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A lone man stands on the front steps rather than a couple, and my brows furrow as I take him in. He’s probably in his early forties and has a sort of George Clooney vibe, with deep lines in his forehead, full lips, and a little dimple in his chin.
Alexander Hollowell. The guy my mom went out with twice.
The guy she thought might be able to help her if her case goes to trial.
Fuck. Should I say something?
I have no earthly idea what to say. My mom was probably just grasping at straws, hoping that having a connection to a respected judge in Fox Hill would help her somehow. But wouldn’t asking him for help be unethical or illegal? The last thing I want to do is make things worse for Mom by crossing some line I didn’t know existed.
The man cocks his head, squinting slightly as he takes me in. I see the moment when he realizes why he recognizes me, and my cheeks flame. He was at the party where Mom got arrested—so the last time he saw me, I was chasing after a bunch of cops who’d just handcuffed my mom.
We stare at each other for a second, and I’m not sure either of us know what to say.
Finally, I jerk myself into motion, opening the door wider and stepping back. “Please, come in.”
“Thank you.” He steps forward, brows still furrowed. “You’re… Penelope’s daughter, right?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Harlow.”
He nods, sympathy crossing his features.
It makes my heart jump in my chest. If he’s sympathetic, maybe he doesn’t think mom did it. Maybe he’d believe she’s innocent.
Ask him for help, Harlow. Just fucking ask him. Say something.
I lick my lips and am about to open my mouth Bri comes back into the room. She shoots me a look that’s both panicked and slightly annoyed as she hustles over, probably worried I’m making her look bad or something. Not that anyone’s here to see it.
“Judge Hollowell. Please, come in. May I take your coat?”
He nods and shrugs out of his overcoat, handing it to her before following her toward the ballroom. He glances back at me as they leave the foyer, and I give him a limp smile.
Well, fuck. So much for that chance.
Although if he’s friends with Samuel Black, maybe I shouldn’t trust him after all.
That’s a long fucking list though. The Black family is extremely well connected in Fox Hill, so if I’m looking for help from someone who has no ties to this family, it’s gonna be hard to find. And who knows. Just because these people come to the Blacks’ cocktail parties, I’m not sure that makes them all friends.
Deciding that Bri clearly doesn’t want my help, I hightail it to the kitchen before any other guests can arrive. I wonder if the Bettencourt and Lauder families have been invited.
Most likely. They’ve come to every other party hosted here.
“Oh, hey, Harlow. Cute dress.”
Gwen looks up from the large island in the middle of the kitchen, where she’s putting garnish on a couple trays full of hors d’oeuvres that are ready to go out.
“Hey, Gwen.” I peer around at the food, trying not to make it obvious that’s the only reason I came down here. “Is there anything you won’t kill me for stealing?”
She laughs, jerking her head to the left. “Take a few canapés. I made too many.”
“Thanks.”
I grab a napkin and load it up with several of the little sandwiches. Then I head for the door to the back terrace. It’s been warmer the past few days, like fall is having a last hurrah before it cedes the floor to winter. My thin Arizona blood still chills as soon as I step outside, but the long sleeves on my dress help, and I take a seat on the steps leading from the terrace to the large backyard, curling my body tight to preserve warmth.
It’s not completely comfortable, but it’s nice to be outside. I was getting almost claustrophobic inside the house.
The canapés are gone in about ten seconds, and I’m just wiping off my fingers on the napkin when my phone’s screen lights up beside me. Hunter’s name flashes across it, and I smile in spite of myself. I wad the napkin up and drop it on my lap as I swipe across the cellphone screen to answer.
“Hey, dummy. What’s up?”
