Page 18 of The Woman on the Jury

One who my team had been sure would be eager to convict just to get herself out of that jury box and back to her life.

I jerked my head at my man, who immediately turned and left.

“Gav,” I said, giving him a look because he looked ready to order some popcorn and sit back for the show.

“Fine. Fine,” he grumbled, getting up, taking his drink with him, and walking away.

I waved toward his abandoned chair, and she looked at it, then me, unsure.

“We could go somewhere more private,” I said.

“No!” she said. Quickly. Too quickly. “This is fine,” she said, taking Gav’s seat.

She crossed her legs, but the bottom one was tapping restlessly.

“You were the only holdout?” I asked.

“Yes,” she told me, gaze holding mine, and I didn’t see a single lie on her face.

“You don’t think I did it?” I asked.

“I know you did it,” she said, head tipping to the side slightly. “But I agree with why you did it.”

My lips curved up a bit at that. Since there was no way she could have known why I’d done it.

“You do remember that when you were sworn in that you had to base your verdict on the evidence, not your personal opinion, correct?”

To that, her eyes rolled.

“Please, every lawyer and judge knows it’s impossible for jurors to be unbiased. Hell, most judges are biased. Nothing about justice in this country is blind. And some justice needs to be meted out by people who aren’t scared of the consequences,” she said, shrugging. “But that’s all beside the point.”

“Right. Yes. You’re here because you need my help. And you think I owe you.”

“You do owe me,” she said, daring me to disagree. I knew a threat when I was hearing one.

Even if I had no idea what the threatwas.

Going to the media?

To her socials?

Telling them all the reasons Iwasguilty?

Any of that would be bad for the Family.

Objectively, I knew what the Boss would say about this.

Handle it.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked when the waitress hovered again.

“Coffee,” she said, sounding desperate for a cup. She didn’t look like she needed coffee. She looked like she needed sleep. But who the fuck was I to say that?

“What do you need help with?” I asked.

“They’re after me,” she said. “And my grandfather,” she added. Did her voice catch on that word?

“Who is after you?” I asked.

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