of that old lighthouse, but I hear she’s got an armed security guy roaming around now.”
“Talisa is private property. You and your friends had best stay away from there,” Brooke said, trying to look severe. “Unless you want to share a jail cell with your cousin.”
“Whatevs.” Farrah set the bottle of nail polish aside and turned the music on again.
Brooke promptly turned down the volume. “Who is that, anyway?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding, right? Seriously? You never heard Luke Bryan before?”
“These days my playlist mostly consists of Kidz Bop and the Wiggles,” Brooke replied.
“Girrrrrl, you need to get in the now,” Farrah said condescendingly, reeling off her current favorite country music acts before stopping abruptly. “Hey, I almost forgot to tell you the good news.”
“What’s that?”
“I might have gotten us a new client. Jaxson’s mom left his dad again this week, and she swears this time it’s for good. So I gave her your card. If she hires you for the divorce, do I get, like, a finder’s fee or something?”
Brooke laughed. “We’ve got to find a way to get you into UGA, kid. Someday, you’re gonna make somebody a hell of a lawyer.”
*
The municipal marina was quiet at midday. The tide was dead low, and most of the serious fishermen had set out earlier in the morning. Seagulls screeched and swooped for fiddler crabs scuttling across the exposed gray pluff mud of the riverbank. A couple of derelict-looking shrimp boats creaked at their moorings at the end of the wharf, along with a handful of the open, shallow-hulled center-console boats favored by local crabbers. There were seven or eight shiny new cabin cruisers and three sailboats scattered along the wharf too, but most of the larger, more expensive boats were to be found up the coast, on St. Simon’s Island, which was where really wealthy boaters congregated.
Brooke gazed along the length of the long wharf, wondering which of the boats belonged to Josephine Warrick.
She heard a sharp whistle and swung around to see who it was meant for.
Finally, she spotted a modest, faded-yellow craft bobbing at its mooring at the end of the dock. A lone man stood on the bow, waving at her. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called to her.
“Are you Brooke?”
She nodded and hurried toward the boat.
He was skinny, with thinning hair bound into a scraggly gray braid that hung down his neck, bow-legged and sun-bronzed, wearing an ancient green army fatigue shirt with the sleeves hacked off and unbuttoned to his bare bony chest, and cutoff jeans that had seen better days. Clipped to the belt of his shorts was a holster with a large pistol. Brooke wasn’t good with guns, but she was pretty sure it was a 9 mm.
His face was shaded by a sweat-stained ball cap, and his eyes were hidden behind cheap aviator sunglasses, but she felt the intensity of his stare.
“Are you C. D.? From Talisa?”
“That’s me,” he said, offering her a hand. “C. D. Anthony, in the flesh. Come aboard.”