Page 1 of Client Privilege

CHAPTER ONE

Alex

THE FLUORESCENTlights in the public defender’s waiting room buzzed overhead like angry wasps trapped in a jar. I shifted in the moulded plastic chair that had grown more uncomfortable with each passing minute of the hour-plus I’d been sitting here. My borrowed jeans—thrift store finds that hung loose around my waist—scratched against my thighs whenever I moved.

I wrapped my arms around my body, trying to stop my shoulders from curling inward. The receptionist behind the scratched Plexiglas partition kept glancing at me. I couldn’t tell if it was concern or suspicion in her eyes. Either way, I hated being seen like this—dishevelled, hollow-eyed, clearly someone whose life had fallen apart.

My gaze darted to the exit sign, its red glow promising escape. Three more people had come and gone since I’d arrived. Maybe this was pointless. What could a public defender even do against Marcus and his team of expensive attorneys? I’d already tried going to the police, and that had been worse than useless.

The memory of the officer’s skeptical expression flashed through my mind. “So you’re saying your… boyfriend… hurt you? And you want to press charges now, weeks later, with no evidence?”

I closed my eyes, tears burning behind them. Buster’s face appeared in my mind—his soft ragdoll features, the gentle way he’d press his head against my chin when I cried. My chest ached with missing him. Was Marcus feeding him properly? Did he even care about Buster beyond using him as one more way to hurt me?

Someone slammed a door down the hall. The sharp crack made me jolt upright, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The fluorescent light directly above me flickered, buzzing louder, then dimming.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

Just like—

The hospital room ceiling, stark white, swimming in and out of focus as I blinked up at it. A machine beeped somewhere to my left. Bzzt. Bzzt. The fluorescent light overhead flickered rhythmically.

“You’re awake.” A nurse appeared, her face professionally neutral. “How are you feeling?”

I couldn’t answer. My lip was split, swollen to twice its normal size. Pain radiated from everywhere at once—ribs, back, jaw, between my legs.

How had I gotten here?

The memory rushed back like a wave of ice water.

Marcus standing in the doorway of his—our—apartment, holding my sketchbook. His face blank in that way that always meant danger.

“What is this?” His voice had been eerily calm as he turned the book around to show me—drawings of the city from angles that weren’t from our windows.

“Just some sketches.” I’d kept my voice soft, placating. “From the park near the gallery.”

“You went without telling me.” Not a question.

I’d swallowed hard. “It was just for an hour. You were in meetings all day and—”

“Do you have any idea,” he’d said, slowly closing the sketchbook, “howhumiliating it was to hear from David Rothman that he’d seen you sitting alone on a park bench? Like some vagrant? Drawing pictures like a child?”

“I’m sorry.” The reflexive response. “I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t.” He’d placed the sketchbook carefully on the side table. Too carefully. “You never do think, do you, Alex?”

I’d backed up a step. “Marcus, please. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

His smile had been terrifying in its gentleness. “No, it won’t.”

The first blow had caught me off guard—a backhand that sent me sprawling into the coffee table. The cut glass edge had sliced into my arm.

“You make me do these things,” he’d said, unbuckling his belt. “Why do you always make me do these things?”

I’d tried to crawl away, but he’d grabbed me by the hair, dragging me back.

“Where do you think you’re going? You need to learn discipline, Alex.”

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