I simmer down the bitchiness in my tone when Owen interrupts, “That time.”
“Maddox was in a second fight?”
The air sucks from my lungs when Owen dips his chin. “I got a call from the warden on my way here. The man he assaulted this afternoon wishes to press charges. With a second assault-related conviction tying our hands, we can’t go any further with the appeal process.”
“That isn’t necessarily true,” Sloane interjects from her post in the corner of the room. She is sitting behind Mr. Walsh’s desk, hidden by stacks upon stacks of law books. “The right of an appeal is when a judge hands down a criminal sentence that does not meet the legal standards for the conviction.” She stuffs a pencil into the messy knot in the back of her head before standing to her feet. “Maddox’s sentence was far too harsh. The judge wanted to make an example out of him.”
“I agree,” Owen fires back, somewhat taken aback by both Sloane’s unexpected debate and her undeniable beauty. “But we only have so many courts to push his appeal through. If we exhaust them due to impatience, we will have no avenues left.”
“The basis of a client’s current proceedings should have no ill effect on an appeal.”
Owen steps closer to Sloane. “That may be what the rule books say, but you and I both know morally—”
“Law is different. It isn’t a morality in the sense of the word.”
“It creates a basic enforceable standard of behavior necessary for the community in treating all parties equally,” Owen interrupts. “I’ve read the textbooks…” He leaves his question open for Sloane to answer.
She follows along nicely. “Sloane.”
“Sloane,” Owen says her name without the husky edge Saint used when he first laid eyes on her on the porch of his family home two weeks ago. “But the law only narrows its focus of ethics and morality. It doesn’t completely ignore it.”
Sloane pops a brow high into her hairline. “So you’d rather wait it out than risk a judge not doing his job?”
“Yes!” Owen throws his hands in the air, somewhat frustrated. “That is the recommendation fromhislawyer.”
“A lawyer I’d fire if he were my counsel.”
Owen’s lips tuck at one side. “Then it’s lucky you’re not my client, isn’t it?”
Sparks are flying between Owen and Sloane. I just have a feeling not all of them center around Maddox. And I’m not the only one noticing. Saint hasn’t advised his stalker watch from the corner of the room, but I notice the more Sloane and Owen bicker back and forth, the tighter his jaw becomes.
“Enough,” Saint interrupts when Owen and Sloane’s argument switches from morals and ethics to personal attacks on right and wrong.
Sloane immediately swallows her words, uneased by the fury radiating from Saint.
Owen isn’t as quick to back down. Maddox hired him because he doesn’t understand the meaning of the words. “Reading case file studies is nothing compared to real-life experience—”
“I said enough!” No one can deny Saint’s roar this time around. It rattles my heart out of my chest as well as it causes Sloane’s knees to curve inward. “Maddox’s sentencing and today’s incident are two completely different occurrences—”
“Precisely my point.”
Saint keeps talking as if Sloane never interrupted him. “So they should be treated separately.” He shifts on his feet to face Owen. “Continue with the second appeals process.” When Owen attempts to interrupt him, he talks faster, “Ifthe second appeal fails, we will regather and reform. Until then…” He gestures his hand to the door, giving him his marching orders. His facial expression exposes if Owen can’t understand his silent hint, he will happily throw him out.
After gathering his suit jacket from the chair next to Sloane’s desk, Owen twists his torso to face Mr. Walsh. “I will take counsel with my client. If he agrees with the suggestions brought forth here today, I will lodge the necessary paperwork.” Not speaking another word, he exits the den.
When my troubled eyes shift to Sloane, she wrongly believes she needs to defend her motives. “Some appeals take months to be processed.” As her watering eyes drift between three very familiar pairs, she mumbles, “Forcing him to endure a longer wait than necessary won’t help him.” She shifts her eyes to Saint’s. “It won’t helpanyof us.”
We lose the chance to reply to her highly accurate comment when she regathers her composure by breathing out sharply. Then, after clapping her hands together two times, she gets back to work on tackling the mountain load of textbooks on Mr. Walsh’s desk.
I’d thank her for the time and effort she’s putting into studying cases similar to Maddox’s with a hug, but since it appears as if not even Saint’s signature move could get through to her right now, I mentally hug her before making a solemn trek up the stairwell to pack my belongings. I don’t have many possessions, but what I do have is highly valuable to me—sentimentally more than monetarily.
My pace slows when I noticed the door to Justine’s room is partially cracked open. It hasn’t been that way in weeks.
Against my better judgment, I take a left at the stairwell instead of a right. “Justine…” I tap on her door with my knuckles before carefully pushing it open. “Are you in here?”
My question is stupid for me to ask. She hasn’t left her room in weeks. This move will hurt her as much as it will Maddox when he finds out—ifhe finds out. Caidyn hasn’t told him about our plans yet. We had intended to do it today. You know how badly that turned out, so I won’t mention the fact Maddox demanded Caidyn to keep me away from Wallens Ridge indefinitely. My heart may not make it through the carnage unscathed. It’s already in tatters.
“Hey,” I breathe out slowly when I spot Justine in the corner of the room. The drapes are drawn, and the light is off, so with the sun beginning to set, her room is plunged into an eerie gray darkness. “Do you need anything?” When my question is answered with nothing but a sniffle, I step a little closer to her. “I could help you pack.”
