Page 34 of Defend Me

“Good. That shit can geotag you. The last thing we need is for the press to find out you’re here. Is that what you want? More cameras? More reporters?”

“I get it, Von,” he says.

“Stay,” I command. I can’t help it—it does feel just a little good to tell my brother’s best friend what to do and he actually has to listen to me.

The last thing I see before I leave is Noah standing by the window, his profile etched starkly against the New York skyline.

CHAPTER TEN

NOAH

Once Von leaves, I unpack my things.

I feel like I’m staying at a five-star hotel. The dresser drawers smell pleasantly of cedar, and the bed is enormous, with fine linen and fluffy pillows. The curtains are velvety, the carpet plush. I check out the bathroom and there are fancy soaps and little bottles of conditioner and shampoo, along with a pile of thick towels. I head back into the living room and stare at my surroundings. It’s pristinely white, the photographs on the walls looking like they belong in a trendy gallery. I’ve never gotten to spend much time in the city—I’ve always been busy working, or looking after Pop, or helping anyone in the community who might need it. I’ve wanted to explore New York, though. I have a whole wish list of things I’d like to see or do or try. And even though this is not how I imagined an extended stay in the city would come about, and I know the homesickness will set in eventually, for now, I’m delighted to find a sense of relief in getting away from Magnolia Bay.

The trial, the reporters, the reality of my situation, it all feels so far away. Like I can breathe for a minute. Buildings pile up outside the windows, creating angular patches of sky, and I hear honking and the sounds of traffic coming up from the street. I wonder how those giant glass panels Von opened work, but I don’t want to touch anything for fear I’ll break it. That doesn’t stop me from exploring though. I peruse all the photographs, sit in the egg chair, examine the giant ferns in huge clay pots on the balcony—or terrace, or whatever. There’s a set of stairs that leads up to the second floor, but I can sense a Do Not Enter sign hanging invisibly over them. That’s where Von’s bedroom is, I assume. I poke around the kitchen instead. Von’s got an incredible set of knives, Riedel wine glasses, stainless steel pots and pans. Everything is so immaculate it almost looks untouched.

Then I open the refrigerator, and my jaw drops to the floor.

Where’s the food? I see a package of shredded cheese, a jar of olives, and something in a takeout container. There are several bottles of white wine (Everton label of course). There’s a wilting bunch of kale in the crisper and a jar of expensive-looking Dijon mustard. I find some crackers in one cabinet along with spiced almonds. She’s got a Vitamix that looks like it’s never been used.

Maybe this is why Von is so snappish all the time—she’s hungry. She needs a real meal.

I get an idea. It’s the least I can do, after she’s taking on my case pro bono, putting her life on hold, allowing me into her space. I am aware I’m breaking her number one rule ofdon’t leave the apartmentbut food is a necessity and I don’t know how long she’s going to be gone for. Plus, I can’t imagine any reporter popping up herenow. They’re all still back in Magnolia Bay.

I take out my phone and do a quick Google search for grocery stores nearby. There’s one a few blocks away, so I grab my wallet and head to the elevator. The doors open with a faint ping and I step into the lobby. Sam is still behind the desk, and he nods to me. Benito opens the door with a simple, “Afternoon, sir.”

I step outside and realize I have no idea where I’m going. I glance back down at my phone, pulling up my maps app.

“Need help with anything?” Benito asks. He’s a jovial, Latino guy in his late fifties, with the broad shoulders and barrel chest of an athlete gone slightly to seed.

“I’m trying to get to this store,” I say, showing him my phone.

“Oh, it’s just two blocks up…” He points in the right direction. “And then one block to the left.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Ms. Everton doesn’t usually have guests,” he says. I wonder what his impression of Von is. Cold, probably. Sharp. Professional.

“I’m a family friend,” I tell him. “Known her since I was a kid.”

I see Benito blink quickly, almost like he can’t quite imagine Von ever being a child. She does have that affect—like an Athena, bursting fully formed from her father’s head.

“Well, if there’s anything else you need, don’t hesitate to ask,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say again, then start off in the direction he pointed. Another thought occurs to me and I turn. “Hey, Benito? Is there a library around here?”

Two hours later, I arrive back at the apartment building, my arms loaded with grocery bags and a couple of library books.

I step into the elevator and realize that I need a special key to access the penthouse. I poke my head through the open doors. “Hey, Sam?” I ask.

Sam looks up from behind the desk. He’s a short man with a wiry gray mustache. He looks like a guy who spends his weekends betting on the ponies and playing cards with his buddies.

“Yes, sir?” he says.

“I, um, don’t have a key,” I say. “Von didn’t leave me one.”

“No problem,” he says, unlocking a drawer, taking out the key, and hurrying over to help.

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