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A chill ran through me when I found out. I’m not sure why. The news only confirmed my suspicions.
My phone buzzes once more, and I pluck it out to see the exact message I was waiting for.
It’s from Judge Albert Merrick.
It’s done. Charlie Sawyer’s court date has been canceled. All charges against her have been dropped. Have a great night, Everett. And for what it’s worth, good luck with the nomination.
A smile flickers on my lips.
I gather Lemon, Charlie, and Max before leading them into the corner.
“Charlie, I called in a favor to a very powerful man, and I’m glad to inform you that you’ve been exonerated in the case against you.”
“Speak English,” she says, her breathing growing erratic at the idea of what this might mean.
Max nods my way. “It means he pulled some strings, and you’re free to go.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.”
“What?” Charlie screams with delight, and soon she and Lemon are jumping up and down with sheer joy streaming from them both.
Charlie grips Max by the arm. “I need a stiff drink. And then, we’re really going to get this party started!” She lets out a whoop before they trot off for the bar.
“Everett.” Lemon clasps her arms around me tight. “You are a hero. How in the world—”
“Ooh.” Cormack smashes her way between us. “Limond, why does every part of my body feel as if it’s about to fall off?”
“Because you’re doing too much,” Lemon tells her. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
My phone buzzes again, and this time I’m completely caught off guard.
Judge Baxter, this is Regina Pacheco. I’m not sure what you’re up to this evening, but I’m down in Leeds at a place called the Bull’s Eye, and it’s pretty lonely around here. Care to join me?
Care to join her?
I shake my head at the screen as a boiling rage rips through me.
I’ll not only join her, but I’ll put an end to this charade tonight.
“Lemon, why don’t you enjoy the party? I need to step out for just a minute.” I pull her in close. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”
And I have never broken a promise to my wife.
* * *
The Bull’s Eye is a dive bar located in a small navy building, no bigger than a shoebox with a giant red and yellow bullseye painted above the doorway.
It’s dark inside, with a couple of thugs seated at a table shuffling cards between them.
A lone woman sits at the bar nursing a drink. I recognize that dark chestnut hair and try not to growl.
There she is, the woman whose name is not Regina Pacheco.
She’s donned a tight red dress—no doubt to lure me to bed with—high heels, and an armful of glittery bangles.
I head her way and take a seat next to her, lifting a finger at the bartender before I ever acknowledge her.
“Whiskey neat,” I say, and he gets right to work.
“You made it,” she says a touch too breathy. “You can’t believe how happy this makes me.” Her eyes widen as she takes me in as if she were trying to gauge if I was a ghost.
