“See you down there,” I say.
Poppy rolls her bag into the bathroom and closes the door with one last smile.
What on earth was that about?
CHAPTER TWELVE
POPPY
My heart is racing like a jackrabbit.
Mercy in Justice.
That’s my company.
He’s describing my job.
Heck, I could have worked that very case. I’ve worked hundreds in my career, and at least a dozen of them have dealt with professional sports. I could look it up right now.
Actually, I can’t. I resigned two days ago, and my access has already been shut off. Not that it matters. I don’t work for them anymore. Living out of suitcases and hotel rooms, investing everything into families that might still get torn apart?—
Nope. Not going down that road.
Point is, I quit.
Would that help my case with Oliver? Would he forgive me if he found out now that I’ve quit?
Never.
I’ve worked there for the last few years, advocating against mandatory minimums, fighting to make sure first-time offenders with non-violent charges, survival theft, or low-level financial mistakes weren’t locked away as if they were career criminals. I presented effective alternate paths that offered both accountability and the chance for true reform.
Until I broke.
I get ready as quickly as possible, because we have to get on the road and it’s important to Oliver, but with every step, my hand trembles. The mascara wand bounces as I bring it to my lashes. I have to pause—breathe slowly—and force my fingers to cooperate.
Oliver is in so much pain.
I press a hand to my stomach. It’s fluttering for all the wrong reasons.
If he finds out what I do for a living—who Ihelped—he’ll never talk to me again, and then the car will be so quiet that I’ll fall asleep at the wheel and crash and kill us both and then he’ll follow me around for the rest of eternity, blaming me. Can ghosts haunt other ghosts? I’ll find out soon enough.
Unless I never open my mouth. If I don’t tell him what I do, he’ll never know.
There! Problem solved. We hardly talked most of the day yesterday. Although he got chattier last night. And he had no problem probing this morning.
And honestly, I liked it a lot …
I laugh to myself, a dark, sad, pitiful laugh. It figures. The first time in ages that anyone has askedmeanything, it’s about the one topic that will make him hate me.
I don’t want Oliver to hate me. I want him to like me.
That’s a given. You wanteveryoneto like you.
But he’s different.
Why?
I ask myself this as I slap on tinted sunscreen and mascara.
