“I think you’ve been carryin’ this woman on your back for years and now you finally know her name.”
That shut her up.
Deck moved toward the door, then paused.
“One more thing.”
She looked up.
“I’ve got another lead I’m running down,” he said. “May be nothin’. May be somethin’.”
“What kind of lead?”
“Not enough yet.”
“Deck.”
“If it turns into anything, I’ll bring it to you Monday.”
“In court?”
“Aye.” His mouth tugged faintly at one corner. “So if an old Irishman comes barrelin’ through the back doors in the middle of Calloway’s grand performance, don’t look so shocked.”
For the first time all evening, Eleanor smiled.
Small. Tired. Fragile.
“Okay,” she said.
Then Deck was gone, leaving her alone with the folder.
Lila Allen.
Lila Grant.
And the realization that Charleston had never really let her go.
Eleanor sat there for a long moment, staring at nothing.
Then, without meaning to, she looked toward her phone.
Reid.
She could almost see him the way he’d looked across the courtroom that afternoon. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled. Watching her like he always knew exactly when she was close to breaking and exactly how hard she was trying not to.
For one wild second, she wanted to call him. Wanted to hear his voice. Wanted to go to his house, let him hold her, and tell her Charleston didn’t get to have her anymore.
But he was still Reid Calloway. Still across the aisle. Still the man trying to put David Mercer in prison.
So she picked up the folder instead—and started reading from the beginning.
56
Catch My Draft
By Saturday night, Eleanor was miserable. The bell over the door at Catch My Draft gave a tired little jangle as April pushed it open with her shoulder.
“Come on,” she said. “You look like you’ve been personally sentenced by Judge Harlan. You need fries and a beer before you turn into dust.”
