Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
I helped her into the passenger seat, the leather creaking under her weight. “I guess I never really thought about it.”
The scent of her rosemary perfume filled the car as she buckled her seatbelt. “It almost happened once,” she said. “When I was seventeen.”
I paused with my hand on the door. “Really?”
The spring breeze caught the edge of her dress as I shut her door and ran around to the driver’s side to hop inside. “Tell me more.”
“No,” she said with a soft laugh. “Those kinds of stories are better left in the past. I’m not even sure your grandfather knows.”
I backed out of the gravel drive, tires crunching. “Speaking of Bampa,” I said, glancing at her, “I kind of thought he’d be here.”
She smoothed her skirt and looked straight ahead. “He wanted to be, but I was afraid he’d punch whoever tried to fingerprint me. And frankly, I want to do this myself.” Her chin lifted just enough to make her point clear. “Woman power and all that.”
“You’re not by yourself,” I said.
“You know what I mean,” she replied, glancing at my outfit. “My very tough and beautiful lawyer can accompany me. That red suit is stunning on you, Anna.”
I focused on the still wet road. “Thanks. It’s my power suit.”
“A power suit.” She clicked her tongue thoughtfully. “I believe I should get one of those, especially if we go to trial.”
“I’m really hoping we don’t go to trial,” I said. The car hummed as we followed the river into town. “We’ll figure out this criminal matter. I’m meeting with Zippy O’Bellini later today.”
Her back stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“Gloria’s attorney,” I explained. “We’re meeting to discuss a possible settlement.”
“Absolutely not.” Nana clutched her hard-sided, flowered purse. “I will not settle.”
Ah. I should’ve explained better. “I know you won’t,” I said calmly. “But it’s good to meet with opposing counsel and get a read on their case.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said primly. “We’re not giving them an inch. I order you as my attorney not to meet with opposing counsel.”
I turned onto the main street in town. “Nana, that’s not how it’s done.”
“It’s how I want it done,” she said, crossing her arms. “And you’re my attorney, right?”
“Yes,” I said slowly, pulling up in front of the brick building that housed the sheriff’s office. “I’m your attorney.”
Her shoulders straightened even more. “Then you have to do what I want as your client, correct?”
“Technically,” I said, shutting off the ignition, “yes.”
“Good.” Satisfaction filled her tone. “Then we will not meet with him, and we will not agree to any sort of settlement.”
I got out of the car just as she did, but she was faster, marching toward the front doors with her chin high.
The sheriff’s office was full of noise until we stepped inside. Then the entire room went silent. The scent of old coffee and floor wax hung in the air.
“Hello,” Nana said brightly. When no one answered, she said it again. “Hello?”
The receptionist, Vicky McGregor, hurried to her feet. “Oh, Fiona. This is just terrible.” She pressed a hand to her hair, which was as perfectly brown and helmet-shaped as ever. “I just can’t believe it.”
“My first arrest,” Nana said, smiling. “What happens next?”
Before I could answer, Sheriff Franco appeared from the hallway, leaning on a cane. He wore jeans with a brace over one knee, his face pale and drawn.
“Sheriff,” I said. “You shouldn’t be here.”
His lips pressed into a thin line until they turned white. “Nobody’s going to arrest Fiona O’Shea but me.” Sheriff Franco’s voice echoed through the quiet office. He tried to sound steady, but his grip on the cane looked white-knuckled. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get this over with.”
Nana giggled. Yes, giggled. “Oh, Sheriff, you’re such a sweetie.” She followed him down the hall, heels clicking smartly against the tile. I trailed after them, half mortified and half impressed.
Franco moved slower than usual, but he still insisted on handling everything himself. He guided Nana to the fingerprint station, where the machine hummed quietly beside the camera. His movements were careful, almost tender, as he pressed her fingers across the pad. I’d never seen him be that gentle with anyone, and certainly not with a suspect.
When the camera flashed for her mugshots, Nana smiled like she was posing for a Christmas card. “This is kind of fun,” she said brightly.
I wanted to slap my own forehead. “Nana, this is not fun.”
“All right, let’s go,” Franco said, straightening. “We’ll walk to the courthouse.”
“You are not walking to the courthouse,” I blurted. “I’ll drive. It’s just down the street.”
His jaw firmed. “We’re walking. It’s not even raining.”
The man hadn’t bothered with a jacket over his Western checkered shirt, and he barely leaned on the cane. I wanted to argue, but he was too pale, and his jaw looked set in granite.