Page 27 of Sinful Sorrow

“Fortunate.” Turning to face me, Lawrence dips his chin. Thank the baby gods he doesn’t attempt to, like… hug me or anything. “I’ll text, Doctor. And you’ll reply.”

I firm my lips. But I nod. Short. Sharp. Singular.

“And now I’ll leave.” He strides toward the door, scattering my employees like bugs when a light switches on. But it seems he’s used to immature twenty-something-year-old women scampering in different directions to avoid being scolded. “Ms. Lewis?” Acting as though he doesn’t notice my employees’ childishness, he allows the glass door to swing slowly closed and starts toward the elevator. “Will you walk me down? I’d like continue where we left our last discussion.”

“Of course.” She spins in his direction and matches his pace as they head toward the elevator. “But I believe I already made my thoughts clear. Respectfully, sir.”

“What the fuck was that?” Before Fletch and Aubs can barrel into my office, Archer moves across to where I stand. He folds his neck and forces me to meet his stare. “You were freaking out while he was in here. And it wasn’t the typical ‘someone is trying to talk to me’ freak.”

“He mentioned the vigilante.” Swallowing, I glance around his broad shoulders and check the door to make sure it remains closed. “I mentioned Naomi’s murder comes across as cruel and unnecessary. And he made the jump that if I feel that way, then surely I must support the vigilante’s actions.”

His face tightens. His lips flatten. Then he moves to the left to secure my focus once more. “What did you say?”

“That I’d rather a rapist’s body on my autopsy table over a child’s.”

“For fuck’s sake!” He drops his head back and growls. “That’s not the right answer!”

“It is the truthful answer. Means nothing more than what I said. It’s not an admission of guilt. It’s just… I would prefer to autopsy a dead rapist instead of a dead child. Who would honestly say differently?”

“Uh…” Fletch clears his throat and draws Archer around with a swing that could almost knock me out if his hand was higher. “Everything okay in here?”

“Yes.” Archer steps to the left, revealing the glass door as Fletch files in, and right behind him, Aubs follows. “Chief Mayet was discussing our case with the mayor.”

Stunned, Fletch’s eyes jump to mine. “You’re discussing my active case with someone who isn’t officially involved?”

I roll my eyes and ignore Aubree’s curious stare. Then circling back to my desk, I drop into my seat and pick up a pen, so I have something to fuss with. “He’s the mayor. He’s solid. And he’s spent his adult life trying cases just like this. He understands the importance of discretion.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong…” Aubree wanders to the leather couch pushed against the wall and plops down so the air in the cushions expels on a whistle. “But did I, or did I not, hear you shout something to the effect of ‘you’re not my dad’?”

Surprised, Archer’s beady stare warms the side of my face, though I make a point of not looking his way. “I shouted something, yes. It may have been something along those lines.”

“Real mature,” Fletch drawls. “Bet that worked out in your favor.”

“He’s not my dad! He’s someone else’s, and because he has daughters sort of in my age bracket, and my parents are dead, he thinks he gets to step in as proxy.”

“He cares about you,” Aubree murmurs. “It’s nice that he cares.”

“I’m not a four-year-old wandering the streets! I’m a grown woman who long ago grew used to the fact she didn’t have parents. Why can’t he just be a regular mayor who sometimes says hey when we pass on the job? He doesn’t have to know about my private life.”

“Because he cares.” Fletch heads to my desk and perches his ass on the edge. “Seems we have an overabundance of dads who care right now.”

Back to work. That is something I can get on board with.

“Naomi’s dad?”

“Still holding vigil inside the station,” Archer answers. For now, while we have an audience, he’ll let the vigilante stuff go. But later, when we’re all alone and the clueless, innocent Aubree Emeri isn’t within earshot, he’ll bring us back around. “The other daughter, Heather, has joined him now. And Mason’s dad?—”

“Is a grade-A douchebag,” Fletch fills in. “He’s not wrong, I suppose, for protecting his kid the way he knows how. But he’s a douchebag all the same.”

“Lawyer, right?” I try to remember the players in our most recent case. It’s not my job to memorize family members. Careers. Relationships. It’s not my duty to solve a murder. My responsibility ends once I’ve written my final report and handed it over to the police.

And yet… “You spoke to him today?”

“We just left his place,” Archer answers. “We went to the Wallaces’ first. Talked to the mom and middle sister. Youngest went to school this morning—according to Patricia, she wanted normalcy, and no one had the mental capacity to tell her no—but I guess she dipped early because we’ve received word she’s with her dad now anyway. He hasn’t been home since yesterday. Mom keeps breaking down. The whole family is a mess.”

“Which is completely reasonable,” Aubree insists. “Parents are not supposed to outlive their children, and teens are not supposed to find out their sister and their niece were murdered on the same day.”

“Right.” Fletch brings a hand up and scratches his chin. “Middle sister has been the most helpful so far. She’s mature enough to express her feelings and thoughts. She’s grieving, but she’s able to hold herself together. She gave us insight into Naomi and Mason’s relationship, and the relationships between both families.”

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