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Now I had the rest of the day to account for, and a lot of catching up to do on Emmanuel’s case. I could have taken Gypsy home, but it occurred to me there was another solution for both our problems. She wasn’t the type of woman who could be satisfied with a few hours of schoolwork every day. She needed something to challenge her, and I needed her expertise since I was anything but charming. She’d already signed the non-disclosure agreement, and I had Emmanuel’s permission to disclose information to her as my assistant, so I pointed the car in the direction of his old neighborhood.
“I need your help.” I turned off the ignition and stared at the small yellow house on the corner. The media frenzy had died down, but there were still signs of the shame Emmanuel’s family bore. The windows were boarded up, and there were extra locks on the door. They, too, were living like they were in prison.
“What is this place?” Gypsy asked.
“It’s my client’s mother’s house. I’ve been trying to get her to speak to me, but it hasn’t panned out.”
She turned to me, eyes sharp. “And what makes you think I can help with that?”
There were many different answers I could give her. She was a con artist, but that wasn’t the label I wanted to use, especially when I’d been steadfast in trying to break her of it.
“There’s something about you that makes people take notice,” I said. “You are tragic and beautiful, and I have a feeling she will be more receptive to you.”
She looked out the window, staring at the house with a softness she didn’t often display. “I guess she doesn’t know that you’re tragic and beautiful too.”
I smiled, and Gypsy threaded her fingers through mine. The darkness that seemed to linger between us was tempered, at least for now.
“I’ll help you,” she said. “Just tell me what I need to do.”
AFTER A CRASH COURSE IN the need-to-know details in Emmanuel’s case, I still wasn’t sure how helpful I could be. Lucian explained the terms of the non-disclosure agreement I’d signed and made a point to emphasize that I could never share whatever information we might gather inside that house, whether it was damning or not.
I didn’t know left from right in this case, but when I stood next to Lucian on the front stoop of his client’s home, I realized something so profoundly simple that nothing else mattered.
I trusted him.
That revelation was enough to spin my world on its axis. I hadn’t ever trusted anyone apart from Birdie. She was it for me. But this man took a sledgehammer to my life and demolished the walls I’d built so carefully around myself. When I looked up at him now, tenacious as he was beside me, I had one thing to rely on. Lucian believed in Emmanuel’s innocence, and by default, I wanted to believe it too.
Somehow, in a matter of moments, we’d become crusaders for righteousness together. My previous judgments, cast in ignorance, no longer had roots. This was a man who stood for what he believed in. A man who helped others, even if they didn’t always want to accept it. I knew with certainty that we wouldn’t be here today unless Lucian believed in the depths of his very soul that an innocent man was about to face a fate similar to his own.
For the first time in my life, I was proud of what I was doing, and I was determined to help however I could. When the door edged open, and two dark eyes peeked out at the visitors on her stoop, I plastered the most genuine smile I could summon on my face.
“Mrs. Morales?” I asked.
“Who are you?” the voice from the other side of the door replied.
There was a note of curiosity as she examined me. Emmanuel’s mother was a petite woman with bleak, exhausted eyes and a bone-weary presence that hit me right in the chest.
“My name is Gypsy,” I greeted her. “I’m Mr. West’s assistant.”
Her eyes moved to Lucian, and she shook her head. “You’re wasting your time. I already told you that.”
She moved to shut the door, but I shot my hand out and jammed it between the frame. “Please, Mrs. Morales. I’m only asking for five minutes of your time. If you don’t like what we have to say, then we’ll leave. I promise.”
She hesitated, her eyes moving from Lucian to me again. “I don’t want him in here. He brings bad press.”
“We’re already here,” I said. “The press knows who is representing your son, and that won’t change. They will find a story to spin, one way or another. But I’m telling you now that I can vouch for this man. He believes in your son’s innocence, or we wouldn’t be here. We only want to help.”
