Page 59 of Defend Me

I turn to him, my eyes flashing. “That won’t be happening in this case.”

“Derek, do you think Stan will talk to me?” Noah asks.

“To us,” I remind him.

Derek gives me a sidelong glance. “Maybe you shouldn’t do much of the talking.”

I glare at him, and he withers. “Excuse me?”

Noah clears his throat. “Von, it’s not about you. It’s about…your dad.”

“Right,” I say, turning to glare out the window instead. “Capitalists.”

Fine. I may be the best interrogator in this car, but fine. I can hold my tongue if it will help my client.

Bayside Sporting Range is in a remote area of Magnolia Bay, well outside the bustling town center, a boxy cement building with a large red sign crossed with two rifles. There’s only one car in the lot—a gray Ford pickup with a Don’t Tread On Me bumper sticker.

“Stan told me to come in before he opens,” Derek says as he parks the car. “Says he’s happy to talk but the fewer eyes and ears around, the better.”

“Stan sounds paranoid,” I say as I get out of the car.

Noah grimaces. “He’s a bit of a Doomsday prepper,” he admits. “But a solid guy.”

I take a step toward the door and Noah grabs my arm. The sudden, unexpected contact sends goosebumps over my skin.

“Seriously,” he says. “Let me do the talking.”

I pull my arm away, the goosebumps fading. “You think I can’t take direction?”

His lips twitch, his eyes holding a faint spark of humor. “No.”

“I’ll be good,” I promise, holding up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“That’s the Boy Scout pledge,” he points out. “Girl Scouts is three fingers.”

I scowl at him as he chuckles, and I follow him inside.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

NOAH

As soon as we enter Bayside Sporting Range, I’m hit with a wave of memories.

The tang of cleaning supplies mixed with the acrid scent of gunpowder and the pristine waxed floor leading down the hall to the range bring to mind those early days of training, of unfettered optimism. I hoped I would never have to use my gun in the line of duty—but I wanted to be as prepared as possible, for any scenario. I was a pretty good marksman, and I worked hard at improving my skills.

Now the prosecution is going to use that against me.

Stan is behind the reception desk and looks up as we enter. He’s a barrel-chested Black man in his fifties, strands of gray beginning to dapple his close-cropped black hair, and he wears a red polo with the Bayside logo emblazoned on one side.

“Noah,” he says, coming around the desk to shake my hand.

“Hey Stan,” I say. “Thanks for agreeing to talk to us.”

“Of course. The minute I saw they’d arrested you, I thought, they’ve got the wrong guy. Noah is no killer.”

I give him a grim smile. “That means a lot. Not everyone in this town feels that way.”

“People are idiots. Sheep,” Stan says with a wave of his hand. “I’m not sure how I can help though.” He glances at Von, sizing her up from her expensive heels to her diamond studs.

---