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Twelve

Zahra

Nobody’s officially told me I have bodyguards. Don’t ask, right? But I’m not blind, I’m not stupid, and there are only so many times a girl can see the same gray Tahoe in her rearview before she starts waving at it.

The driver’s a big, bald guy with a neck like a tree stump who never, ever smiles. That’s Sunshine. His partner’s younger, skinny, with a baby face and huge ears, and he blushes every time I make eye contact. That’s Dumbo. I feel a little bad about that one. But not bad enough to stop.

I brought them coffee this morning. Knocked right on the window. Sunshine looked at me like I pulled a gun on them.

“You’re not supposed to see us, Mrs. Greene.”

I smiled sweetly. “Then you should get a smaller car. Cream and sugar?”

Dumbo took his and said, “Thank you, ma’am”. I think I’m growing on them.

They’re behind me now, two cars back, as I pull into the parking lot at County General where I’m coming to talk to the man who put my husband in prison.

* * *

There are two more Greene guys on Tommy Brennan’s door. Dark suits, earpieces, doing a pretty good impression of hospital security. They straighten up when they see me coming down the hall, and one of them actually goes to open the door for me.

“Nope.” I stop right in front of them. I’m in my navy suit today, hair slicked back in a bun, and my don’t play with me pumps. “Gentlemen. Here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to walk all the way down to the end of this hall, by the elevators, where Mr. Brennan can’t see you. You’re going to stay there until I come out. You’re not going to listen at the door, and you’re not going to pop your head in to check on me. Are we clear?”

They look at each other. The bigger one clears his throat.

“Ma’am, the boss said…”

“The boss knows. Call him and ask. I’ll wait.”

They don’t call him. They go stand by the elevators. Damn right.

I take a breath, fix my face, and go in.

Tommy Brennan is a small, gray man in a big white bed. With both legs in casts, a metal frame bolted to his hip, tubes everywhere. He’s maybe fifty but looks seventy. When the door opens, he flinches so hard that the heart monitor jumps. He’s so damn scared I can smell it.

“Mr. Brennan? My name’s Zahra Cole. I’m an attorney.” I hold up my bar ID, nice and slow, and I stay by the door. “I’m not a cop, and I’m not with the DA. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if that’s alright. You can tell me to leave any time, and I will.”

His eyes are darting all over me. My suit. My hands. My face.

“Who… who do you work for?”

And here’s the thing. I could dance around it. A lot of people would. But I made a rule about lying, and I can’t make it for just one of us.

“I represent Declan Greene,” I say, holding his gaze. “I’m also his wife.”

The monitor goes fucking crazy. An he tries to push himself up the bed, away from me, and cries out when his hip won’t let him.

“Mr. Brennan, Tommy. Look at me.” I put my bag down on the floor, and raise my open hands. “If Declan Greene wanted you dead, you’d be dead. You know that better than anyone. Do you know who those men at your door work for?”

He shakes his head, breathing hard.

“Him. They’ve been there for three weeks. They’re the reason nobody’s come back to finish what that car started.” I let that sink in. “My husband didn’t do this to you. But I think you know who did. And I think you’ve been lying here for weeks, with nothing to do but stare at that ceiling, wondering how long before they try again.”

His face crumples. And this asshole whose false testimony cost Declan four years of his life, starts crying.

I thought I’d hate him. I really did. I’ve been hating him for fucking weeks. But he’s just a scared little man in a hospital bed who got in way over his head.

I pull the chair and sit down.