Page 18 of Dark Ugly Places

Steve waves his hands like he doesn’t want me to say anymore. “Mrs. Holiday, I can assure you that we are doing everything we can. And I can’t just bring on an investigator without some sort of retainer.”

“How much are we talking about?”

A look of surprise forms on his face. “Ten grand should buy you a couple of weeks.”

Where am I supposed to get that kind of money? The sparkle of my wedding ring glitters under the false light. I consider for a moment and then dismiss the idea. “My husband was killed, and the man who did it has not been charged with a crime. I know who it is now, so why can’t you pursue this? Isn’t wrongful death enough of a payout?”

“We have no evidence against this person you say that you saw. You don’t have a wrongful death case if you don’t have a defendant and evidence against said defendant.”

“What about suing the city?”

He folds his arms defensively. “You want to sue the City of Beverly Hills for the wrongful death of your husband?”

“Whatever it takes.”

He shakes his head. “I told you before, I can’t open a suit like that on contingency. You’d actually have to pay me something.”

I started pacing, unable to contain my frustration. “I can get you the money, but I need you to start on this. Every moment we lose …” My voice trails off. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.

Steve stares at me concernedly. “Look. Let us do our job and file the personal injury claim. We’ll get you some money, more money from the insurance, but these things take time.”

“Please.” My voice falters, and a low sob escapes me. “Please. I just need to know that I’m not crazy. Because I’m not crazy. Tell me I’m not crazy, Steve.”

Steve sighs and shakes his head. He reaches below the desk and pulls out a file with a manila envelope sticking out. “I wasn’t going to show you this because it doesn’t prove anything.”

He hands it to me. I fumble with the envelope and remove a single printed photograph.

“The driver ran through a red light, and the camera snapped this.”

For a moment, I cannot believe what I’m seeing. The emblem at the front—the lady with wings—glints with the flash of the camera.

“It’s a white Rolls-Royce,” I mutter, my voice faint. “It’s the Wraith.”

“Yep,” Steve answers.

It’s there, black and white, the image of the driver, a faint dark shadow behind the windshield. The face is totally obscured, as is the license plate.

“Normally, you’d get a plate number in a photo like this, and the city would mail a ticket to the driver,” Steve tells me. “There was one of those illegal security films over the plate, though, so the camera didn’t pick it up.”

I nod, my eyes fixated on the dark shadow behind the windshield. I stare into it, trying to make out any detail, but there’s nothing. Beside the driver is another figure, but smaller, more obscured. The whiff of a single arm visible. A female, perhaps?

There’s a small date and time stamp in the corner. It was taken just minutes before the accident. “Where was this taken?”

“Sunset and Crescent,” Steve says. “Same area, around the same time, but police dismissed it. No plate. No name. No address.” Steve sighs. “We’re back to square one.”

“No,” I answer. “We’re not.”

Steve looks at me curiously. “Mrs. Holiday, it doesn’t prove anything because the car wasn’t at the scene. This was blocks away. And we have no driver. Do you understand? It’s not proof of anything.”

My eyes scan the photo, disbelieving. “Yes, I understand,” I tell him. “But it’s proof that there was a reckless driver in the same area, at the same time, with the same car.”

Steve just stares at me apologetically. “It isn’t proof that this car hit you,” he repeats.

But it could be the beginning of proof. “What if I can get it?”

He sits back down, defeated. “Look. You’ve been through a lot. Just let me take care of the insurance claim and go live your life. Can you do that?”

“I have a kid, Steve. She’s fourteen. We lost our house, our car, her college fund—everything—to pay for her medical bills and mine. How exactly are we supposed to live our lives?”