“How many guilty-ass people do you need to get off before enough is enough?”
Nine hundred sixty-seven.“I think you need to leave.”
“After you tell me, Jameson.” She shakes her head. “What’s the fucking number?”
“Scarlett… Leave.”
“Is there one?”
I stand up from my chair. “I’m not going to ask you again.”
“You’re not going to see me again either.”
“I assure you I won’t cry about it.”
“Neither will I.”
“I doubt it.”
She storms past me and slams my door shut on her way out.
ADMISSION OF GUILT (N.):
A STATEMENT BY SOMEONE ACCUSED OF A CRIME THAT HE/SHE COMMITTED THE OFFENSE.
SCARLETT
“You think I’d give up an eight-figure client for you?”
Jameson’s words are playing in my mind on a loop as I pace my dorm room later that night.
Fuck him…I try to ignore the hot tears streaming down my face and the aching in my chest, but it’s no use.
“Please pick up, Francis. Please pick up…” I hold my cell up to my ear.
Francis has never let his phone ring more than twice before answering, and I don’t understand why it’s taking him so long now.
Maybe he’s with my mom.
When his voicemail sounds, I try again.
It rings once.
“Hello?” A muffled voice answers.
“Francis, it’s me, Scarlett,” I say. “I know you have a loyalty to my dad, but I need a favor and?—”
“What favor would you need from Francis that you couldn’t ask me for?” My father’s voice is now loud and clear.
I gasp.
“Scarlett?” he asks. “Are you there?”
“Yes.” A lie rolls toward the tip of my tongue with ease. “It was just a personal thing I needed to talk to him about.”
“Oh, I see,” he says. “Well, unfortunately, Francis is no longer with us.”
“What do you mean, no longer with us?”
