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He holds his hands up in a placating gesture, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply anything. Call it a misguided effort to make sure you don’t get hurt in the end. But it’s not my place to speak like that.”
“It’s fine,” I mutter, finally allowing myself to give in to my flight impulse and slide away from him on the couch.
He seems to realize he overstepped—that he was the one who slipped out of character. He’s so anxious to see my mom convicted of murder that he stepped out of his role as the neutral but sympathetic observer to prod me toward believing Mom could’ve actually done it.
But he’s given me the opening I need to leave. He can tell I’m agitated, and this time, I have a justifiable reason for it.
“I—better get going,” I say in a rush, standing up and tugging my long brown hair over one shoulder. I’m still in my socks, just like the judge is, but I’d run through the fucking snow barefoot if it meant getting out of this place right now.
“Of course.” He claps his hands to his knees and stands up, making no move to try to stop me.
“I’m supposed to meet up with a few friends, but I told them I couldn’t go anywhere until I stopped by to see you,” I add, subtly letting him know that other people know where I am.
At least, I hope it’s subtle. I can’t tell if I’m talking too loud or not loud enough. My entire body feels fucking numb.
“Then you’d better get out of here before it starts coming down again,” he says, glancing out through the large floor-to ceiling windows on one wall of the room to the snowy landscape beyond. “The roads will only be getting worse.”
My gaze flicks to his, panic twisting my insides into such knots it’s physically painful.
Is that a threat? Dammit, I can’t tell. He’s too good at his act, too good at keeping his expression perfectly bland and pleasant.
“Yeah. Good point. I’m not used to all this snow.”
I back up to the place where the living room opens into a large foyer, moving toward the door while trying to keep from turning my back to the man who follows me. When I reach the mat where I left my shoes, I scramble to put them on.
“Don’t lose faith, Harlow,” Judge Hollowell says. He’s standing in his nice button-down shirt, slacks, and dress socks, arms crossed over his chest as he watches me. “What the police found on your mom’s car is pretty damning evidence, but have her tell Scott Parsons to focus on her character. I’m assuming she has no prior record or history of violence, and she’s the kind of person a jury will want to believe is innocent. A good lawyer can nudge them in that direction.”
I glance up at him, yanking on the ends of my shoelaces so hard I practically snap them. “I’ll tell her.”
“Good. Her public defender doesn’t have the finesse of other lawyers, but if he can get some reliable and well-spoken character witnesses, that will help too. Even with the DNA evidence against her, it’s entirely possible she’ll be sentenced to a lesser charge like involuntary manslaughter.”
His tone is soft and gentle, reassuring and calm—and it occurs to me that if I hadn’t finally put the pieces together, I would actually feel better now. I’d feel like I at least had a strategy, something to tell my mom to help her fight this.
But instead of hope, rage burns like an ember in the pit of my soul.
Fuck this man. Fuck his beautiful, modern house and his dead animal trophies. Fuck his lies and manipulations.
Fuck him for ending one life and ruining another.
My hands start to shake so badly I can barely tie my last shoelace, and Judge Hollowell steps forward again as I straighten.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Harlow?”
I suck in a slow breath, forcing my tensing muscles to relax. Then I lift my gaze to his, pouring everything I have into the lie I’m about to speak.
“I am now. Thank you.”
A small smile tilts his lips, and he nods in satisfaction. “Good. I’m happy I could help.”
2
Cold air hits my face like a stinging slap as I step outside. I suck in a breath from the shock of it and glance back at Judge Hollowell once as I hurry down the snow-covered walkway to River’s car.
I scraped it off when I left Fox Hill Correctional Center, but new snow accumulated while I was inside Hollowell’s house. I honestly don’t know how long I was in there. It felt like hours, but it can’t have actually been that much time.
My hands shake as I hurriedly scrape off the car, and as soon as the windshield and other windows are clear enough for me to see through, I toss the scraper into the back seat and slide behind the wheel.
Only then do I allow myself to glance once more toward the house.
