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We don’t speak as we leave, and her truck is parked near the front of the station, so I follow her. She gets in, then she looks at me and opens the door. I get in, and she starts the engine, and Sarah drives to my office the long way.
I could have walked. She could have just left the motor running and motioned for me to get out, but instead, she switches it off and we both get out. I unlock the door and switchon the lights. The business day is done, and Melissa is gone, as I texted her on the way to the station to close up.
In the small, cozy reception area, Sarah sits, her hands beneath her thighs.
She wants to talk, the air is heavy with that. I want to talk too. But it’s like I have a nervous kitten and I don’t want to scare her. More than that, I need to listen.
Sarah swallows, then swallows again.
I cross to her, hold out my hand. “Give me a dollar.”
“What?” She frowns and hands me one from her pocket, crumpled and warm from being so close to her body.
I shove it in my pocket. “Consider this your retainer. You’re now my client, so talk.”
“You punched him.”
“He’s a fuckwit. Of course, I punched him.”
“For me?”
“There wasn’t anyone else he called his wife.” I pause. “This why you need a lawyer?”
I look at her, the red streaking across her cheeks, the misery bright in her eyes. No way is this woman just now getting around to a divorce. She packed up and moved here to take up a job offer. It was a quick and decisive thing from what I can work out, so . . .
“You just found that out.”
“Yes.” Her shoulders hunch down. “Thank you for defending me. For not looking at me like I’m some kind of terrible person.”
“Why the fuck would I think you’re terrible?”
“Because he’s clearly after Dakota’s land. I don’t know why he thinks it’s now mine.”
“Me either,” I mutter. I lean against the reception desk and cross my arms. “Real talk? I wouldn’t think that you had something to do with it. There’s no way I think you’re in cahoots with him.”
That makes her laugh, and she bites her lip. “Cahoots?”
“It’s a word, Sarah.”
“I don’t get why he thinks I own Dakota’s place. He asked if I lived alone when I think he knows.”
Now I frown. “Is he dangerous?”
“No, not like that. Or he wasn’t.”
I release a breath and I have to ask. “How old were you?”
“Leland, we’re not friends. I don’t want to talk about this. I—”
“How. Old.”
“Seventeen.”
“Figured. I should have hit him harder. Creep. I’ll take care of the divorce for you, and don’t even think of arguing.”
She closes her eyes and inexplicably I want to take her in my arms and hold her, tell her everything’s going to be okay. But I don’t move.
“Okay. Thank you.” Then she opens them. “I should go.”
