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Chapter One

“Unless you can walk on water, I don’t think you’re gonna make it, lady.”

At the ripe age of twenty-eight, had I already graduated to being a lady? My Uber driver was probably twenty-one at best. He had shaggy brown hair and wore a Nirvana tee shirt with the sleeves cut off. A nice kid though. Not too chatty. And he never asked me why it looked like I might have been crying when he picked me up at the airport.

“Well, that’s his boat there,” I said. The driver parked at the end of the pier. In the distance, I could just make out the small island tucked into the protected cove of Little Traverse Bay. As I remembered it, the house faced west so you could see the sunset over Lake Michigan every night. A 1957 Chris-Craft Runabout was moored to the first slot. I remembered loving how fast it could go, cutting through the waves on a lake so vast it felt like the ocean.

“You sure this is where you want me to drop you off?” the driver said. His name was Kobe. I didn’t ask him who he was named after. I imagined he got that all the time. So did I. Mercy. It’s the kind of name people question. “If the boat’s there, it means he’s in town somewhere.”

“Do you know him?” I asked.

Kobe’s face changed. It was subtle. Just the widening of his eyes. A tilt to his head. “Sure. It’s a small town.”

Small town. The smallest. Helene, Michigan. Population 2,007 the sign said when we passed through the city limits.

“I mean I could take you to his office. It’s just a few blocks. Too far to walk with your luggage. I won’t charge you extra or anything.”

“Okay,” I said absently. It would be like him to get distracted. Buried in work. Forgetting that he was supposed to pick me up at the airport over two hours ago. He would apologize. He might even mean it.

I climbed back into Kobe’s Honda Civic and buckled my seatbelt. Two minutes later, he parallel parked in front of a small, white office building on a corner lot. The name of the office was painted in gold letters on the window glass.

Thomas Gale

Attorney at Law

 

Kobe popped his trunk and pulled out my two matching vintage Louis Vuitton suitcases, the ones my mother was going to throw out. I saw a similar pair go for $2,000 at an online auction last year.

“You want me to wait?” Kobe asked.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I answered.

“Do you work for him or something?” Kobe’s tone turned dubious.

“Why do you ask?”

Kobe shrugged. “I mean…did you fly all the way out here for some job with him? You look like the type.”

“What type?”

“Like a lawyer, maybe.”

It was in me to ask him what he meant by that. I was overdressed. I wore a navy-blue suit and three-inch heels. Not the most comfortable thing to wear for air travel. I just knew I wanted to look nice today. No. It was more than that. The suit was armor.

“Maybe,” I smiled, thinking that would satisfy Kobe’s curiosity.

“Well,” he said. “Good luck.” There was emphasis on the word luck that made it sound like sarcasm.

“Is there something you think I need to know?” I asked, feeling defensive.

“No. It’s just…well…good luck.” This time, the phrase came off more genuinely. I thanked Kobe again. He hopped into his car and drove off.

In the middle of the afternoon, at the height of Northern Michigan tourist season, downtown Helene bustled. Tucked between the more popular Charlevoix and Petoskey, not as many people had discovered Helene. That’s the way most people liked it. It was changing though. Even I could sense it. The harbor was full of expensive boats, even a few yachts. The outdoor patio of a restaurant across the street looked packed with people waiting on the sidewalk.

The downtown area itself comprised a single long boardwalk with a state park on the easternmost end. To the south, behind the main thoroughfare, the streets inclined sharply. A bluff overlooked the shops. From here, I could see the largest building at the top. A sign built into the side of the hill read “Helene High School.”

I tried the office door. Mercifully, it swung open. I didn’t expect what greeted me inside. No one sat at the front reception desk, but it looked like someone had set off a paper grenade. Files were strewn all over the floor. Every drawer in the wooden cabinet against the wall was open.

“Dad?”

I stepped through the reception area. He kept an office in the back. I knocked on the door. No answer. I called him at least half a dozen times. Texted too. A little pit of dread formed in my stomach as I gripped the brass door handle. This building was old. One of the originals built when Helene was established in 1867. My footsteps creaked over the wooden floorboards.

“Dad?” I said again. I opened the door.

If I thought the reception area looked like a tornado hit it, the inner office was worse. I could barely find a clear patch of floor to walk on. He had more papers, notepads, and files thrown everywhere. The receiver of his ancient desk phone hung off the hook, touching the floor. I picked it up and put it back in the cradle.

Closing my eyes, I could vividly remember the last time he’d brought me here. He’d seemed so big then. Important. Gruff but with kind eyes, and he let me sit at the smaller desk against the wall. I remembered a crystal paperweight that shone like a prism in the sunlight.

The smaller desk was still there, buried under more paperwork. I picked up a yellow legal pad. I recognized my father’s looping cursive. He wrote so hard, a few of his capital letters had punctured through to the next page. These were meeting notes dated two years ago. Sensitive financial information that shouldn’t just be lying out for anyone to see. I put the pad down.

Dad had glass shelves along the back wall. Despite the chaos and disorganization, the items on the shelves did not show a speck of dust on them. Photographs. Mementos. A shadow box containing the medal I knew my father was most proud of. His Navy Cross. Beside it, a picture of my father. He had to be close to my age in it. He stood next to his F4 Phantom, his expression stern. But God, he was handsome with a thick head of dark hair and devilish cleft in his chin. He had a booming baritone voice, and the room would shake with him when he laughed.

I put the picture down. At the very top of the shelf, just out of reach, an iconic gold statue glimmered. He let me hold it just the once. That booming laugh vibrated through me as I stood in front of a mirror and thanked the Academy as I held my father’s Oscar. He told me someday he’d let me have it. At eleven years old, that had seemed to me the greatest prize of all.

The ancient desk phone rang, jarring me. Instinct drove me and I picked up the phone.

“Law offices of Tom Gale,” I answered.

“Violet? You don’t sound like yourself.”

“Um…what? I’m sorry. This isn’t Violet. To whom am I speaking?”

“Who is this?”

I cleared my throat. “This is Mercy. Mercy Gale.”

A pause. “Well, Mercy Gale. This is Crystal Cline over in Judge Homer’s courtroom. If you’re looking for your father, you better get down here right away. His Honor’s about sixty seconds from throwing Tom in jail.”

***

It wasn’t hard to find the courthouse one block over from Helene High School at the top of the bluff. Just a five-minute walk from my father’s office at the center of town. Once inside, a middle-aged deputy sheriff pointed down the hall.

“You must be Mercy,” he said.

It seemed in a little over thirty minutes, all of Helene knew I’d arrived and who I was. My heels clacked as I hurried down the hall. The heavy oak double doors to Judge Vincent Homer’s courtroom were shut, but I could hear my father’s big voice coming from inside.

“I am not gonna let you railroad my client today, Whitney!” Dad shouted. “You know damn well Deputy Smith didn’t properly serve this warrant. This tree is so poisonous it’s gonna rot right through!”

I opened the doors. My father, the great E. Thomas Gale, stood at the lectern, red-faced and shaking his index finger straight at the judge. My heart fell straight to the floor. I’d never seen him like this. His thick head of hair, now pure white, stuck out in peaks and cones. He wore a faded gray tee shirt and a pair of Dockers shorts. I looked around the courtroom. One attorney sat at the prosecution table, another at the defense table, but whatever proceeding he’d interrupted, my father clearly had nothing to do with it.

“Tom,” the Judge said. “Why don’t we talk in chambers?”

“Is he coming?” My father pointed toward the prosecution’s table.

I stepped forward. “Your Honor, my name is Mercedes Gale. I’m from…this is my…”

“Mercy?”

I came down the rows and went up to the lectern to stand beside my father. His eyes clouded for a moment, then snapped back into focus. “Is it Tuesday?”

“Yeah, Dad,” I said. “It’s Tuesday afternoon.”

“I need to go,” he said, scratching his head. “Mercy needs me to pick her up from the airport.”

I felt my cheeks flush. Though there were no public spectators in the courtroom, the concerned eyes of the two attorneys at the tables, Judge Homer and his court reporter, seemed judgmental enough. Every protective instinct in me flared. I just wanted them all to stop looking at my dad. I wanted to get him out of here.

“Head into my chambers,” Judge Homer said, his voice kind.

My father looked down. He ran a hand over his wrinkled tee shirt. All at once, he seemed aware of his surroundings again.

“Leslie,” he said to the female attorney. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to take up your time.”

“It’s okay, Tom,” she said.

I took my father by the hand. His posture shifted, going rigid. Proud. He walked with me through the doorway to the left of Judge Homer’s bench.

“We’re adjourned for a half hour,” Judge Homer said as he came in behind us and shut the door.

Dad went to the leather couch against the wall of Judge Homer’s chambers.

“Do you have a glass of water?” I asked the judge. Vince Homer peeled himself out of his robe and hung it on his chair. He reached into a small cube refrigerator at the side of his desk and pulled out a bottle of water, tossing it to me. I unscrewed the cap and handed it to my father. With shaking hands, he drank it down. Slowly, the color came back into his face. He rubbed his eyes.

“You feeling okay now, Tom?” the judge asked.

“I missed lunch,” he said as if that explained everything.

“It happens,” Judge Homer said. “Why don’t you just put your feet up and finish that water? I’m gonna have a word with Mercy here if that’s okay with you.”

Dad nodded. I didn’t want to leave him. But Judge Homer didn’t seem inclined to give me a choice. He gestured for me to follow him through the second door to his inner offices.

A blonde woman sat at her desk as Judge Homer closed the door to his chambers behind us. “Jesse,” the judge said. “This is…”

“Mercy!” she beamed. “So glad you got here safe. Tom’s been telling us all about how you’re coming up for a visit. That's all he could talk about last week.”

“How long’s he been like that?” I turned to the judge.

Judge Homer took a sharp intake of air. “Today’s particularly bad. Most days, he’s just fine. Today…”

“He came in ranting about the Sweeney suppression hearing,” Jesse said. “Accused me of not sending him a revised notice of hearing.”

“When is the hearing?” I asked.

Judge Homer and Jesse exchanged a look. “Honey,” Jesse said. “Your father represented Dale Sweeney ten years ago.”
“Like I said,” Judge Homer said. “Most days, he’s just fine. Today he’s just having a bad one. But you’re here now. Can you get him home?”

“I think I can manage,” I said.

“Well, anyway,” Judge Homer repeated. “You’re here now. It’s about time.”

I stopped myself from telling him I didn't think things had gotten this bad. No one had told me. But I said none of it. Judge Homer looked me up and down.

I felt my back go stiff. Once again, my protective instincts kicked in. I didn’t like that these people who I barely knew seemed to know more about my father than I did.

“I’ll take care of him,” I said. “I’ll get him home. I won’t need any help.”

Judge Homer smiled. “You sound like your dad. Mercy? Let me give you a piece of advice.” He put a hand on my arm and leaned in. “Do your dad a favor. Hurry up and pass the bar exam, for all our sakes.”

Chapter Two

“Dad, are you sure?” I stood on the dock as my father started flinging the ropes off the boat.

“I know how to drive the damn boat, Mercy. You wanna get in or are you planning on getting a room in town?”

I felt a lump in my throat. Was this him telling me he didn’t want me here? A million childhood emotions flooded through me. 

This isn’t a place for you, kiddo. Girls should be with their mothers. I promise I’ll be at the next concert, okay? You know how crazy things get when I’m in trial.

My father’s face softened. “Get in the boat, Mercy. It’ll be dark soon. I’m tired and I’m cranky. Hand me one of your suitcases.”

I’d almost forgotten I had them. I picked up the first one and heaved it over the side of the boat. My father grabbed the other and tucked it under one seat.

“Unhook that last rope,” he instructed me. Then he held out his hand to steady me as I stepped into the boat. He gave us a last shove and revved the engine. My father stood as he steered away from the pier then executed an arcing turn heading straight for the little island in the center of the cove.

Everyone had thought him crazy for buying it. My mother screamed about it for days. Two million dollars. Dad said it was a steal. She worried it meant there’d be nothing left for me by the time he was gone. But as the waves beat against the side of his wooden hull, I saw it with fresh eyes.

It was beautiful here. With blue waters stretching to the horizon, you could think you’d come to the edge of the world. One side of the island stayed natural, with thick red maples and ancient oak trees on a high bluff. On the other, Dad had renovated a hundred-year-old cabin spending just as much as he had on the property.

He slowed as he came to the dock on the east side.

“Keep your fingers inside,” he cautioned me like he’d done when I was eleven. He carefully aimed for the boat lift under the covered dock. He cut the engine and let the wind take us the last few yards. Before I could help him, Dad hopped onto the dock with almost athletic agility and cranked the winch, raising the boat up out of the water.

I grabbed my suitcases and stepped out of the boat. Dad took one of them from me, heaving the strap over his shoulder. It was a long walk uphill to the house. But Dad didn’t head for the tiered stairway. Instead, he hit a button on his key fob and a garage door opened on the side of the hill.

“That’s new,” I said, marveling at the hidden tunnel it revealed. “That’s…what are you, James Bond now?”

I could hear my mother’s voice asking him how much that had cost him. But I could appreciate the genius of it. A set of motion lights kicked on as I followed my father into the tunnel and up a ramp. It led straight to the mudroom on the basement floor of the house.

“I told you I was gonna die here,” he said. “Can’t very well do that when I’m too old to take those stairs, can I? And you can be damn sure I’m not letting anybody put me into a nursing home.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said. He’d omitted the incident in Judge Homer’s courtroom. He never asked me what the judge said to me when he led me out of the room.

“Your room’s just like you left it,” he said. “I figured if you wanted to change it, you could do that yourself.”

The mudroom led into Dad’s enormous kitchen. He’d kept that mostly original, with black granite countertops and oak cabinets that went to the ceiling. He had a few dishes in the sink, but otherwise everything looked organized. I didn’t know what to expect after seeing the state of his office.

“I’ve moved into the room downstairs,” he said. “Renovated it five years ago.”

The show-stopping feature of the main floor was a massive fieldstone fireplace in the center of the room. Dad’s trophy buck was mounted just above the mantle. He had green Mardi Gras beads hanging off “Bucky’s” antlers.

I inhaled the powerfully familiar scent of the place. It took me back fifteen years to that last day I was here. Mom and I weren’t getting along back then. But my father was ill-equipped to deal with a sullen teenage daughter.

“It’s good to be back here,” I said. “Have you eaten anything all day?”

Dad stood in the middle of the room, regarding me. He was handsome still. That thick hair and anvil-sharp jaw. He had a devilish dimple in his left cheek when he smiled. The warmth of that smile when he focused it on you felt like sunlight, potent enough to reach through a camera lens.

Wattage. That’s what my mother had called it. That smile had made Dad millions as a legal commentator on cable news back in the nineties. He’d blazed a trail that made the careers of every legal pundit who came after him. But E. Thomas Gale had been the original.

“Do you remember where it is?” Dad said. “First door at the top of the stairs?”

“Of course, I remember where my room is. But you didn’t answer my question. Have you eaten anything today? Violet said you never remember to eat when you’re in court.”

“Violet,” Dad said as if the name left a bitter taste in his mouth. “She knows nothing.”

“Where is she, Dad?” I asked. “Your office was empty when I got there.”

“You’ll have to ask her,” he said.

“I would. But I don’t know where…” I let my voice trail off. Whatever was going on between Dad and his long-time secretary clearly had him agitated. I left it there and headed for the fridge. Dad had foil-wrapped casserole dishes stacked on the middle shelf.

“Garlic chicken,” I read the bold lettering on the top written with a black Sharpie. It looked like Violet’s handwriting. I knew it well from every birthday card my father sent me over the years. She’d put today’s date on it and instructions to heat it at 350 degrees for forty minutes.

“Smells good,” I said. Dad had moved off and sat in his leather recliner in front of the fireplace. He switched on the flat screen TV and started watching the news. I turned on the oven and slid the casserole inside. Wherever Violet was, it looked like she’d prepared meals for Dad for the entire week.

“I’m just going to freshen up,” I said.

“Suit yourself,” he said. I went to him, putting a hand on my dad’s shoulder. We hadn’t hugged since I got here. He hadn’t said he was happy to see me. But he reached for me, putting his hand over mine as he stared at the TV. For now, I met my dad where I found him. He squeezed my hand. I turned and went up the winding staircase to the second floor.

He wasn’t kidding that he’d left my room as it was. I was eleven years old when he let me meet with his decorator. I’d chosen pink and green for everything and a garish canopy bed. Pink walls. Green chiffon drapery. The entire room looked like an ice cream cone to me now. I put my suitcases in the corner and sat at the large vanity dresser with what I’d called “Hollywood Lights” surrounding the mirror.

I ran my finger over the top of the dresser. It came away clean. As far as I knew, nobody had slept in this room in fifteen years. Dad’s housekeeper still came out once a week. Violet arranged for that too, probably. Where in God’s name was she?

My phone buzzed. I’d left it in the side compartment of my purse. I didn’t need to read the screen to know who it was. Mom had called me no less than six times since I stepped off that plane. But I wasn’t ready to talk to her. I didn’t have the energy for another argument about the direction of my life. She didn’t want me to go to law school. But now that I’d dropped out, she was furious. I took out my phone and texted her back.

“Safely landed. I’ll call you in a couple of days. Everything’s fine.”

It wouldn’t totally placate her, but I knew she’d respect my boundaries at least that much.

I went to the window. This room faced east so I could watch the sunrise over the little town of Helene. When I was eleven years old, I could imagine I was a princess, and this was my castle tower. I had wanted to stay forever. Now, it felt hard to breathe. Dad was isolated out here. It’s what he wanted. His words echoed through my mind.

“I mean to die here.”

After today, I worried my father might just get his wish sooner than he meant.

***

The crank of the winch woke me up out of a dead sleep. Light stabbed through the green chiffon curtains and for a moment, I thought I was dreaming. This wasn’t real. I was just fifteen years old again and Mom would show up ready to haul me back to Florida.

“Dad?”

I wiped the crust out of my eyes and ran to the window. He was down there on the dock, about to put the boat back in the water. I turned the crank on the window and shouted down.

“Dad! Where are you going?” He seemed disoriented for a moment, wondering where the sound of my voice came from. Then he looked up and stepped into the light.

“Good morning, Lazy Bones!” He waved.

“Christ,” I muttered. Grabbing my phone off my charger, I read the time. It was almost nine o’clock. Still in a tee shirt and boxer shorts, I slipped my feet into my flip-flops and ran downstairs.

Dad was about to climb into the boat. “Where are you going?” I shouted.

“To work,” he said. “Where else would I be going?”

I looked behind me as if someone might magically appear to talk some sense into him other than me. “I thought you agreed you’d take a few days off while I was here?”

Dad straightened. “Days off? Why would I do that? The work won’t wait. But if you wanna head into town with me, I’ll wait a few minutes.”

“I’m not even dressed. Haven’t had my coffee.”

“The pot’s still warm in the kitchen. Grab a cup and come on down. You can get breakfast in town. The bakery next door makes these chocolate eclairs that’ll send you into orbit.”

I knew I’d get nowhere trying to argue. “Just…give me ten minutes.” Dad tapped his watch as I cranked the window shut.

I scraped a toothbrush over my teeth and twisted my hair into a knot. Lord. Would he try to go back to court today? I tossed out one of my suitcases and picked something that could pass for courtroom attire in a pinch. My purse sat on a chair against the wall. The crumpled letter I brought with me peeked out of the side pocket. I shoved it back in, slung the bag over my shoulder, then ran down to the dock with high-heeled shoes in hand.

Water sprayed my face as Dad took the boat up to full speed. I won’t deny it was an exhilarating way to drive to work. But I worried about what he did when the lake froze over in the wintertime. I hadn’t planned to stick around long enough to find out.

As he docked the boat at the pier, the town of Helene came to life. Dad got waves from a dockhand on the adjacent pier. Two ladies walking their dogs called out to him.

“Better hurry!” one of them said. “Connie’s had people trying to buy the last of her eclairs. She said she’s saving them for you, Tom.”

Dad fixed his killer smile on all of them as we made our way up the street and back to his little office on the corner of Main and Harborview. He unlocked the front door and flipped the little placard hanging in the window, so it read, “Come On In!”

The disarray of the office struck me again as it did the day before. Dad didn’t seem to notice. A pile of mail had been dropped through the slot and landed on the floor. He picked it up and tossed it on the reception desk.

“You can use Violet’s desk for the time being,” he said.

“When is she coming back, Dad?” I asked. He shrugged but didn’t offer me an answer. I went to Violet’s desk and put my bag on it.

“I’ve got some client calls to return. You think you can take care of yourself for an hour? If you want more coffee, Connie makes that too. Go shopping. The company credit cards in that little box under Violet’s chair.”

“You keep it there?” I said. “That doesn’t seem very secure, Dad.” But he was already down the hall to his office. I knew by the purpose in his gait, I might as well be invisible now. Again, I heard my mother’s voice in my mind.

I could run naked through the street with my hair on fire and he’d never notice. That’s how he gets when he’s working, Mercy.

Fine. Maybe I could try to make sense of the chaos in the front office. At least I could make it look less like an episode of Hoarders: Law Office Edition if someone were to come in.

I heard my father’s muffled voice through the walls as he took the first of those client calls. As far as the mess of papers strewn all over the desk, there seemed to be no sense to them. I found appointment notes. Random copies of pleadings. Receipts. Billing statements. I decided to just start putting them into various piles. If Dad ever came up for air, I’d make him sit down and talk to me about it.

I lost myself in the task for a little while. Hearing Dad’s voice soothed me. He had a gravelly tone and spoke with authority. When I was a kid, I thought he knew everything. Thought there was no problem he couldn’t solve. No answer he didn’t have.

But this? This was nothing like the man I knew. Things were falling through the cracks. The courthouse staff had seen it. They were worried.

I heard the phone slam down. My father still refused to use a cell phone within the confines of his office walls. He said he’d never give a client his personal cell phone number. Boundaries, he said. Though it felt hollow. E. Thomas Gale worked twenty-four-seven, even through his only daughter’s school plays.

“I can’t find it, Vi,” I heard him shout. “Violet? Where did you put my appointment book?”

I started down the hallway. “Dad?”

I knocked on his door. When he didn’t answer, I cracked it open.

Dad was gone. He had a back door into the alley through his office. “Shit,” I said. “Dad?” I peered down the alley. He’d already disappeared.

I heard the front door chime go off. Relief flooded through me and I headed toward the sound. But it wasn’t Dad. Instead, a middle-aged woman with jet-black hair and the weight of the world on her face walked in.

“May I help you?” I said. But I wasn’t completely focused on her. I was watching the sidewalk, hoping to see my father walk down the street.

“I’m here for my appointment,” she said. “Are you new?”

“I’m…sort of,” I answered. “My…Mr. Gale had to step out. Is there something I can help you with?”

She cocked her head to the side, reminding me of a confused puppy for a moment. “I’m at my wits’ end,” she said. “I told him the last time my next stop was the Attorney Grievance Commission.”

“Why don’t you have a seat,” I said, gesturing toward the conference room next to the reception area. I had a moment of panic as she brushed past me, realizing I hadn’t thought to check the state of that room yet. Luckily, the chaos of the rest of the building hadn’t crept in there. Dad just had neat stacks of law books on the shelves and a cheery plant in the corner. The woman took a seat at the table and plopped her heavy purse down in front of her.

“Um. Can I get you anything? A glass of water or…”

“No,” she barked. “You can just get me Mr. Gale.”

“He had to step out. But I’m working with him. Maybe you can tell me what we can do to help.”

She gave me that confused puppy expression again. “I’ve been loyal. But things aren’t the same around here. I will not be brushed aside.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe you can start from the beginning.” I took a seat opposite her, grabbing a pen and blank pad of paper from the center of the table. She looked annoyed with me, but it didn’t stop her from talking.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“It’s my first day,” I said.

“What’s your name? Or maybe I shouldn’t even bother trying to remember it. They never last long around here.”

“My name? It’s…I’m Mercedes.”

Her eyes widened a bit. “You’re the daughter, then. Well, I don’t suppose he can run you off as easily.”

You’d be surprised, I wanted to say, but bit it back.

“Well, he’s very proud of you. Told me about it when you went to law school. He was beaming. Just beaming. I was a little jealous. And I’m not proud of that. It’s just…my Jeremy wants to go to law school, too. He wants to do a lot of things.”

Jeremy. I kept my face neutral.

“Jeremy Holt,” she whispered. “My son. He’s in prison, Ms. Gale. I would have thought your father told you that.”

I hesitated, feeling my pulse quicken. “Even if he had,” I said. “It’s better if you tell me what we can do for you in your own words. I’m a fresh set of ears.”

“What you can do for me? Jeremy is my son. He’s in prison for a murder he didn’t commit, Mercedes. Your father promised he’d get him a new trial. Now, he won’t return my calls. Your father has taken a lot of money from me. Money I didn’t have. And I’m now starting to believe he has no intention of really helping us.”

“Mrs.…Holt…”

“Benning,” she snapped. “Diane Benning. You remember that. Jeremy still has his father’s last name, not mine. But I’m talking about twenty thousand dollars, Ms. Gale. That might not be a lot of money to you or your father. But it’s everything to me. And it’s everything to Jeremy. I want a full accounting. I’ve given him names. Witnesses. There’s a girl who can tell you where Jeremy was when they say he killed that girl. I want to know why your father won’t talk to her. I have more than enough to file a complaint with the State Bar. Jeremy believes in your father. But I have to protect my son.”

“I understand,” I said. “Let’s reschedule this, okay? Give me a week. Do nothing for a week. I’ll get you some answers. I promise.”

She sat back, eyeing me with suspicion. Twenty thousand dollars. And Dad’s doing things like leaving the company credit card lying out at the front desk.

“Do you keep your promises, Ms. Gale?”

“Yes,” I said.

Her shoulders dropped. “Okay then. I’ll be back in a week. But I’m only doing this because I know Jeremy would want me to. If it were up to me alone, I’d have your father in front of the State Bar or maybe in jail himself. You understand?”

“I understand. And I’m sure whatever’s going on, my father is doing what he can.”

She got up and held her purse in front of her. “I want your father to do what he promised my son. He’s going to die in prison if he doesn’t. He’s only thirty-five years old. He’s been rotting in that place for sixteen years, Ms. Gale.”

She turned on her heel and stormed out of the conference room. As she let herself out, Violet Tamblyn, my father’s missing secretary, walked in. Her face registered pure shock as Diane Benning brushed past her.

I got to my feet. “Mercy,” Violet gasped. I couldn’t tell if she meant to call me by name, or if it was an exclamation of exasperation.

“You talked to her?” she said. “You talked to Diane Benning? Alone?”

Anger boiled through me. “Do you see anyone else around here? He’s alone, Violet. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Honey, you do not know what you just walked into. That woman has been in here every day this week and half of last week. For the love of God, tell me you didn’t promise that woman anything.”

My mouth was still hanging open. I clamped it shut not knowing what else to tell her. I was only trying to help. But I had the sinking feeling that I’d just done the exact worst thing.

Violet went to the front door, she locked it and flipped over the closed sign. I went to her desk and grabbed my bag. I reached for the thick envelope sticking out of the side pocket. It had brought me here as much as the rumors I’d heard about my father.

I shoved the letter down farther so Violet couldn’t accidentally read the return address. I did though. I ran my fingers over the thick black letters.

Jeremy Holt 

Ionia Correctional Facility

 

Coming October 23, 2025