Page 21 of Defend Me

So this is the thorn in our side. I ignore her.

“What’s your plan of defense?” another reporter asks.

“Von! Did Noah kill your mother?”

“Do you think he can get a fair trial?”

“Is Noah dating your sister?” That’s Everly again and my eyes bore into hers as she takes a quick step back. I won’t be baited byher. But I’ll need to squash this rumor before it grows roots. Which means a press conference. I’ll talk to Al about that.

“No comment,” I say, as another camera is shoved in my face.

“Von! Leslie Kahn, Channel Five News. Any comment on your defense strategy?”

I turn away from them all and head to the front door, which opens right as I reach it.

“Come on in,” Mr. Patterson says, gesturing for me to hurry.

I slip inside and he closes the door, leaning against it and letting out a deep exhale.

“They’ve been out there all morning,” he says. “What do they want from us?”

“A story,” I say. “Don’t talk to them.”

Mr. Patterson looks affronted. “Of course not.” He glances out the long narrow window beside the door. “I’ve known Everly since she was a teenager. I saw that article she wrote in theBee. She writes as if it’s obvious Noah is a murderer! She thinks he’s having some sort of relationship with Daisy! What’s wrong with everyone? Has the world gone mad? Daisy is like a little sister to Noah. How could Everly write such things?”

“That’s her job, Mr. Patterson,” I say. I’m about to ask where Noah is when he takes my hand in both of his and squeezes. His palms are large and warm, his expression fiercely hopeful.

“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for getting him home to me. Please thank your father for posting his bail.” He blinks and shakes his head. “Such a large sum…Noah says they don’t usually set bail that high.”

“They don’t,” I agree. “I’ll pass your thanks along but now, I need to speak to my client.”

He releases me. “Of course. He’s down on the dock. Needed some space. I’ll go get him.”

“Thank you,” I say, and Mr. Patterson hurries off toward the back of the house. I stand awkwardly in the cramped front hall. Coats hang on pegs and boots are lined up on a rack beneaththem. To my right is a small kitchen. To my left, a shorter hallway.

A good lawyer gathers as much information as possible. I walk down the shorter hall, noting the family photos on the walls, Noah at various ages: an awkward elementary school picture, a photo of him and Caden at the local playground when they were probably around eight years old, Noah in the back row of a posed photo with his high school soccer team. I remember Mom used to go to his games. There’s one of Noah in his deputy uniform and another of him and Mr. Patterson fishing together in a little boat, Noah beaming beneath a floppy hat.

There’s an open door halfway down the hall. I stop and peek inside.

I know immediately this is Noah’s room. It has the feel of a young boy’s bedroom being relived in by the grown man. There’s a lamp with a baseball patterned shade on the nightstand, along with a copy ofOne Hundred Years of Solitude. I didn’t take Noah for a reader—and if I did, I would have pegged him as more of a Lee Childs kind of guy. A small bookshelf shows a wide range of literature, from Barbara Kingsolver to Ta-Nehisi Coates to Jon Krakauer. There are also some children’s book—The Hobbit, Winnie the Pooh,and a large collection of Roald Dahl.

Two windows look out over the front yard, where the reporters have all gone back to hang out by their vans. The full-size bed is covered by a maroon duvet. I wonder if his feet stick out the end when he sleeps—he’s almost as tall as Caden, over six feet.

I open the door to his closet and find it very orderly. I don’t know why this surprises me. Maybe because I assume all men are slobs unless they have someone else cleaning up for them. That’s certainly been the case with every man I’ve ever dated. Noah seems fastidious. I wonder if that’s from being a cop or from living in such small quarters. Maybe both.

There are several framed photographs on the dresser, and onecatches my eye. A man, woman, and child are at the beach—the boy is maybe three years old. Chubby cheeks, delighted smile, lifting up a plastic shovel filled with sand. The woman has blonde curly hair tied back with a scarf, her arms outstretched to keep the boy upright, her expression laughing. The man looks startingly like Noah—the same shaggy hair, same slope of the nose. I bet his eyes are even the same deep, mossy brown. He’s squinting in the sun, his arm around the woman, and he smiles at the camera with Noah’s crooked smile.

I don’t remember Noah’s parents. I was barely three years old when they died. I have a vague memory of my parents attending the funeral, leaving the house dressed in black. Mom looking really sad. Telling me Noah lost his mommy. I remember not understanding what that meant—lost her where?

My throat tightens and I turn away from the picture.

I go back to the nightstand and pick upOne Hundred Years of Solitude, flipping through it, curious as to what part he’s at. I like this book too. Amaranta was always my favorite. Holding grudges and knitting her own funeral shroud, like a boss. No one in her family understood her. She wasn’t nice either.

I hear a door open at the back of the house and put the book down, hurrying to the front hall.

“He’s on the deck,” Mr. Patterson says as he approaches. “I can make some coffee.”

I hold up my thermos. “I have coffee.”

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