A large window above the front door let the sunshine in, revealing glimpses of a glittering ocean just beyond the towering palm trees. This was the kind of home that people filmed gangster movies in, not the kind of home real people lived in.
But then again, he had just witnessed them voting onwhether or not to save a woman. So, maybe gangster wasn’t far off.
Bradley came up behind him. “Ginny’s in her room,” he said. “Third door on the left. Follow me. We need to talk.”
Uh-oh. He knows.
Shepherd looked down the stairs to the front door. He could run, right now. Bolt. Sure, there was a crap ton of police and federal agents and lawyers between him and freedom, but it was out there. Within reach. He might make it.
But Ginny was alone here. And her family was insane. And maybe he was only a pretend boyfriend, but he was a real friend, and it didn’t feel right, leaving her alone to deal with all the weirdos.
Bradley knocked twice before opening the door. Ginny was sitting on a large four-poster bed, with soft blue fabric draping down around her. The walls were lavender, with framed pictures of herself and various others all around. A large old-school poster of Scully and Mulder fromThe X-Filesstanding back to back with the wordsI WANT TO BELIEVEbeneath them and an alien spaceship above them had been hung in a place of honor. The floor was tiled, but a large white carpet had been set on top of it. There were bookshelves filled with lawbooks and a mostly empty computer desk underneath a large window, the white slat blinds closed.
“I didn’t say come in,” Ginny snapped, her arms crossed and her lips curled.
Mr. Kent motioned for Shepherd to sit down. Shepherd eased himself onto the mattress next to Ginny and tried very, very hard not to think about the fact that he was sitting on her childhood bed, and her father was in the room, and this was a nightmare scenario, anyway you cut it.
Bradley locked the door. “Virginia,” he said, standing in front of them, “I am very clearly on your side. At great personal expense, I might add.”
Ginny slapped the bed with both hands. “She’s my mother!”
“She’s my wife!” Mr. Kent exhaled through wide nostrils, and ran a hand through his white hair. “Ginny. Preston. The three of us are in this together, OK? But we have to move within the confines of the family rules.”
Confines of the family rules? What the hell was wrong with this family?
“I want you to talk to Cardello.” Mr. Kent’s voice was low and steady. “He knows something. He must.”
“We tried that already, Dad,” Ginny said. “What’s that sound?”
That sound was Shepherd, and he was humming in terror. He cleared his throat. “Ginny,” he said, reaching for her wrist. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry”—she moved her hand until their palms were pressed together, their fingers laced tight—“Dad is a great lawyer. Dad, you’ll be taking Shepherd on as your client. Pro bono, of course.”
“Oh, dear God. Why? No, wait.” Mr. Kent walked over to the desk and dragged the tall, black chair over to the bed. “OK.” He groaned as he sat. “Go on.”
“First, I’d like it stated for the record that you, and only you, are his attorney, and Grandpa will not be included in any discussions regarding what we are about to tell you.”
Mr. Kent’s mouth thinned, but he nodded.
“I want you to say it.”
“I won’t tell Grandpa. Now.What is it?”
Ginny took a deep breath. Shepherd’s was concerningly shallow. He sucked air into his lungs and held it until the light began to fade in the corner of his vision. When he started breathing again, it was much more even, but Ginny had gotten to the explosion part of the story.
“You set a house on fire with a baseball bat?” Bradley clarified, looking right at Shepherd. “After first killing a man with said baseball bat?”
Shepherd fidgeted on the mattress. A blue curtain fell and lightly slapped him on his cheek. “That is, um, an accurate summation of what happened, yes. But we don’t know if that man was dead after I hit him with the baseball bat.”
Ginny rubbed small, reassuring circles between his shoulder blades. She dragged her fingers up his neck and into his hair, massaging the base of his scalp. “Sweetheart,” she cooed, “he was very dead.”
“I’d say very, very dead,” her father chimed in. “After the explosion.”
“OK.” Shepherd wriggled away from his fake fiancée and further into the curtain. “I don’t believe ‘very, very dead’ is a scientific measure of … of morbidity.”
Ginny and her father exchanged a look that he just knew was making fun of him in their weird family’s silent language.
“I saved your life, Ginny,” Shepherd said, in a manly, certain voice, and not a whining, pouting one. “I followed you in there, and you were in danger, and I saved your life!Twice.”
