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The courtroom guards approached me, and I was immediately led out through the back of the room. I quickly glanced over my shoulder, searching for my lawyer. He nodded once with a quick smile, and I wasn’t certain what he meant by it. Was he happy with the results? Did he think the sentencing was fair? I opened my mouth, but the guard took my upper arm and led me forward. It didn’t hurt, but it still felt overly forceful.
I hadn’t realized they’d take me straight from the courtroom. Maybe I’d been naïve to hope that I’d be able to sleep in my own bed tonight. I kept my eyes down and just went where they led me. When we finally stopped, I realized I wasn’t out back about to be loaded into a prison bus. Instead, I was standing in front of a fancy wooden door with a gold plaque on it.
It read Judge Harris.
Vaguely, I recognized that was the name of the judge that had overseen my sentencing. I looked at the guards in confusion, but they said nothing and just knocked on the door. The very same judge that had just sentenced me to prison opened that door. His gaze was even warmer up close.
“Miss McCormick, please do come in,” he smiled.
I did what he said because I didn’t know what else to do or say. The only thing I did know was that this wasn’t typical. Instead of being taken straight to jail, I’d been led to the judge’s chambers.
“You may go,” he dictated to the guards, and I looked over my shoulder to see the guards drop their gaze with a quick nod.
Before I could even open my mouth and say a word, they had already disappeared down the hall. Judge Harris reached out for me and tapped my shoulder lightly, just enough to guide me forward. My gaze was glued to him as he guided me over to a luxurious brown leather armchair in front of his enormous oak wood desk. He closed the door behind me, and I watched him round his desk and then take a seat.
Someone else cleared their throat.
I started, glancing over my shoulder so quickly that a wave of nausea rolled through me. Sitting in the corner of the room was the same blue-eyed stranger whose face I’d slammed the door in no less than a week ago after he offered me his help.
Cormac Murphy.
CHAPTER7
Caitlin
The judge spoke before I could manage to get my mouth to work.
“Before the hearing, I had the opportunity to talk with your uncle. He spoke very persuasively on your behalf and an arrangement has been made.”
“An arrangement…” I echoed.
I shifted in my seat, feeling more uneasy with every passing second. With a hard swallow, I slid my eyes from the judge to Cormac, trying to tease out what had happened in this room some time before my hearing took place. The judge kept his expression blank, but I had a feeling that nothing about this was typical.
“Yes. You will accompany your uncle back to Boston where you will serve the remainder of your sentence under house arrest and the terms of your probation will be determined by the local probate.”
Cormac had yet to say a word, and that irritated me for some reason. At the same time, I wanted to be angry with the judge, but I couldn’t bring myself to be. He could have made my sentence much worse in some ploy to make an example of me. I’d heard of countless stories of stuff like that in the past.
No. This wasn’t the judge’s fault.
This was Cormac’s.
I took a deep breath and turned, leveling him with a furious glare.
“You will be coming to Boston with me.”
His voice was calm and level. There was no doubt in my mind that he was telling me what was going to happen. He wasn’t asking, and that made my fury explode. How dare he come in here and interfere in my life?
“I’d rather spend a year in jail than live in Boston with you. You can go fuck yourself.”
The silence that followed felt heavy. Cormac’s gaze held mine, his eyes glimmering with weary exhaustion, disappointment, and something else. It was as if he was trying to decide on something to do or say, but I couldn’t figure it out from his quiet and brooding demeanor.
Then he nodded. It was a quick movement that affirmed he’d decided on something, and I didn’t know what. Was he going to stand up and leave? A part of me hoped that he would because the way he was staring at me was deeply unsettling. It wasn’t like a sociopath or a serial killer deciding that I was his next kill or even a rapist catching a glimpse of his next target, but something like a father looking at his daughter with the full intention of taking care of her even when she was deeply in trouble.
I’d never had anyone look at me like that before.
I’d seen the exact same expression on television or in the movies when a girl would steal a credit card or something dumb and when her father eventually found out, and he always did, he’d come and scold her for a minute, but it always ended up in some ho-hum bonding family moment that I’d never experienced in real life.
Cormac wasn’t my father, though, and despite what the judge thought, he wasn’t actually my uncle. He was just some random stranger that had a hard-on for getting me out of prison and bringing me with him to Boston.
