Body Movers Books 1-3. Stephanie Bond
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call was disconnected and Carlotta felt dizzy from the air being squeezed out of her lungs. Wesley must have squandered his “emergency fund” in the tennis-ball can in the garage. Otherwise he surely would have given it to the thug. Desperation clawed at her. How could she get a thousand dollars together in a week? A small cry escaped from her throat.
“Are you okay?”
She jumped, then turned to see Detective Jack Terry standing next to her, his gaze curious…and concerned.
She straightened her shoulders. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look like you just got an upsetting phone call.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I said I’m fine.” Then she narrowed her eyes. “You leaked Wesley’s arrest to the newspaper.”
He frowned. “No, I didn’t.”
“Liar.”
His eyebrows went up, then he laughed. “Yeah, I’ve told a few whoppers in my time, but I’m not lying now. Besides, arrest reports are a matter of public record.”
“This article quoted a spokesperson.”
“Which is whoever answers the precinct phone. Look, Ms. Wren, I’m glad we caught your brother before he was able to do more harm, but I’m not out for his blood. The D.A.’s office, on the other hand, might be. They’re probably the ones who called the newspaper, maybe thinking it would draw out your father.”
She bit down on the inside of her cheek, irritated that he seemed to have a pat answer for everything.
He squinted. “Weren’t your eyes brown yesterday?”
She frowned. “I should get back to the staff meeting.”
“Okay.” He nodded toward her cell phone. “But are you sure I can’t help you with whatever is bothering you?”
He’d probably love to hear that on top of Wesley’s legal trouble, he was in debt to two unsavory characters. That would seal his opinion that Wesley was no good, just like their father.
“I’m sure,” she said evenly. “Goodbye, Detective Terry. Have a nice life.”
He laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Wren, but I have a feeling that our paths will cross again.”
Carlotta watched him stride away, ugly tie flapping, and muttered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
5
By Friday morning, Carlotta thought she might be having a nervous breakdown—four nights of stress-induced insomnia were taking their toll. “We have four days, Wesley. Where are we going to get the rest of the money to pay this Father Thom character?”
Wesley frowned and popped the top of a can of Red Bull, his standard breakfast drink. “Don’t worry, sis. I’ll think of something.”
Her blood pressure ballooned. “Think of something? Wesley, your arraignment is Monday and you might be in jail Tuesday! How are you going to pay off these thugs if you’re in jail?”
“Liz isn’t going to let me go to jail.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Liz?”
His cheeks colored. “She told me to call her Liz.”
Weighing her words, she said, “I don’t like the idea of you becoming chummy with that woman.”
“We’re not chummy,” he said in a teenage-weary tone. “She’s a good lawyer, and she’s handling my case pro bono.”
Carlotta’s mouth puckered. “As if we’re some charity case. And what makes you think she’s a good lawyer?”
“Dad hired her, didn’t he?”
She swallowed her words about what services her father actually had been paying for. “If he had so much faith in Liz Fischer, then why did he skip town?”
Wesley blanched, and immediately she was sorry. She had promised herself over the years that she would refrain from badmouthing her parents in front of her brother, thinking that when he became an adult, he would naturally reach the same conclusion that she had: that their mother was an unfeeling coward and their father an unfeeling, unlawful coward. But apparently he wasn’t yet ready to let go of his childhood fantasies.
“Okay, time out,” she said, sinking into a chair at the kitchen table and lowering her head into her hands. “I’m scared for you, Wesley. You’re in big trouble here.”
He downed the drink. “And Liz Fischer is the best chance I have to make things right and get back on track.”
She sighed and looked up. “I still think I should go with you today to talk about your case. I don’t trust Liz Fischer as much as you do.”
He lifted his empty can high and aimed for the trash can across the room, let it fly, and grinned when it dropped in.
She glared until he sobered. Then he ambled over to the table, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Sis, I know you want to help, but please let me handle this. I promise everything’s going to work out.”
Staring up at him, an overwhelming sense of déjà vu washed over her. Ten years ago she had been sitting at this table, eavesdropping on her parents’ conversation in the next room.
“Let me handle this, Valerie. I promise everything’s going to work out for us.”
For us, her father had said, as in for him and her mother. Not for her and Wesley. They’d been left to fend for themselves.
She studied her brother’s sharp, precise features, so like her father’s, and the familiar sense of love tinged with helplessness crowded her chest. When had he grown up? It seemed like only yesterday she was putting Band-Aids on his knees and helping him with science experiments. And now suddenly he was an adult, with adult problems that she couldn’t fix, and might even have contributed to…
“Sis?”
She blinked. “Yeah?”
“I said let me take care of this. Don’t worry, okay?” He leaned down and dropped a fleeting kiss on her forehead on his way toward the door, but the rare display of affection was enough to distract her from her troublesome thoughts. She so wanted to believe him. “Do you want me to drop you at her office on my way to work?”
“Nope. I’ll take the train.”
“Call me and let me know what happened.”
“Yup.”
The front door banged closed, and she sighed, her shoulders drooping. A headache pressed behind eyes that were gritty and dry from lack of sleep. Despite Wesley’s assurances, worry leaked back into her mind, and she suddenly longed for something to numb her senses for a while. Her gaze drifted to the liquor cabinet, which, out of deference to Wesley’s age, held exactly two bottles of wine—a cheap chardonnay that she’d gotten at a gift swap at the Christmas office party, and a decent pinot noir that she had bought on impulse two years ago, thinking it would be nice to have on hand in case someone special stopped by unexpectedly for a romantic evening.
A dry laugh escaped her. What had she been smoking that night? She’d had about a half-dozen dates since then, none of them interesting enough to inspire an encore, much less the label “special.” Her friend Hannah claimed that she had been without a man for so long, she was officially a re-virgin.
Thinking of her friend who was in Chicago on a field trip with her culinary class, she sighed, missing Hannah, missing being able to share her recent drama with the only person she knew whose life was more tragic than her own. Carlotta glanced at her watch. It was an hour earlier in Chicago. Hannah was a notoriously late sleeper, but if she called now, she could be sure to catch Hannah before she was out and about for the day.
She