Page 24 of Cast Stones
She doesn’t understand the words, but she will.
Her eyes, heavy with truth, close again as she slowly sinks to the floor. “What’s going to happen to me?”
I wish I could answer that. I wish I could explain the way of the Divine Disciples, but I can’t. I don’t want to think about it. Now that the purity test is complete, they won’t touch her again.
Not until her eighteenth birthday.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Nothing at all, cara mia.”
Chapter Nine
There’sa ghost staring back at me above the bathroom sink.
She looks a bit like me, and her cheekbones still curve like crescent moons—like a boy once told her they did. After that, the similarities end. I don’t recognize her sunken green eyes or the dark circles that look like dirt tracks on the road to Crazy Town. Her clothes are crumpled, her expression desperate. Whoever she is, she’s coming apart at the seams.
For the last two days, I’ve been working my ass off refuting the kind of evidence that would have condemned the pope. Luca’s fingerprints were all over the crime scenes. His car was seen by multiple cameras. The list of witnesses is endless.
As for Cain, his relationship with his father has been ripped apart like an old toy, and the stuffing spilling out is wicked and soiled. The DA has most of it—the abuse, the connections to the Divine Disciples of God, but no clear relationship with Luca yet.
Cain has yet to take the stand, but knowing the extreme fragility of his client, that’s exactly what Trent Anderson is going to make him do when the case swings around to the defense.
I’m not going down without a fight. I’ve reacted, I’ve cross-examined every minute until the sweat on Judge Harris’s brow was pure frustration. I’ve shouted, “Objection, Your Honor,” so many times, my voice is now strained and husky.
But it’s all been in vain.
Luca’s losing.
I’m losing.
Splashing water on my face, I grab a paper towel and dab my cheeks dry. These days, I’m existing on valium and wild hope, and I’m running low on both.
The door opens, and a tall woman dressed in a light gray pantsuit steps inside the courthouse restroom. I track her reflection into the third cubicle, while another woman finishes with the hand dryer and leaves. As soon as she’s gone, the tall woman emerges again with no tell-tale toilet flush following her out.
Is she a reporter?I recognize her face from the public gallery.
She comes to join me by the sink, leaning over to use the soap dispenser. As she does, she flashes me a glimpse of the police badge tucked into her waistband.
My heart lurches.
Why?
Her movements are slow, but for some reason, they’re causing me more damn anxiety than I care to admit.
She catches my eye in the mirror and forces a brief smile. I freeze, as if she just pulled her standard-issue pistol on me. I know that smile, the same way I know Moseley’s tears. It’s a weak disguise for an unpleasant truth that she’s figuring out how to share with me. It’s the same one I gave my parents when I told them I never wanted to see them again. When I knew I was too damaged for their brand of suburbia anymore.
“Can I help you, officer?” My voice is strained and unnatural.
“It’s detective. Detective Hunter. Are you Vincent’s lawyer?”
Like you don’t already know.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She digests this with a nod. “He’s a real piece of work, right? I guess he missed the whole heart thing when God was dishing out organs.”
Wrong. Luca has a heart. It’s as big and as broken as mine.
“I’m sorry, I can’t discuss this case or my client with—”
