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“Yeah? But they don’t have a statement from you.”
“I confessed. Isn’t that enough?”
She shrugs. “If it was, they would have arrested you by now. Just chill.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head but stay silent. Maybe she’s right. Maybe they don’t have enough to arrest me even though I did confess.
A few more minutes of silent driving pass before she’s finally pulling off the road and into a parking lot. It’s a basic brick building with planter boxes along the sides and big white letters attached to the front that read Law Office of Dave Whitlock.
As soon as she parks and turns off the car, I step out. “Here we fucking go,” I mumble to myself.
Lydia rounds the hood and stops beside me. “Ready?”
“I guess.”
We walk to the door and pull it open. The inside is smaller than I would have thought, with only two leather chairs, a glass table with some magazines, a narrow hallway, and an empty reception desk. We both look around for any sign of someone, but the place is dead.
“Hello?” Lydia calls out.
We wait for a moment, exchanging looks of worry, before a petite woman finally comes out of the door behind the desk. “Miss Shultz?” I nod. “So sorry about that! I was on my lunch break, but Dave can see you now. Just follow the hall to the last door on the left.”
“Great. Thank you.” I dip my head and follow her instructions.
When we make it to the end of the hall, his door is open. He’s older than I would have imagined—maybe in his late forties—dressed in a plum-colored button-up, with slicked-back dark hair, sitting behind a desk that takes up almost the entire room, looking at a folder in front of him.
“Dave?” Lydia announces, grabbing his attention.
He looks up, giving us an inviting smile. “Ladies. Please come in and have a seat.”
“Thanks for meeting with me,” I say, taking one of the chairs in front of his desk as Lydia takes the other.
“It’s my pleasure. When Lydia called, I recognized your name—well, last name, rather. I helped your father get things in order after your mother’s death.”
Immediately, my blood runs cold. Does this mean he knew who Alexander was and what he was doing?
“I’m sorry to hear about his passing. My condolences.”
I give him a tight smile because saying anything other than thank you is probably not the best idea. I’m not sorry he’s dead though. I’m sorry William is dead, and Cyrus is gone. That’s it.
“First things first, I need to know what happened.”
I give him the same rundown I gave the cops, hoping like hell it sounds believable, but it’s doubtful. Lydia is right. I’ve always been a shit liar. But then again, I don’t feel I gave anyone enough to incriminate myself.
Once I finish, Lydia grabs my hand and squeezes it, trying to give me some silent reassurance as he scribbles on the notepad in front of him.
“Okay…” he starts, trailing off as he looks over whatever it is he wrote down. “If we’re going to figure out a good plea, I need to know the truth.”
I look to Lydia, then back to him. “Th—that is the truth.”
He leans back in his chair and brings his hand to his chin. “Listen, Carmen. I’ve been doing this a long time, and I know when someone is lying. I can’t help you if you don’t help me.”
I bite my lip as tears start to well in my eyes.
“Are you saying all of this to protect someone?”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
He looks at his notepad again, then back to me. “Fine. We’ll stick with what you’ve told me, then. As of now, you haven’t been charged, which means they have no evidence. Since they didn’t get a written statement from you, it’s your word against theirs at this point, but we can try and plead shock or something else, but no judge will convict you on someone’s word without some type of evidence. Luckily, you didn’t say enough to get them questioning things.
