Page 38 of Vermilion Desire

The two-way mirror shows that his lawyer is trying to calm the anxious Berkshire down, but this is exactly what we want from him. He needs to feel trapped and angry; impatience is the best way to get a suspect in a mindset of self-preservation.

Scarletta barges in, shocking the men, and Braxton reels back his emotions. His posture fixes itself, sitting with his legs crossed and back leaning against the chair. The faux confidence is a good cover, and it can be learning material for the rookies.

“We meet again, Miss. Scarletta,” Braxton greets with a feigned smile.

Scarletta drops down on the chair in front of him, ignoring his greeting and the lawyer beside him. The district attorney takes the other seat, and the battle between wit and intelligence begins.

Cal stands by the prosecutor while my objective is to protect my baby. If Braxton is capable of brutally murdering Ms. Addison, then he is capable of violence. I will break his arm as collateral when he loses control, and I’m counting on Scarletta’s provoking nature to bring that side out of him.

The prosecutor begins by taking out a document for the defense lawyer to look at. Both men have a glaring contest before the defense reads over the paper.

“A plea deal?” The defense gasps as if he personally had been offended by this. “I remember you were confident that my client would get the death penalty.”

The prosecutor snarls, a face full of dismay. “I want to give the family time to grieve and not drag this trial on. It’s not appealing to both sides.”

As callous as it sounds, I would rather this Berkshire bastard get the death penalty than give him any leverage to move around in a prison cell.

“Mr. Berkshire is not going to take the deal.” The defense stands up. “We are leaving unless you have—”

“No need to rush,” Scarletta jumps in as Braxton doesn’t look like he’s moving any time soon.

He’s too confident and way too cocky. He must be hiding something, or he has a trump card to play, but this all could be a hoax to scare the prosecutor into giving him a better deal.

“I feel that life in prison without the possibility of parole seems excessive, don’t you?” he provokes. “You have no evidence that it is I that have committed such heinous crime.”

He continues much to everyone’s chagrin. “The police did report that they believed it was two killers, and I cannot be split into two. A theory is that there were two suspects—or was it two victims?”

“Has anyone told you that you talk too much? You should be in theaters; you’re wasting your talent as a musician.” Scarletta counters his words with a smile.

They let the silence stew with two very frightening perfect smiles. Of course, my Scarletta is not a weak-hearted woman. Braxton is going to have a hard time dealing with a girl who wants to solve this case.

Even a cyclone won’t sweep her away from this moment.

“Okay,” she says as she knocks her nails on the table.

The lawyer sits back down with a disapproving frown on his aged face, strictly reminding Braxton that he doesn’t have to answer any questions, and he can leave at any time.

“Do you exercise?”

The question is innocent, nothing revealing or hidden in it.

“Don’t answer that.” His lawyer glares.

“Do you like to suntan?”

“Don’t answer that.”

Scarletta’s eyebrows jump to her hairline; her hand twirls a stray piece of red hair. Her curious amber eyes gleam with wickedness, and she doesn’t make any noticeable movement when I remove my hand from her shoulder. I find a chair at the corner and drag it to sit next to her.

“I guess I won’t stay in the civilities either.” She shrugs, and my hand finds her thigh, a silent warning to her that she shouldn’t play with an unstable man.

“Idée Fixe Syndrome, that’s what you have. It’s a hereditary disease with a complete fatal rate, and there is no cure. Doctors have tried it, and I’m sure your father can share his experience with you. I’m positive that he has gone to alternatives, not necessarily morally or legally appropriate, but he can’t find a cure.”

Everyone’s shocked in the room. We never thought that Braxton would be sick, but as time went on, we were able to find out more about the family through medical histories. The implication was clear that Braxton was sick, but neither Cal and I ever thought it was incurable.

The defense lawyer glowers, “You have breached doctor and patient confidentially. You will never work in the medical field.”

“Good thing, our residential lethargic ass has a lot of private companies’ favor,” Cal really can’t help himself when he cuts in.

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