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Before I know it, I’m on my feet and heading over to the front door. When I look through the peephole, she’s standing there flipping me the bird. Snickering, I unlock the door and open it for her as I hang up the phone. She doesn’t wait for me to invite her in, pushing past me and heading toward my kitchen without so much as a hello.
When I join her in the kitchen, she’s looking through my cabinets.
“What are you doing?” I muse.
She stops, turning to look at me for the first time since she walked through the door, and I can see the weariness in her eyes. “Don’t you have anything to drink around here?”
“There’s some whiskey in the cabinet above the refrigerator,” I tell her, planting myself against the doorframe as I cross my arms. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
She nods as she pulls down my bottle of Makers Mark. Holding up a finger with one hand, she pulls out a glass with the other then pours some for herself. She makes a cheering gesture toward me with the tumbler before slamming it back, placing it on the counter as she swallows.
As if she needs something to support her, she places both hands down flat on the counter, then leans into them before meeting my gaze. “I needed someone to talk to, and this is where I ended up. Don’t go making a big deal about it, or I’m leaving.”
I attempt to suppress my smile as I tug at my ear, and she narrows her eyes in warning. Holding my hands up in surrender, I walk over to the bar and take a seat.
“All right. What do you need to talk about?”
She pushes herself away from the island and begins to pace. “I’ve decided to pitch this potentially huge story to my editor, and I’m freaking out about it a little.”
“That doesn’t sound like you, what’s the story about?”
“Not what, who. Ashland Martin.” She pauses to gauge my reaction before I have a chance to hide the surprise on my face, scowling before she begins to tread the floor again.
Ms. Martin is a hot topic at the station right now. Apparently, the murder she committed was brutal, and a lot of people aren’t happy she’s gotten off so lightly.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I work to smooth my features. “Ashland Martin? As in the woman who confessed to murdering Jim Engels?”
She comes to a stop in front of me, her hip popping out to the side as her hand lands on it. “That would be the one.”
“That’s a high-profile case. A lot of people are ready to lynch that woman. Are you sure—”
“He raped my sister,” she blurts.
Lori’s head hangs as she wraps her arms around herself, and my blood runs cold as I think of someone hurting Julianna in that way. I can’t help wondering if Eric knows what happened to her. Then I thank God the man is already dead, certain Eric would try to kill the guy himself when he found out.
“Well, shit…when did she tell you this? Is that why you were so upset the other night?”
She nods but doesn’t meet my gaze. I feel sick as her words from that morning ring back in my mind.
“I never thought she’d suffer the same painful experiences.”
She’d been about to confide in me before my grandmother showed up. Was she planning to tell me she’d been raped too? Fuck. Is she here to open up to me now?
I slide the tumbler Lori used over to where I’m sitting and reach for the whiskey, filling the glass. “Did you tell her you’re planning to write a story about this girl?”
She nods again, and I shoot back the amber colored liquor before filling the glass again.
“And you’re sure she’s okay with it?”
She lifts her head and swipes the glass from me, drinking its contents before handing it back to me. “She even gave me permission to tell her story, says she’s ready—that she’s tired of hiding.”
All my muscles tighten as I shake my head, filling the glass yet again. “I don’t know, Lori.” I slam back another shot, my stomach churning in protest as I place the tumbler back on the counter. “People are going to come after her. They’ll call her names and accuse her of lying. Are you sure you want to put her through that?”
“No.” Her voice is so soft, it’s nearly a whisper, and I swear I see her chin quiver slightly before she clears her throat. “But we can’t keep letting men like Jim win because we’re afraid. We can’t let them continue to have that power over us.”
Her head falls, and she begins pacing again, but I reach out and grab ahold of her hand to keep her still. Her back straightens, her gaze landing on my hand holding hers before meeting mine.
“The man you mentioned before, the one you cared for and trusted, did he do something like that to you too, Lori?”
