Page 11 of Defend Me

Years. The word reverberates in my brain, giving me a headache. I can’t let it come to that. I say goodbye to Harold, hang up the phone, and lean over in my chair. My pulse throbs at my temples. The thought of Mom’s killer out there somewhere, seeing the news about Noah and laughing, knowing he got away with it, fills me with a dark rage.

I pick up my coffee cup and find it’s empty, so I head back into the kitchen. The first thing that hits me is the smell—a mouthwatering combination of butter and cheese and herbs. The second thing that hits me is I’m not alone.

Isla Davenport is opening the oven door and pulling out a baking sheet lined with perfect, golden-brown biscuits and humming softly to herself. She places the tray on the counter and grabs a spatula to move the biscuits one by one to a cooling rack.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

She shrieks and whirls around, aiming the spatula at me like it’s a sword.

“Oh my god,” she says, slumping back against the counter. “Sorry. You scared me.”

Maybe I was a little abrupt.

“Caden said I could use the kitchen,” Isla says. “I bake when I’m stressed.” She bites her lip and frowns. “I bake when I’m happy too. Honestly, I kind of bake no matter my mood. But…with Noah locked up…” She swallows hard. “Thanks for helping him,” she adds softly.

“Obviously,” I say, then hide my wince. That didn’t come out right. I meant it sincerely—of course I’m going to help Noah. He didn’t kill Mom. Someone else did. That is the person who belongs in jail. It’s just logic.

Isla goes back to her baking and I can’t help the way my feet carry me over to the counter. I take another sniff and my stomach rumbles. Damn. These smell amazing.

Isla is grinning at me shyly.

“Want one?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say, trying to sound casual even as my tastebuds are already doing a celebratory dance. I busy myself at the espresso machine and when I turn around, Isla has plated a biscuit for me.

“They’re cheddar, chive, and jalapeño,” she says eagerly. She watches me, her green eyes full of expectation. I wasn’t planning on eating it in front of her, but she looks very eager for approval, so I take a bite.

“Holy fuck,” I say through a mouthful of the most insanely delicious breakfast pastry I’ve ever had.

She smiles so wide I can see all her teeth. “You like it?”

I barely catch myself from saying “Obviously,” again. “What do you charge for these?”

Isla looks perplexed. “They’re not for sale,” she says. “They’re for Noah.”

I instantly feel like an idiot. I’m used to everything being transactional. But Isla isn’t like that.

“Do you think Sheriff Briggs will let me bring a few to him?” she asks. “When Caden and I take over some clothes for him later. Is that allowed?”

I honestly don’t know how things work in this county. In the city, not a chance. I give her shrug. “You can try.”

I was hoping to sound positive but by the look on her face, I did not pull it off. This is why I like the courtroom. No one asks you to be nice. It’s verbal combat. Two opposing sides. The rules are clear.

I take my plate to the island and sit at one of the stools, thinking as I sip my coffee.,

Isla was the one who found the shell casing with the print on it. And she was at the house the morning Mom died—she was Caden’s alibi, back when everyone thought he might have something to do with Mom’s death. Fleeing the country the day after her murder was one of my brother’s dumber ideas. But Isla was able to vouch for him. They’d spent the whole night at her apartment together.

I’m really grateful to her for that. As much as there’s always been friction between me and Caden, I still love that big idiot. Maybe I should tell her thank you. But it would probably come out wrong. I’m no good at being nice.

“Can I ask you a few questions?” I say instead, taking another bite of biscuit.

Isla turns and tucks a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear. She’s pretty, in a doe-eyed, ingenue kind of way. “About Noah?”

I swallow and nod. “He drove you and Caden to the house the morning Mom died. From your apartment where you two spent the night.”

“Yes,” Isla says, her cheeks turning pink as she slides more biscuits onto the cooling rack. “Noah called us around…” Her face puckers as she thinks. “It was probably like seven. Well, I got a text from Charlotte first. That’s Charlotte Perez,” she adds. “My best friend.”

She looks at me expectantly, like I’ll say, “Oh right, of course, Charlotte!”

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