Page 231 of Tell Me Something True

The lady cop approached him. “Are you carrying a firearm, knife, or anything else that could be considered a weapon?”

“No.”

She knelt and checked his boots, then patted his shins. “Do you have any illegal drugs or drug paraphernalia in your possession?”

“No.”

She moved up his legs, her touch thorough but impersonable. “Is there anything sharp in your pockets that might cut or poke me? Any needles or razors?”

“No.”

She patted his pockets, then dipped her hand into them one at a time, pulling his wallet from his front right pocket. He’d left his phone in the truck. She handed the wallet to Jennings, then took a hold of Reed’s right arm and pulled it behind his back.

Verity leapt to her feet, keeping one hand on Titus’s collar. “Are the handcuffs necessary?” She looked at the lady cop, then her brother, her eyes wide and glossy and, fuck, Reed wouldn’t be able to handle it if she cried over him again. “Miles? Please?”

The lady cop was looking at Jennings, waiting to be told what to do, but Reed ducked his head, turning it toward her. “Put them on,” he muttered so only she could hear. “And get me the fuck out of here.”

She studied him a moment, expression giving nothing away, but whatever she saw in his face, heard in his tone, had her snapping the cuffs on. Then she took a hold of his right elbow and marched him out the door.

He didn’t look back.

***

Tabitha believed victims.

She’d seen too many people silenced by shame or the fear that they wouldn’t be believed.

She’d been one of them.

She was absolutely on her new client’s side. Would be the strongest advocate and fiercest ally she could be for Michelle Walsh.

She believed her.

But she didn’t want to.

And she hated herself for it.

Riding up the elevator to the third floor of Mount Laurel General Hospital, she leaned against the wall. Tapped her tablet’s screen to wake it up, then brought up the file on Mrs. Walsh.

She was being kept a few days in the hospital as a precaution for the concussion she’d received, though she had other injuries as well, including a broken finger and dislocated shoulder. Her husband, Peter, had been checked out at the E.R. last night and was sent home a few hours ago with a broken nose, broken eye socket, two knocked out teeth, and seven stitches along his cheek.

According to the statements they gave police, Reed came home drunk the night before and started a fight with his father, one that had turned physical when Reed threw the first punch. He’d then turned his rage onto his mother when she’d tried to intervene.

No, Tabitha did not want to believe it.

She liked Reed.

She hadn’t realized how difficult it would be working in a small town like this. She’d never had a client accuse someone she personally knew of assault before.

All the more reason to remain unbiased. She couldn’t let her personal feelings get in the way of her doing her job.

Especially since those feelings could very well be wrong.

The elevator stopped and she straightened, tucking her tablet back into her bag. After checking in at the nurse’s station, she walked down the wide hallway, her high heels clicking against the linoleum floor, the pungent scent of antiseptic filling her nose. The door to room 314 was open, but the lights were off, and the shades drawn, the only light coming from the TV mounted high on the wall, the flickering glow illuminating a frail woman sitting up in the bed.

Tabitha knocked on the doorframe. “Mrs. Walsh?”

The woman turned toward her slowly, but it was too dark for Tabitha to see her face. “I’m hurting. I need something for the pain.”

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