Page 35 of Defend Me

“Thanks,” I say with a grateful nod as the doors close. Von’s apartment is just as impressive to enter as it was the first time around. It feels a bit surreal that I’ll be living here for the foreseeable future. I’m unpacking the grocery bags when my phone rings. It’s Caden.

I answer and put him on speakerphone.

“How’s Von’s place?”he asks.

“Huge,” I say, shoving some fresh kale into the fridge and dropping the old one in the garbage. “White. Expensive.”

He laughs. “Sounds about right. Keep your chin up. I’ll try and visit—things are about to get crazy here. I’ve got to organize Sebastian’s visa and start work on implementing sustainable practices at the vineyards. Think we’ll start with the North Fork property before we branch out to Napa and Australia.” There’s a pause. “Sorry, this is the last thing you need to be hearing about. I’m a little nervous.”

“No, it’s great,” I reassure him, as I search for a bowl for the apples. This kitchen makes no sense. It seems like Von just shoved things into cabinets at random. “My brain needs a break from everything. Keep talking.”

We chat for a while about how Caden plans to step into his new role at the winery. He’s bringing the winemaker he worked for in Argentina—Sebastian Ramos—to come work for Everton, along with Sebastian’s three-year-old daughter, Esme. He’s making his dreams for the future of the winery come true. I’m really proud of him.

And it’s nice to focus on something else for a moment. To remind myself the world is still turning, even if it feels like mine has stopped.

After I chat to Caden, I call Pop. He tells me it was a good thing I left—the reporters are really encroaching on the lawn now, and Penny is getting upset. The police have finished their search.He said they took my gun but other than that he doesn’t think they found anything useful. The sheriff didn’t look pleased when he left, which is a good sign. I mean, I knew there was nothing to find but still. I never thought the sheriff would doubt my innocence or that a judge would set such a quick trial date. I feel like I know nothing about the profession I’ve loved my whole life.

Von would roll her eyes if she heard me thinking all this. We’ve never seen eye to eye when it comes to the criminal justice system. But to me, it really did always seem black and white. Cops arrested bad guys. And sure, there were some corrupt cops out there, but not in my town. Not in Magnolia Bay. It was easy to accuse her of being too caustic, too cynical. Always representing the wealthy, the guilty.

I think about what Grayson said this morning.

You’re lucky to have her on your side.

Pop tells me people have been phoning the house to offer support. Mrs. Greerson has been cursing out the reporters for disparaging me—and for clogging up the traffic around town. Jake Stein offered to let Pop use the hunting cabin he bought from old Mr. Sanderson. Mr. Sanderson used to own the Crooked Screw, until he sold it to Jake and moved to Florida. He loved to fish and bird watch. Pop and I would go out on the bay with him sometimes. The cabin is outside of town, farther up along the bay in a more rural area.

I tell Pop he should take it. Get out of Magnolia Bay for a minute. I’m sure Charlotte could help him make the transition. Because I’m positive he’s getting angry phone calls too. People saying I’m a murderer. That I deserve to rot in jail. He’s just not telling me about them.

Dusk is falling by the time I hang up. My stomach gives a low rumble. No word from Von since she left earlier. I decide to start on dinner. I’ll make something simple, so even if she gets home late, she can reheat it easily.

I grab a package of chicken breasts, an onion, and somepotatoes then preheat the oven. Comfort food. That’s what she’ll need. It’s the best way I can say thank you without actually saying it.

I grab one of the beers I bought at the store, crack it open and take a swig, then set to work making a quick marinade for the chicken out of olive oil and lemon juice and garlic. The evening is turning cool, so the breeze coming in through the giant open wall offsets the heat of the stove. I play Miles Davis on my phone and the music mixes with the night air as I get to prepping the vegetables. Pop was the one who taught me that cooking was a simple thing if you didn’t overthink it. Starch, protein, vegetable. Basic ingredients. Salt, fat, acid. I was always the kind of kid who wanted to be sure I could take care of myself in any situation. Pop taught me how to fish and hunt, though I never took to the latter. I can mend my own clothes. I read voraciously. My therapist said it was because I’d suffered a major trauma at such a young age—I seek to find control in the small things.

I start rearranging the kitchen a bit, putting the knives here, moving the plates there. I don’t think Von knows how a kitchen actually works. I find myself smiling as I remember our exchange earlier. I really did imagine her living in some villainous lair—but less Maleficent and more like Blofeld or another one of the posh James Bond villains. All black marble with a hidden shark tank under the floor where she could dispose of her enemies.

I chuckle at the image as I find a sheet pan and nestle the chicken among the potatoes and onions. Then I shove the whole thing into the oven. I set a timer and take my beer out onto the terrace. The sun is setting somewhere behind the buildings, turning the edge of the sky rose-gold as the windows begin to light up in various apartments, little squares of orange popping up among the landscape.

How many lives are being lived right now, normal everyday lives? How many people out there don’t have to worry about what could happen to them in a matter of months? Life seems so fragileall of a sudden. And part of me feels like I should have known—I, of all people, have experienced first-hand how everything can change in an instant. How your world can be upended when you least expect it.

I have very few memories of my parents. But the night they died, I can still remember the pajamas I was wearing and the slice of moonlight coming in between my bedroom curtains. The sheriff—only a deputy back then—showed up at Pop’s door. I can still hear the echo of Pop’s agonized wail as he was told his son and daughter-in-law wouldn’t be coming home.

I chug my beer and turn away from the scene across the street. I wonder again where Von is. Maybe I should text her. The loneliness is starting to get to me. The scent of roasting onions wafts out from the kitchen, and I head inside to grab another beer.

It’s getting dark in here, but I have no idea where the light switches are. The walls are entirely smooth.

I’ve just cracked open my second beer and taken out my phone to at least text Von about the lights when the elevator doors open, startling me. It’s a bit freaky that there’s no doorbell to ring or door to knock on. Von looks as put-together as she did when she left. Not a strand of hair out of place in her smooth, sleek bun, not a wrinkle in the pencil skirt that hugs her hips. Her lips are painted a deep scarlet, and her silk blouse is the color of butter, one of those floppy bows tied at the base of her throat. I wonder what Von would look like in regular clothing. I try and picture her in jean shorts and a Yankees jersey. The image is comical but also disturbingly sexy.

Something flutters deep in the pit of my stomach, and I quickly push the image away. This beer must be going right to my head.

Von looks surprised. “What’s that?” she asks.

“What’s what?”

“Thatsmell,” she says.

“Oh. It’s dinner.”

“You cook?”

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