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There’s a good minute and a half before I catch sight of movement through the frosted glass panels that run alongside the door. When Alexander Hollowell opens the door, his brows furrow and then rise in quick succession, as he registers my appearance and realizes who I am in the space of a few seconds.
He’s dressed casually, in a dark blue button down with the sleeves rolled up and charcoal slacks. And he’s not wearing shoes, just dark socks.
A stab of guilt twists in my stomach. He really was just trying to have a relaxing day at home, and here I am, about to bust it up.
But even if this ruins his day, it can’t be as bad as what my mom is going through. I let that thought spur me on as I step forward, speaking more confidently than I feel. “Please, Mr. Hollowell. I know you don’t want to talk to me, but can I please have just five minutes of your time?”
He purses his lips, and for a second, I think he really might be thinking about calling the cops.
Then, finally, I see him crumble. That want to help wins out, and he steps back, opening the door wider to usher me inside.
“You’re a very persistent girl, Harlow. Your mom’s lucky to have you.”
“I’m lucky to have her, sir. That’s why I’m here,” I say breathlessly, stepping into the bright, open foyer before he can change his mind. The inside is as modern as the outside, with large window panes and lots of sleek surfaces.
He nods understandingly, then glances at my feet. “You can leave your shoes on the mat. Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? Tea?”
“No, thanks.”
I shake my head as I kick off my shoes, laying them on the mat. I don’t know how much time he’s going to spare for me, and I don’t want to waste any of it on chitchat or beverages if I can help it.
“All right. Come on in.”
He gestures for me to follow him as he heads toward the living room—although it’s hard to tell exactly where the foyer ends and the living room begins. The whole place is so open, there’s not a lot of delineation between rooms.
He holds a hand out toward a wide, angular couch, indicating I should take a seat. As I sink down onto it, he sits in a chair nearby, crossing one ankle over his knee.
“Scott Parsons is, to speak bluntly, an incompetent hack,” he says, grimacing as he rubs a hand over his chin. “I’m not sure of all the details of your mom’s case, but why don’t you fill me in a little, and I’ll see if I can find ways for you to… help him help you. She shouldn’t have to micromanage her lawyer, but in his case, it may be necessary.”
I nod, digging through my memories of what Mom has said about Scott. My gaze flicks around the room as I think, taking in the broad floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall and the large fireplace to my left. There’s an elk head mounted above the mantel and a stuffed fox on a sort of pedestal next to the fire. My brows pull together as my gaze bounces between the two animals.
They seem odd and incongruous in this fancy, sleek house. Those two dead animals look like they belong in a hunting lodge or something.
Judge Hollowell notices my expression and turns his head, tracking my gaze. He smiles indulgently, shaking his head almost like he’s laughing at himself.
“Ah. I’m a bit of a fan of sport hunting. I know they don’t match the decor, but I couldn’t resist showing off a few trophies. That’s a Manitoban elk, and the other is a gray fox.”
I suppress a snort. Well, at least he realizes they don’t go with anything in he—
Before I can finish that snarky thought, a new thought crashes into my mind with the force of a wrecking ball.
She called him her gray fox.
I haven’t considered those words since the day I heard Savannah speak them. At the time, I assumed she was talking about Mr. Black, and the name made perfect sense to me—the streaks of gray at his temples, mixed in with his almost-black hair, could earn him that nickname easily.
My gaze fixes on the small stuffed creature, frozen in time as if it’s standing alert, head raised to sniff the air.
Her gray fox.
My stomach dips and spins, making me feel like I’m on a ship in the middle of a violent storm. Nausea rolls through me, forcing bile up my throat.
The man who killed Iris got her pregnant. He has dirty cops in his pocket, which means he must be powerful and probably wealthy. And he had to have some connection to my mom in order to know it would be possible to frame her.
My eyelids flicker.
I can’t tear my gaze away from the poor, dead fox next to the fireplace, posed forever as if it’s still alive.
Her gray fox.
