Page 19 of Whistle

“So you’re even wanted in Mexico.”

Rush made a sound.

“No. My lawyer got me out of that.” I clarified. The lawyer who didn’t want to deal with me anymore.

This time, Emmett made the sound.

“How’d you get back in the country?” Rush wondered.

I smirked. “I have my ways.”

The coach’s body language changed, and suddenly, it was a little harder to breathe. God, I was tired.

“Given all of this, it was no easy task to work out a deal.”

My eyes snapped to the lawyer. “A deal?”

He nodded. “We have met with the Cobalts and the Malibu police and have come to an agreement.”

I turned to Rush. “You got me a deal?”

“Why do you think it took so long to get here?” he replied.

“I thought you weren’t coming.”

“Well, I came.”

“And trust me when I tell you, Mr. Lawson, this is your last chance. It’s this deal or jail time.”

My stomach churned, and a sour flavor coated my throat. “What is it?”

“Upon agreement,”—the lawyer began, withdrawing a packet of papers and a pen from his briefcase—“you will be released and all charges dropped, pending the following conditions.”

Surprised, I glanced at Rush. He got the charges dropped?

“Pay attention,” he told me, gesturing to the paperwork.

Embarrassed I was once again letting emotion rule me, I turned back to Mr. Sabatino.

“You will pay restitution in an amount set by the insurance company for the damages to the guest house you burned down.”

“Sure.” I agreed. It was just money. I had a whole pile of it. My parents might have written me off, but I still had my trust fund. Maybe it was how they justified kicking me out of the family.

Maybe they don’t want anything associated with your name. Even money.

“You will be served a restraining order that you will meticulously heed that requires you to stay at least two hundred and fifty feet away from Maeve and Rick Cobalt for the period of no less than one year.”

I snorted. “Whatever.”

“Finally…” The lawyer continued, then hesitated. Something shifted in the air, and it raised the hair on the back of my neck. “You will agree to see a therapist twice weekly to work on anger management and deal with your grief over the loss of your twin sister.”

My tongue slid over my teeth.

“The therapist will be chosen by me. You will have a minimum of one year of sessions. After the one year, if the therapist decides you need more, you must agree to attend.”

“Fine.” I conceded. I’d go sit in the stuffy office. I’d even talk about Brynne if that was what I had to do to get out of here. I didn’t bother pointing out that no amount of talking would ever bring her back.

You’d think my agreement without any sort of protests would’ve improved the mood—at the very least, relaxed the tension trying to suck the oxygen right out of the room.

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