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“I just appreciate you making time,” I say. “Grayson wants to drive you to the courthouse and get a few minutes to get a feel for what you think of this immunity deal.”
“In case that ride is too short, let me just say this: I’m feeling optimistic about where this is heading with this deal. And since I know terms are what you and Grayson are likely concerned about, yes, I’m certain they’ll negotiate the terms. All that said, why don’t you two just come over for dinner tonight? We have our daughter and I have trial prep I need to be home to manage. That’s the easiest way for us to get more time to talk.”
“That works for us,” I say, the idea of having our own baby girl doing funny things to my belly “We’d love that.”
“Perfect,” Reese says, lifting his chin at Jacob. “In case you don’t know, Mia, this man’s wife had something to do with helping move this along.”
I glance at Jacob. “Your wife?”
Jacob gives a fast nod. “She’s NYPD but she has a connection at the FBI that proved helpful, even beyond Blake’s deep connections. She wasn’t involved in this case, but she managed to insert herself in the right places.”
“Thank you to her,” I say. “I’ll make sure Grayson knows.”
“Not necessary, ma’am,” Jacob assures me. “We just like to see the good guys win.”
“As do I,” I say, glancing at Reese, “which is why I appreciate this meeting, Reese.”
“Well then,” he says. “Let’s get to it while I have time.”
I nod and we head toward the restaurant. “I’ll wait at the entryway,” Jacob says, while Reese and I step into the doorway to the hostess stand to find Delaney sitting and waiting at a side bench. She pops to her feet, a petite, pretty woman with red hair and the kind of luminous pale freckled skin that money and good genes delivers. Her black dress, boots, and matching purse are Chanel, which I know because I love Chanel and only have Chanel because Grayson buys it for me. I won’t buy it for myself. That was a bonding topic for me and Delaney as it was the same for her. Her husband bought her nice things, but unlike Grayson, who does it because he loves me, hers did it to apologize or hold her captive. She was also expected to present herself as an appropriate trophy wife. I feel as if she doesn’t know how to be anything but what he literally beat her into becoming. Or else.
She hurries our direction and she’s nervous when she joins us. I see that in the twist of her fingers in front of her before she shakes Reese’s hand. “Delaney Wittmore. Or it is now. I’m going to change it back to Adams, soon.”
“Understandable,” Reese replies. “Sorry to rush this, Delaney,” he adds, “but I have to be in court in an hour.”
“Of course,” she says. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Her voice is small, but her will is not or she wouldn’t have lived through the abuse she endured.
The hostess seats us and I have Delaney sit across from Reese, and it’s not long before we all have steamy cups filled with coffee. I don’t try to direct the meeting, not quite yet. I let Reese and Delaney start things out.
“I’m interested in your case, Delaney,” Reese says. “but I don’t represent anyone I don’t believe is innocent. Once I believe in you, I’m passionate about winning, as I know Mia is as well. I need to feel the passion she does for your case. I need you to tell me your story in your words.”
Once she begins to speak, I plan to lead her to my controversial defense that really shouldn’t be controversial at all. Not once the entire story is told.
“I don’t think there’s a reason for me to tell my story,” Delaney says, which doesn’t surprise me. I know where she’s going: to that honest place that won me over.
Reese arches a brow. “And why is that?”
“Because you just said that you don’t represent anyone you don’t believe is innocent. I’m not. I killed my husband.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Mia
At Delaney’s declaration that she killed her husband, Reese doesn’t so much as blink. He doesn’t look at me, either. He stays focused on Delaney. “Why?” he asks.
“Does it matter?” Delaney challenges. “I killed him.”
“Do you want to go to jail?” Reese counters.
She cuts her stare, swallows hard, and then meets his stare again. “No, but,” her fingers curl into her palms where they rest on the table, “I killed him.”
Reese doesn’t miss a beat. “Why?”
“He wouldn’t stop hitting me.”
I pull a folder out of my briefcase, open it, and slide a photo of her from the night of “the incident” in front of him. In the photo, Delaney’s face is beaten black and blue and her eye is swollen shut. He glances down at it, shows no reaction, and then looks at her. “Tell me more.”
