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1
Breathe, Harlow. Just breathe, dammit.
But I can’t.
Not when all the oxygen has vanished from the atmosphere. Not when the entire world has been turned inside out, the edges raw and exposed.
Not when I’m staring into the face of Iris’s killer.
Judge Hollowell’s brows knit together, and he ducks his head as he takes another step closer to me.
“Are you all right?” he asks again.
No. Jesus, no! I’m not fucking all right.
I willingly walked into a murderer’s house. Hell, I did more than that. I forced my way in, refusing to take no for an answer, so damn certain he could help my mom that I threw caution and good manners to the wind.
And now I don’t know what the fuck to do.
Does he know I’ve recognized him? Can he see it in my eyes? Read it on my face?
Is he about to kill me too?
My mind races as I try to sort through every one of my encounters with this man. He was at Mr. and Mrs. Black’s cocktail party the night Mom was arrested. Was he one of the few party-goers who followed us outside? Did he hear me rant to Detective Dunagan about a man in a black mask who was the real killer?
No. I don’t think so. I’m almost positive he wasn’t out there.
He probably stayed inside on purpose, putting as much distance between my mom and himself in that moment as possible, doing everything he could to make sure there was no notable connection at all between Mom’s arrest and himself.
Breathe.
In. Out.
Don’t let him know you know.
He’s still watching me, his round face pulled into an expression of concern. His hazel eyes look kind, and I find myself staring into them, trying to see past the mask he wears to get a glimpse of the man beneath. He’s such a good liar, such a good actor.
I have to be one too.
Forcing my throat to open, I suck in a slow lungful of air, careful not to let it become a gasp.
I don’t know how long it’s been since he asked his question. It could’ve been a minute, or five seconds, or an hour and a half. Time seems to stretch and contract in strange ways as I wrestle my emotions back under control.
“Yes.” The word sounds almost normal when I say it, and I force myself to continue like that, shaking my head slightly. “I’m… sorry. I shouldn’t be putting this all on you. I’m just so—so scared for my mom. It’s hard to act like everything’s okay, or to have normal conversations, when all the time, in the back of my mind, I can’t stop thinking about how she’s in prison and might never get out.”
That part isn’t a lie. It isn’t the reason for my freak-out at the moment, but I’m hoping the truth of my words will disguise the part that isn’t true.
And maybe it works, because Alexander Hollowell’s face smooths out, understanding taking the place of worry in his expression.
“I’m sure this has been very difficult for you, Harlow. I’m sorry.”
Liar.
I push the thought down, refusing to let it surface long enough to show on my face. Instead, I put on a hopeful look, tilting my head to meet his gaze, trying to remember how I felt about this man before I knew he was a murderer.
When I thought he was my salvation.
“Thanks,” I murmur, twisting my hands together in my lap. “That means a lot to hear. A lot of people at my school just assumed she was guilty as soon as she was arrested. It’s been awful. But it helps to know there are some people who don’t think she’s a killer.”
Sympathy colors his voice. “Yes, I’m sure it does.”
Playing the role of the girl who came here on Christmas day to beg for assistance—the one who had no idea of the truth—I bite my lip and glance up at him hopefully. “Do you really think you can help?”
Judge Hollowell sighs, and something seems to relax in his posture, the concerned pinch of his brows smoothing out. Instead of returning to his chair, he sinks down onto the wide, angular couch next to me, turning his body a little to face me more fully.
“I won’t be able to interfere in the trial directly or to influence the judge in any way. Legal and ethical boundaries obviously prohibit anything like that. We have systems set up to ensure a person is given a fair trial when they’re accused of a crime, and I believe in those systems. However…” He shakes his head, an expression of annoyance curling his lips. “There are instances where people in that system are let down by incompetent lawyers, and I would hate to see that happen to your mother.”
My head bobs up and down quickly even as I tighten the rest of my muscles, holding myself rigid and refusing to scoot or even lean away from Judge Hollowell. My entire body burns with the impulse to flee, to get away from this man—but if I run, it’ll only end badly.
If I run, he’ll chase me.
“I understand,” I say, barely recognizing my soft, eager voice. I sound desperate and grateful. “Anything you can do to help, no matter how small it is, would mean so much to me. And to my mom.”
He smiles, brushing a hand over his perfectly styled salt-and-pepper hair. “I’ll do what I can. Why don’t you tell me what you know about Scott Parsons’ defense strategy, and we’ll go from there.”
This is the second time he’s asked about that. It makes me nervous, and I wonder if there’s some reason he wants to know. If he’s playing me for information that he’ll use to sabotage my mom, to strengthen the case against her. To make sure his frame job sticks.
But I can’t refuse to tell him. It would be a giant red flag.
So I lick my lips and open my mouth.
I speak slowly and haltingly, trying to act like I’m dredging up what I know about my mother’s public defender and his strategy. But my mind zooms ahead at several times the speed of my tongue, weighing and measuring every word before I say it.
“I haven’t been at my mom’s meetings with Scott. So everything I know about his strategy is from what she’s told me.”
Judge Hollowell nods encouragingly, leaning forward a little.
“He doesn’t seem to have much of a strategy, honestly,” I continue. “He seems to be having a hard enough time just remembering all the facts of her case. And the circumstantial evidence doesn’t help her at all. She wasn’t home when the cops say Iris was killed, and she has no alibi.”
Fuck.
I shouldn’t have said that.
I’m brushing too close to the truth right now.
Mom was out on a date with Judge Hollowell the night Iris was murdered. So she has an alibi for the first part of the evening, just like the man sitting next to me does. But her location is unaccounted for in the window of time when Iris was hit by a car and killed. According to Scott Parsons, traffic cameras weren’t able to track Mom’s movements fully enough to prove either her guilt or her innocence.
Just like Judge Hollowell.
