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Jordyn:Gagging here…
Me:lol. Change of subject then, Girls Night next Friday? Lena’s band is playing at the Atomic Freeze.
Jordyn:Hot guys in leather. I’m in.
Lexie:Punk Rock?I can picture her making a face.
Jordyn:Don’t get your pearls in a twist. It’ll be fun.
Me:Plus, I promised my support. You have to come. Please.
Lexie:Ugh. Alright.
Me:Great! More details later. Gotta run.
I silence my ringer and get to work. The day flies by with meetings, reports, and legal briefs. Stopping long enough to down a container of Greek yogurt and catch up with Lena, I excitedly tell her that Mick and I are going on a date tonight. Then I turn my attention back to my mounting caseload. It’s past four when I have a chance to open Dwayde’s file, specifically to review the information about the Franklins.
By all accounts, they are well-respected by the people in their hometown of Grandview, Kentucky. A small, tight community where Charles Franklin, who inherited Franklin Farms from his great grandfather, has a hospital wing in his name and is both a prominent businessman and deacon of the local church. His wife, Joan, is a generous philanthropist who sits on a number of charity boards. Without so much as a parking ticket to mar their picture-perfect image, they have been lauded as loving parents to Joyce, and devoted grandparents to Dwayde.
But just because it shines, doesn’t make it gold. I met them, and my gut says all is not as they would have us believe. Beneath Franklin’s Southern charm seemed a controlling man, used to getting what he wanted. And Mrs. Franklin, well…she was unnaturally thin, excessively nervous, and her mind spacey as if she might have been overmedicating. Franklin directed her every move. A Stepford Wives kind of vibe that I found odd and disturbing.
Add to that, Dwayde’s reaction toward them. Not just anger, but a depth of hostility that appeared inconsistent with his claims that he doesn’t remember them. I saw the flicker of recognition when they mentioned his pony, Dasher. I saw the sheer loathing on his face when they gifted him with a shirt bearing the family crest as a symbol of his legacy. He raged: “I don’t care about being a Franklin…I’m a Torres and they’re my only family!” Then tore from the hotel suite.
I tried to reason with Charles Franklin, to get him to drop the case, to put Dwayde’s best interests first. Wasted breath. He told me he would “win” Dwayde back as if his grandson was some trophy to be prized.
We’ve had one court hearing since then. During the preliminary review of evidence, opposing counsel, Thomas Jackson, produced a document. One that Joyce allegedly signed when Dwayde was four years old, giving custody to her parents. A document that suddenly surfaced after Dwayde outright rejected them. I’d called that a little more than convenient.
I pick up one of the pictures of Franklin’s daughter, then fifteen. She’d been featured inEquestrian News. Joyce is holding her first-place ribbons. I study the shy, dimpled grin and those big Franklin eyes somuch like Dwayde’s and her father’s. Then I look at the photo of her months later, after the fatal poisoning of her horse. She appears ghostly, her face sunken, her skin sallow. Her smile flat-lined.
“What happened to you?” I ask aloud.
According to Dwayde:She said a lot of stuff while she was high and running at the mouth, but I didn’t pay no attention to it.
Dwayde is a sharp kid. He’d paid attention. But he’s not talking.
Not to me. Or to Mick. Or to his foster parents. Not to his psychologist either.
In my meeting with Dr. Rachel Sass, she could not conclude with certainty that Dwayde remembers more than he’s saying. I, on the other hand, have no doubts. I’m all too aware of what secrets look and feel like.
She’d advised me to be patient. Not to push too hard and risk him shutting down completely. But patience is a luxury I don’t have when time isn’t on our side, and I still have more questions than answers.
“Hey, Boss,” Lena’s lighthearted intrusion pulls me from my heavy thoughts. “It’s 5:15.”
“Oh.” I look up at the corner of my computer screen then over at her standing in the doorway. “Lost track of time.”
“I figured. You don’t want to be late for your hot date with Mick.”
“I never saidhotdate.”
“No.” She grins. “But your eyes did.”
ChapterSeven
Dee
The forty-minute commute givesmy work brain a chance to slowly shut off.
Anxious for the night ahead, I arrive home and search my wardrobe. The black slacks and tunic I had planned to wear now feel too uninspired. Too in my comfort zone. I have this opportunity to reinvent myself, or rather to discover who I really am behind the cloak of insecurities.
