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  For all the gentle souls out there.

  Those who see the good in people, even when there is none.

  You are rare, and you are beautiful.

  And there is strength in your empathy.

  Don’t let them destroy you.

  You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.

  —ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  chapter 1

  Jaxon

  A BODY HAS BEEN FOUND, dumped in the waterfront river, said police. Dental records show that it’s the body of Officer Darren Melvin who has been missing for the last two years.

  I lift my head from my book and watch as the camera zooms in on the river where the man’s body was found. I’ve been following this case ever since Officer Melvin went missing about two years ago, and now that they’ve found his body, the case can finally be classified as a homicide. I listen as the news reporter explains how he had been shot in the head and how his body would’ve never been found if the city hadn’t decided to gentrify the waterfront park, something that has been a hot topic of late.

  I think I’ve been so interested in this one because my best friend is a cop and he’s always given these crazy, dangerous ­assignments—Melvin’s death could have just as easily been him. My friend and I have worked on a few things together before, but it feels like a long-ass time since I’ve seen or even thought about him. I’ve taken some time off work, but I don’t think it’s what I need. I should be burying myself in work, taking case after case, not leaving any time for my mind to wander.

  I glance at the marble-framed photograph on my bookshelf, studying the dark-haired beauty with green eyes. I’d give anything to see those green eyes again.

  My attention is brought back to the TV screen. Yeah, an idle mind is the last thing I need.

  I need to keep busy, distracted.

  I don’t need to think about anything other than work. I don’t need to remember.

  Melvin’s wife, heiress to Reyes Industries, Scarlett Reyes, has been charged with his murder, and was taken into custody after police found the same type of gun that killed Officer Melvin in her home. . . .

  My phone rings, and I’m not surprised.

  I’m one of the most sought-after criminal lawyers in town. I’m not bragging; it’s just a fact. So when my partner, Tristan, tells me that Scarlett Reyes has requested a meeting with me, it’s not a shock.

  “Are you going to take it?” he asks, and I can just picture him in his office, leaning back in his chair, eyes gleaming at the prospect of this controversial case. Our firm is known for taking on high-profile cases, we usually wouldn’t turn down an opportunity like this. “I know you’re meant to be taking a break, but I thought since she requested you . . .”

  “I want to speak with her first,” I tell him. “And consider me officially off my break.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks. “What you’ve been though, Jaxon—”

  “I know, Tristan, but sitting here isn’t helping. I need to keep busy,” I admit.

  He takes a deep breath, then continues. “This case is going to be huge, Jaxon. It’s going to be all over the media, and it might get messy. But if you win this . . . fuck.”

  If I win this case, my reputation as a criminal attorney will rise even higher. I’ll be sought after—more than I already am—and I’ll be paid whatever I want by those willing to do, and pay, whatever they need to escape prison time. But do I want this case? Normally I wouldn’t have a problem defending someone whether they were guilty or not. But this case is different. Do I want to defend a woman who has potentially killed a cop, one of my best friend’s brothers? I won’t be able to decide until I meet her and see what she has to say for herself. I want to hear her side of the story. I’ll be able to get a good read on her if I’m there in person. And if she admits that she did kill her husband . . . I don’t know what I’ll do.

  “There’s no question it’ll get messy,” I tell him. “But it’s a challenge. . . .”

  I know that shouldn’t be the basis on which I accept a case, but damn, I like to be kept on my toes. I like to push myself, test myself. I like seeing how far I can bend the law in my client’s favor.

  “You do enjoy a good challenge,” Tristan murmurs, amusement lacing his tone. “I’ll handle the bail hearing. It’ll give you time to look at the case and see if you’re ready. I guess I’ll be seeing you soon then.”

  “I guess you will,” I say, and then tell him good-bye.

  I look back at the photo, my chest suddenly getting tight. I don’t have it in me to put the photo away or cover it, but every time I look at it, it hurts.

  It physically hurts.

  I absently rub my chest and stand, then head into my bathroom to have a quick shower, knowing I have to go to the office to do some reading. Once I’m ready, I glance around, looking for my keys. I keep my gaze down, making sure not to look in the direction of the photo. I find them next to my wallet on the kitchen counter, grab both of them and head outside to my car.

  I don’t need any more time off.

  I have a prospective client to meet.

  chapter 2

  “COME IN,” I SAY, lifting my gaze from what little information I have on Scarlett Reyes. A woman walks through the door, and I instantly stand, buttoning my suit jacket. She’s beautiful. That’s the first thing that enters my mind. Light hair and eyes, creamy skin, and a femininity I don’t see that often anymore. She’s dressed in a pale ice-blue loose blouse and denim jeans, her hazel eyes a striking contrast. This is Scarlett Reyes, the husband killer? Not what I was expecting. At all.

  “Ms. Reyes?” I ask, walking toward her and offering her my hand. She looks so young, mid to late twenties maybe; I was expecting someone older.

  “Yes,” she says, loosely shaking my hand, then quickly dropping it.

  “Have a seat,” I tell her, pulling out the chair for her. I then walk to my own, opposite her, and we both sit down. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea or coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” she replies, glancing around my office briefly before returning her gaze to me. Tristan got her out on bail, and now it’s up to me to decide if I want to be involved. If I don’t take on this case, he will, so I need to decide what to do with her. As good of a lawyer as Tristan is, he knows I’m better at the murder cases. Tristan’s more of a white-collar criminal lawyer.

  “I’m just going to jump right into it,” I say, getting straight to the point. I open the file in front of me. “You’re being charged with the murder of your husband, based on the grounds that the gun used to kill him is the same kind of gun that was found in your home and that you were the last to see him alive.” I pause to skim the file, making sure I’m correct. “You fled the country around the time he went missing, and you started to withdraw money out of your joint account in the days leading up to your departure. All suspicious activity.” I put the file down and pick up my pen, ready to take notes. “Let’s start with the gun situation. A Glock 22 was found in your possession,” I say.

  “I have several licensed guns, a Glock being one of them,” she says, squaring her shoulders and
lifting her stubborn chin. Her eyes are cold, empty, completely void of emotion. “My husband was a police officer, so our household was obviously proguns. I don’t see why that’s an issue. Practically everyone in this country owns a gun.”

  She’s defending herself to me, instead of giving me what I need so I can defend her. There’s a difference.

  “It’s an issue because the same make was used to kill Darren,” I remind her, arching a brow. “So if that’s your weapon of choice, and it was used to kill your husband, you can see why it won’t look good in court.”

  The woman actually rolls her eyes at me.

  I’ve gotten attitude from clients before, sure, but I don’t think she realizes she’s treating me like the enemy instead of a tool that can save her.

  Okay, that wasn’t the best metaphor, but if she works with me, I can do my job better. I don’t know why I’m talking like I’ve already agreed to accept the case when I haven’t yet. The truth is, I don’t know if I should take this case. I mean, there are challenges, and then there’s this. . . .

  “Anyone can pull a trigger, Mr. Bentley. Just because I have the same gun doesn’t automatically make me guilty. Yes, I have a Glock 22. Lots of people have Glocks. I prefer it since I have small hands and the ricochet isn’t as bad as others. I actually have many guns like the one that killed Darren. No, I did not use any of those guns to kill him. Forgive me, Mr. Bentley, but isn’t it your job to prove to the court that coincidences don’t equate guilt?”

  I study her for a moment, contemplating her words. So she is claiming innocence. She’s right—there are many different variables, and this could be one big coincidence. For all we know someone could have stolen one of her guns and used it, or bought one similar knowing that she owned one. However, Scarlett registered the gun about six months before Darren’s death. But because the force of the river’s current washed away the bullet, there is no way to run ballistics and match the striations of the bullet to the gun.

  Without being able to prove that Scarlett’s gun was not the one that killed Darren, it doesn’t matter. In the jury’s eyes, her husband was murdered with a Glock 22, and months before she left the country, she bought a Glock 22. It doesn’t look good.

  “I’m here to help you, Ms. Reyes,” I tell her, leaning back in my chair. “But I need complete honesty to do that.”

  “And you’ll get it,” she says instantly, pursing her pink lips.

  I look her in the eye, trying to determine if she’s lying. I can generally tell by body language whether someone is telling the truth—I’ve become good at that over the years.

  “All right, let’s discuss the fact that you fled the country the last day he was seen alive. That’s two strikes against you.”

  “I didn’t flee. My aunt was ill, and I planned a trip to visit her. Darren knew about my trip to Paris.”

  I perk up at that. “Do you have any proof that he knew you were leaving?”

  “Two years later? Uh, no.” She looks at me like I’m an idiot.

  “Well, I’ll make sure to ask his friends and colleagues to see if he mentioned your leaving.” I make a note in the file, realizing again that I’m talking like I already took this case. “And what about the withdrawal of close to thirty thousand dollars from your joint bank account before you left?”

  “Look, I took the money because it’s mine to begin with, it wasn’t ‘our money’ ”—she made air quotes before continuing—“I had every right to that account. But I was also leaving Darren and wouldn’t dare leave him with one cent of my father’s money,” she bit out. “I needed it for my fresh start,” she tries to explain. “I didn’t kill him, Mr. Bentley. I stopped loving him way before I left, but I also didn’t wish him dead. The local cops are all his friends, and they’re out to make someone pay for his death. And that person happens to be me.”

  Now the cops want his death pinned on her? Sounds like a bit of a conspiracy theory. Without evidence, that’s definitely not something I can say in court. Accusing cops of such a thing would not be looked upon favorably.

  “No one can pin anything on you without evidence, Scarlett. But I have to admit that from where I sit, it’s not looking good, so why don’t you give me some more information to work with?” I ask, my gray eyes trained on her.

  People usually squirm under my glare, but again, she gives me no reaction. She takes me in, from my face to the pant legs of my navy suit, while I watch her. What is she thinking?

  “Are you going to take my case, Mr. Bentley?” she asks, raising her gaze to mine. “Because if my own lawyer doesn’t believe me, what chance do I have? I’m paying you to believe me.”

  “What I believe is irrelevant. It’s what I can prove, Ms. Reyes. It doesn’t matter how good I am, they aren’t going to let you go free because I say they should,” I tell her, inwardly surprised at her comment. She called me out on something I don’t want to admit. I still don’t know if I believe her. I do know that if I decide to work with her, I will do everything I can to help her win.

  “Are you sure you’re the best lawyer to help me win this case, Mr. Bentley?” she blurts out, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to be rude, but this is my life at stake. I’m not going to go to prison for a crime I didn’t commit. I know it doesn’t look good, but that doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t do anything wrong other than fall in love with the wrong man many years ago.”

  Finally, a little emotion flashes in her cold depths.

  Fear.

  Underneath she’s scared, and she has every right to be.

  I study her closely, and something in my gut tells me I should take this case. I don’t ignore my intuition, because it’s never let me down before.

  “You came to me, Ms. Reyes. I’m sure it was because you were advised I was one of the best.” I pause, and then add, “And I am. I’ll do what I can to keep you out of prison, but you need to tell me everything. No detail is too small.” I glance back down at the file, admitting to myself that Scarlett Reyes will be my next client. Something won’t let me say no, although I don’t know what it is exactly. “It says you were the last person to see him alive. Is this true?”

  She purses her lips again. “I’d assume the person who killed him was the last person to see him alive, Mr. Bentley.”

  “Okay, I need a timeline of everything that happened the last time you saw him,” I tell her, ignoring her sarcastic response.

  She tells me what she remembers—what time she saw him, what he was wearing, and what they spoke about—as I write it all down.

  “Anything else that can help this case in any way, or shed light on anything that might make a difference?” I ask her, feeling like there’s something she’s not telling me. “I’m your lawyer, Ms. Reyes, you need to trust me. If there’s anything else I need to know, you have to tell me. Now.”

  She doesn’t acknowledge the fact that I suddenly decided to be her lawyer, instead, she looks down at her hands. “I’m innocent; that pretty much sums everything up.”

  I decide to change the subject a little.

  “So you got married five years ago,” I summarize, tapping my pen on the notepad. “You might have brought the money into the relationship, but you realize since you were married, the laws say that money was his too, right?” She grimaces as I continue. “Why didn’t you divorce him if you were planning on leaving him?” I ask, brow furrowing. “And why didn’t you have a prenuptial agreement to protect yourself?”

  “Young love equals stupid decisions, Mr. Bentley,” she mutters, jaw going tight. “Darren took what was mine and made it his own, yes, but that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t allowed to take money out of our joint account. There was plenty more in there. Besides, do you know who I am? The money I took was nothing in comparison to what I have in trust.” I look down at the balances, seeing that she’s right. She takes a deep breath. “And as for the divorce .
. .” She opens her mouth, and then closes it. “That wasn’t an option.”

  “Why not?” I ask her, leaning forward in my seat.

  “Because he would never agree to one,” she says, shaking her head. “He was a man who was used to getting what he wanted. So full of pride. He’d never have given me a divorce.”

  I’m silent for so long that she continues speaking.

  “You wouldn’t understand. You’re a man. I was just . . .” She trails off, and I don’t like the look on her face.

  Hopelessness.

  I hate the words I say next, but I have to see where she stands.

  “I need to be honest with you. I don’t know if we’ll be successful in getting you acquitted. Would you consider a plea deal?”

  “No,” she says instantly.

  “Okay,” I tell her gently, making a note. “All or nothing, right?”

  “Something like that,” she replies, and our eyes hold for just a little too long to be polite.

  I look down, knowing I have my work cut out for me.

  “I’m going to do everything I can to help you, Ms. Reyes.”

  She nods once and glances toward the door, like she can’t wait to escape.

  “Let me see what I can dig up. We have to move fast, the DA is looking to try you as soon as possible because of all the publicity surrounding the case,” I finally say, standing and offering her my hand. “I’ll do everything I can.”

  She stands and takes my hand; it’s small and cold against my large, warm one.

  “Thank you,” she says, voice clear and sincere.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I say. “And, Ms. Reyes?”

  “Yes,” she replies, her tone cool.

  “Call me Jaxon,” I say. She needs to trust me, and I want her to feel like she’s able to come to me and be open.

  “Jaxon,” she repeats, as if testing the name.