Lust & Lies: The Limond Affair

Park, Wednesday Night, May 6, Drayton Hall, Charleston, SC (Chamber of Commerce Gala) When I see her, I’m nursing a whiskey at our round banquet table, half-listening to Kidman and Matthew argue about our latest case. A flash of electric-red satin at the hall’s entrance. Who…? My thoughts stall out. Everything around me dulls to static. The laughter of my colleagues, the clinking of silverware, and the jazz music all fade as my eyes track the woman in the red gown. She’s tall, poised, gliding through the crowd like she owns the place. The dress hugs her figure in all the right ways, shimmering under the chandeliers. God, she’s gorgeous. I don’t realize I’ve practically twisted around in my chair until she passes our table and I catch a glimpse of her from behind. The sway of her hips sends a hot jolt straight through me. I swallow hard. A sudden BANG on the table jolts me so hard I nearly drop my glass. I blink, torn from my trance. Detective Matthew Anderson, seated to my left, has slammed his fist on the table. He’s smirking. On my right, my wife is staring daggers at me. Slowly, the world rushes back into focus, along with the realization that I’ve been completely oblivious about my ogling. My face heats. A few of the guys around the table snicker. I attempt a casual sip of my drink, but Caroline’s scowl could turn me to stone. “You’ve, uh, got some soup on your chin, man,” says Attorney Kidman, hiding a grin. I wipe my mouth quickly. “Where? Did I—?” Kidman bursts out laughing. “Oh, my bad. Not soup. Just your drool.” The whole table cracks up at my expense. Everyone except Caroline. She’s gone stiff and silent, which is even worse than her glares. Damn it, Park, get it together. At the table, we have a motley crew: Detective Matthew, my oldest friend, his wife Angela, Kidman, my junior partner from work, and his latest date for the week. And then my sweet wife, Caroline, and I. A cozy little group for what was supposed to be a professional networking event. Instead, I’ve turned it into a circus by gawking at a pretty stranger. I duck my head, trying to laugh along with the jokes about me, but my neck burns with shame. Caroline’s going to eviscerate me the first chance she gets, that much is certain. Mercifully, Matthew decides to throw me a lifeline and steer the conversation back to something less mortifying. He clears his throat. “Anyway, about the Aaron Mitchell case…” Matthew fixes me with a sympathetic but firm look. “It’s over, Park. I’m telling you, you’re not going to win this one. Not with your client.” I exhale, grateful for the subject change, and latch on. “C’mon, have a little faith in me.” Matthew shakes his head, swirling the ice in his bourbon. “My buddies in the DA’s office say the prosecution’s coming out swinging. They want Mitchell’s head on a spike. You can have all the courtroom swagger in the world, but it won’t matter. The evidence is rock solid against him.” Kidman, never one to back down, scoffs at that. “We’ll be swinging just as hard, trust me. Besides, the Mitchell family’s paying a fortune for defense. And if we pull off an acquittal, the firm’s name goes through the roof.” He winks at me. “Untouchable Crown Prince of Charleston Courtrooms, isn’t that what they call you?” A few chuckles. Caroline pointedly rolls her eyes, still arms-crossed and fuming. I can practically hear her thoughts: Men and their egos. Matthew isn’t convinced. “I’d give you one in a billion odds, my friend. The guy bludgeoned his wife’s skull in with a sledgehammer. For Christ’s sake, even you must have a hard time defending that.” Kidman bristles. “Allegedly. Allegedly bludgeoned. How about we let the jury decide, huh? Or are we skipping trials nowadays and just lynching people?” I zone out as they bicker, my attention sliding back toward the entrance of the ballroom. I scan for that red dress… there. She’s across the hall now, and my stomach does a weird flip when I see who she’s sitting with. The District Attorney’s table. Of course, she just had to be in the enemy’s camp. She throws her head back in a laugh at something a portly older man says. DA Jerry Sullivan, I recognize him even from here. The sight of her laughing with Jerry’s crew sends an irrational stab of disappointment. Why is she with them? I wonder. She doesn’t look like a typical Charleston prosecutor. Those types are usually more pedestrian in fashion. Maybe she’s a visiting dignitary for the gala, or a new hire? If she were local, I’d remember that face. As I’m musing, a sharp, shrill voice right beside me almost makes me jump. “Oh, for God’s sake! My dress is ruined!” Caroline’s voice is loud enough to turn heads at nearby tables and cuts through the din. I whip around to see her staring down in horror at a spreading dark red stain on her teal silk gown. The smell of cabernet wafts up, and her wine glass is toppled on the white tablecloth. She must have knocked it over. Instinctively, I reach for a napkin. “It’s not that bad, love. Just dab it, maybe in the bathroom—” Caroline rounds on me with fiery eyes. “This dress costs thousands, Park! You can’t just scrub it with some bargain-bin detergent. It’ll ruin the fabric!” She grabs a handful of napkins anyway, blotting furiously as her voice rises. “Ugh, it’s spreading…Jesus, I look like a disaster!” A bead of sweat threatens her perfectly made-up face. Around the table, everyone pointedly looks away, giving us a semblance of privacy as Caroline panics. Well, everyone except Angela, who reaches over kindly: “Why not run home and change?” She suggests. “We’re not far. You could be back in half an hour.” I close my eyes for a split second, knowing exactly what’s coming. Caroline latches onto Angela’s idea like a lifeline. She’s painfully self-conscious about impressions. And tonight we’re supposed to meet Chief Justice Roberts, the guest of honor. A wine-stained gown simply will not do in Caroline’s mind. “Yes!” Caroline gasps, already pushing her chair back. “Park, take me home right now. I’ll change and we’ll come straight back.” Her tone allows no argument. And truly, any protest I could make would only prolong this scene, which I desperately want to end. I force what I hope passes for a calm smile. “Fine. Let’s make it quick, then.” Under the table, I clench my jaw. There goes our night. Caroline always wins, period. I scramble to gather my phone and wallet as she’s already standing. As I rise, I can’t help one last furtive glance across the hall, just to see the woman in red again. One more look, that’s all. My gaze finds her table. She’s listening to someone, her profile to me… A hard stare bores into the side of my face. I don’t need peripheral vision to know it’s Caroline, catching me in the act yet again. My neck prickles. I straighten up and avoid eye contact with my wife as I murmur a goodbye to the group. Great, another strike against me for the drive home. We weave through the round tables toward the exit. I place a hand at the small of Caroline’s back, but she pointedly steps a little faster, my hand slipping off. The moment we escape the ballroom into the quieter marble foyer, I exhale. “We’ll be back before dessert,” I say lamely, trying to cut the tension. She just presses her lips thin and marches toward the coat check. We’re almost to the front doors of Drayton Hall when a brash, nasal voice echoes from behind us: “Park Limond! Defender of degenerates and murderers, from the noble House of Fleck & Garrison!” I cringe. That voice is unmistakable. Caroline huffs an annoyed breath and steps aside; she already knows what’s coming. Plastering on a tight smile, I turn to face Jerry Sullivan, Charleston’s District Attorney and my long-time courtroom nemesis. He’s hurrying toward us, tuxedo strained around his middle. A few onlookers pause their conversations to watch; Jerry has always loved an audience. “Good evening, Sullivan,” I say smoothly. “Or should I say Sullen-man? You look…wider these days. All those big cases you’ve lost must be converting to body mass, huh?” I give his gut a pointed once-over. A chorus of “ooh” from a few folks nearby scores one for me. Jerry’s round face goes ruddy. “Hilarious. Keep laughing while you can, Limond. Because in a few weeks, I’ll enjoy watching my team crush you in court.” He pokes a stubby finger at my chest. I casually bat his hand aside. “Your baby lawyers are cute, Jerry. But you lots haven’t given me a good fight in years. Even for me, it’s kinda boring winning every damn time.” Jerry sneers. Seemingly struggling for a clap back. A muscle in my jaw twitches. Jerry and I have tangled in courtrooms more times than I can count, and I’ve beaten him way more than he would have liked. And for that, he hates me. But he might have a winning chance this time, as I really don’t have much to work with in Mitchell’s defense. Still, I won’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging that. “By the way, Limond. You might not even be facing me in court. I’ve got a new hotshot on my team. I’m thinking of letting her handle you instead.” Her. My mind jumps immediately to the woman in the red dress. Could it be…? Knowing how impatient Caroline can be, I raise my hands in a mock placating gesture. “Why don’t we save the trash talk for Monday’s trial, eh? Wouldn’t want to bore all these fine people with our bromance.” I can’t resist the slight jab. Jerry’s grin tells me everything. He snorts. “ADA Bridgette Leah. Just transferred from New York last month. She’s smarter than she looks, so don’t let that model face fool you. Watching her wipe the floor with you in court will probably be the highlight of my year.” I open my mouth, but before I can respond, Caroline’s voice, icy cold, slices in: “How much longer is this little chat going to last? Or should I leave you two alone?” She has rejoined us, arms crossed and foot tapping. The temperature in her stare could freeze molten lava. Jerry has the gall to smirk. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Limond, I’m done with him. For now.” He gives her a polite nod. “Always a pleasure.” Caroline forces a tight smile. “Likewise,” she hisses afterward. I manage a quick farewell handshake with Jerry. Then I gently touch Caroline’s elbow to guide her out the grand double doors. She doesn’t shake me off this time, but her silence is thunderous. Only when we’re safely in the valet-parked Mercedes and pulling away from Drayton Hall does Caroline break the silence. And when she does, it’s with a single seething word: “Unbelievable!”

Caroline, Wednesday Night, May 6, En route from Drayton Hall He doesn’t even have the spine to say a word. The whole drive, Park keeps his eyes fixed on the road, hands at ten-and-two, jaw clenched. The silence in the car is suffocating, broken only by the soft whoosh of Charleston’s streetlights passing by and the low hum of the engine. My blood is boiling. Every time I replay that scene at the gala, Park practically drooling over that woman while I sat right there, fresh humiliation washes over me. And those snickering fools at our table, seeing me publicly disrespected? God. I dig my nails into my palms to quell the rage. Finally, I can’t stand it. I break the silence. “So. You’ve got nothing to say?” I spit out. My voice trembles with contained venom. Park flinches almost imperceptibly. “Caroline—” he begins, eyes still on the road. “Don’t you Caroline me.” I’m just getting started. “You embarrassed me back there, Park. In front of our friends. In front of half the damn city elite!” My voice rises with each sentence. I’ve been holding this in since the ballroom, and it’s erupting now, unstoppable. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Keeps driving. That infuriating silence again. “Oh, what, you’re not going to say anything?” I challenge. “Nothing at all? Not even an apology? Or at least a pathetic excuse?” He swallows. I can see his grip tighten on the steering wheel. “I—” “You know what I think?” I cut him off, words laced with acid. “I think this is because I didn’t give you sex last week. Is your horny meter already in the red? One week of self-control too much for you, darling?” The sarcasm drips heavily on that last word. Park’s cheeks darken. “That’s not—” “Not what? Not true? Could’ve fooled me, with how you ogled that cheap slut at the table.” I glare at him. He’s still not looking at me, which only fuels my anger. “You couldn’t keep it in your pants even during a professional dinner? Right beside your wife?” He finally speaks, voice low. “I’m sorry. I screwed up. She…caught my eye for a second, and the fool in me lost control. I didn’t—” “A second?!” I bark out a harsh laugh. “You stared at her like a starving dog eyes a steak. For minutes, Park. Minutes while I sat right there.” My chest heaves; I realize I’m breathing hard, adrenaline lighting up my limbs. This is pure, raw anger. But beneath it, an ache of hurt. I push that hurt down, channeling it into fury, because fury is power. He risks a glance at me. “You’re right. I was wrong. I was an asshole. I have no excuse.” His voice is trembling slightly. Good, he should be afraid. I glare at him, waiting. That can’t be all. Does he think a meek admission fixes this? When I don’t respond, Park stammers on, “I… I’m truly sorry, Caroline. I don’t know what came over me. I just—” “Enough.” My voice comes out icy, belying the storm inside me. I turn to stare out my window at the blur of streetlights. An apology means nothing right now. The humiliation was public; a mumble in the car isn’t going to erase that image from everyone’s mind. From the corner of my eye, I see Park’s shoulders sag a little. But I’m nowhere near ready to forgive or let this go. Frankly, I’m close to exploding again. The light ahead turns red. Park slows the car to a stop at the deserted intersection. I can feel him mustering the courage to speak again. But I won’t give him the chance. My right foot shoots out and stomps on Park’s foot over the brake pedal. Hard. The Mercedes screeches violently to a halt. Tires squeal, the car fishtailing just a foot before the white stop line. I hear a distant horn. A truck behind us, maybe? And for a fraction of a second, my heart hammers with the realization that could have been dangerous. Park slams his foot on the brake and yells, “Jesus Christ! Caroline!” He’s braced against the wheel, eyes wide as he looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Are you insane? You could’ve gotten us killed if that truck ran into us!” I meet his shocked gaze with a cold smile. My pulse is racing, but I force steady words. “Oh, so you needed a near-death experience to find your voice? Interesting.” He’s breathing hard. “What the hell was that for?!” “What was it for?” I echo incredulously. “Why’d I do that? Hmm, maybe because I’m furious, Park. Because you sitting there like a mute wasn’t satisfying me.” I lean toward him, my anger rekindled to white-hot. “Don’t you dare ever ignore me like that again.” He rubs a hand over his face, trying to compose himself. The light turns green, and a car behind us honks. Park quickly steers us to the side of the road and puts the car in park, hazard lights blinking. The moment we’re off the road, I continue, voice deadly quiet now. “Why did you humiliate me like that tonight? Staring at some tramp while I’m sitting right next to you. Do you have any idea how that made me look? How it made me feel?” His expression crumples. “I know, I know. I messed up. Caroline, I am so sorry.” He reaches a hand toward me hesitantly, as if to touch my arm. I pull away. “A public apology back at that table would’ve been better,” I snap. “Instead of this private groveling when no one can hear you.” Pain flickers in his eyes, good. I want it to hurt. I want him to remember this pain the next time he even thinks of eyeing another woman. I take a deep breath. Enough. I’ve yelled, he’s apologized. I’ve made my point. And truth be told, the rush of adrenaline is ebbing, leaving me a bit shaken at my own outburst. I glance out the windshield. We’re only a few blocks from home now. My heart is still hammering, and not just from rage. There was a split second I genuinely thought we might crash. The realization makes me swallow hard. I could have hurt myself, too, not just him. Park is watching me warily. He seems at a loss for words now. His face is lined with regret, and something about that deflates some of my anger. He truly does look sorry. I sigh and lean back in my seat, suddenly exhausted. “Just…drive.” He silently puts the car back in gear and merges onto the road. We complete the last few minutes to our house in an uneasy silence, with not even the radio on. When we pull into the driveway of our home, a modern duplex in the prestigious Rainbow Row district, I have my mask of calm back on. The Limond house. Once upon a time, it was the home of Park, his first wife, and their three sons, a lively family of five. Now it’s just Park and me. As I step through the front door, the foyer light automatically comes on, illuminating the tasteful decor I spent so much time perfecting. But my mind isn’t on the furnishings. It’s on ghosts, the ghosts of those early days when I used to come here just as the babysitter for Park’s kids, before any of this seemed possible. The kids: Park Jr., Harry, and little Josh, were absolute hellraisers back then. And later, as adults, even worse. At least they’re out of the picture now. I realize I’ve murmured that out loud: “At least they’re history now.” “What’s that?” Park asks quietly from behind me, setting down his keys. I plaster on a quick smile and turn to him. “Oh, nothing. Just…thinking about a difficult client session I had years ago. Glad those days are behind me.” I wave a hand as if to dismiss it, then pivot to head upstairs. “I’m going to change. Check on me in twenty minutes, will you?” My voice is suddenly sweet, almost tender. Park looks a little surprised at my tone. Perhaps he expected me to continue raging. But I’ve decided to take a different tack tonight. I gave him the tongue-lashing; now it’s time for something different. He nods, relief evident in his eyes that I seem calmer. “Sure. Twenty minutes.” I leave him and hurry up the curved staircase toward the master bedroom. The moment I’m alone in our room, I shut the door and let out a shaky breath. My reflection in the vanity mirror catches my eye: Caroline, get a hold of yourself. My cheeks are flushed, eyes a bit wild. God, I haven’t been that angry in a long time. There’s a tiny tremble in my fingers as I reach back to unzip my ruined gown. The teal fabric slips off, revealing my naked body beneath. I walk to the full-length mirror on the wall. The sight that greets me would normally boost my confidence instantly: an hourglass figure, flawless skin with a golden glow, full breasts sitting high and firm, thanks to Dr. Holmes’s masterful work last summer. At nearly 40, I can still turn heads, and I’ve paid good money and put in serious effort to ensure that. I run my hands down my waist and hips. I have the body of a goddess. So what the hell else does he want? A Barbie doll with a tinier waist or wider hips? Or is it just the novelty of someone new? My lip curls in disgust as I imagine that red-dress bimbo naked. I bet she’s rail-thin, one of those lanky model types. Totally not Park’s usual type as he’s typically into curves, but I guess the thrill of new flesh is universal. I feel a pang of something unpleasant, jealousy, yes, but also a deeper kind of fear, and I hate it. This insecurity is not me. I’m Caroline Foster Limond: smart, successful (in my own way), and a damn catch. I straighten my spine, meeting my own gaze in the mirror. He chose me, didn’t he? Out of all the women throwing themselves at him, he married me. He left Aiyana and their kids for me! So, I can’t let some pretty newcomer rattle my confidence. A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. Park’s voice, tentative: “Can I come in now?” I panic-flinch. “Not yet! Five more minutes,” I call, scrambling to grab a dress from my walk-in closet. I pick the first thing that my hand touches, a plum-purple cocktail dress with cap sleeves. It’s not nearly as glamorous as the teal gown, but it’s decent enough. I slip it on and quickly smooth my hair. My makeup needs a touch-up. I notice my mascara is smudged from when I rubbed my eyes in frustration earlier. Damn it. Another knock, louder this time. Ugh, he’s persistent. Well, better to let him in now that I’m dressed; I need him for phase two. “Yeah, come in,” I say, moving to perch on the edge of the bed. I arrange myself to look a bit pitiful, one hand on my stomach, face tilted down. Park enters fast, worry all over his face. “Kidman just texted,” he blurts, still catching his breath. “Chief Justice Roberts arrived… apparently he was looking for me. We’re running late, Caroline. We need to go if we’re—” I don’t move. Instead, I close my eyes and press my palm harder against my belly. “Honey…I—I don’t feel so good.” I make my voice small, pained. “I think I have food poisoning. It’s probably that damn salad from earlier.” Park freezes a foot from me. Instantly, the urgent annoyance about being late evaporates from his expression, replaced by concern. “Is it bad? What hurts?” I let out a low groan for effect, curling slightly on the bed. In truth, I feel perfectly fine physically, but he doesn’t need to know that. “My stomach… it really hurts.” I can see the transformation in him: from frustrated husband to panicked caregiver in about two seconds. He steps closer, worry creasing his brow. “Caroline, love… okay, okay. Let’s get you to the clinic.” Before I can even protest, he scoops me up in his arms. I make a little squeak, half genuine surprise, half acting, as he lifts me. “No, I can walk.” I mumble. “It’s faster like this,” he insists, already carrying me out of the bedroom. “If it’s your ulcer flaring up or something, we’re not taking chances.” He’s moving so quickly. I loop my arms around his neck, leaning against his chest. I can feel his heart pounding. Is he…scared? For me? The thought causes an unexpected twinge of guilt. But only a twinge. He practically flies down the stairs with me and out to the car. Gently, he sets me in the passenger seat. I make sure to wince and cradle my abdomen as he buckles me in. His hands are slightly shaky. “I’ll get you right to St. Francis, hang on.” There’s a tremor in his voice too. He dashes back inside briefly. He likely forgot his wallet or keys. The moment he’s gone, I drop the act. A satisfied smile creeps onto my face. Hook. Line. Sinker. As expected, Park fell for it entirely. The perfect escape from the gala, and now I have his full attention and sympathy. He returns, and we speed off toward the clinic. Park, the ever rule-abiding lawyer, actually blows through two stop signs and exceeds the speed limit the whole way. I hear a honk at one intersection as he aggressively overtakes a slow driver. He doesn’t even swear at them like he normally might; instead, all his focus is on me, one hand clutching mine, the other on the wheel. I almost want to laugh at how easy this is, but I keep my face drawn in discomfort, eyes closed. Inside, I’m brimming with a dark glee. Now he knows how it feels to be humiliated and powerless. I imagine how it must burn him that he missed reuniting with his hero, Justice Roberts. An opportunity that might never come again. The sting of that disappointment will stick with Park for a long time. Good. We arrive at St. Francis Specialist Clinic, and Park rushes me in through the sliding ER doors. The next hour is a blur of playing the ill damsel. Park works his charm on the triage nurse to get me seen quickly. I watch through half-lidded eyes as he flashes his winning smile and maybe a hint of a bribe. Within minutes, I’m in a private exam room with a doctor. “Can I speak to you alone?” I ask the doctor sweetly after introductions. Park looks reluctant to leave my side, but the doctor gently ushers him out. The moment we’re alone, I drop the feeble act and calmly explain to the young doctor that I suspect a minor ulcer flare-up and perhaps an adverse reaction to some painkillers I took earlier, all fake, of course.. I just need them to keep me overnight for observation and some fluids. The doctor buys it, ordering tests that I know will show nothing major. When Park comes back in, the doctor assures him it’s likely just an ulcer flare and that I’ll be fine after some observation.. Park visibly deflates in relief, thanking the doctor profusely. I even catch him giving the doctor’s arm a grateful pat. And the doctor, who can’t be more than thirty and looks mildly starstruck by Park’s attention, blushes. Hours later, I’m settled in a comfy hospital bed, propped up slightly, with an IV drip and everything. Park sits by my side, tension lining his face as he checks his phone repeatedly. It’s almost midnight. He must have texted Kidman updates, because he’s not getting peppered with messages anymore. I let my eyes stay closed, feigning half-sleep, and murmur, “What’s wrong, honey? Something more important than me?” He hesitates. “Not really. It’s just…Kidman keeps texting. Apparently Chief Justice Roberts did ask about me. I missed the chance to chat with him.” His tone is regretful, almost childishly disappointed. “But— but I can’t leave you here alone. So.” I bite back a smirk. Classic Park, even now, is trying to guilt-trip me in his way. Well, he can stew in that missed opportunity. I certainly don’t intend to encourage him to go back. Instead, I keep my eyes closed and just sigh as if in pain. He squeezes my hand. “There’s always next time, I guess,” he says softly, though I can hear the bitterness. “Maybe Roberts will visit Charleston again… or not. It’s been years since he last did.” A tiny, satisfied smile threatens my lips, but I don’t let it show. In my chest, I feel a warm glow of victory. My message was received loud and clear: Park had to choose between networking with a powerful figure and taking care of his wife, and he chose me. As he damn well should. Eventually, exhaustion from the emotional rollercoaster catches up to me. The nurses gave me a mild sedative ‘to help with pain’ and it’s making my eyelids heavy for real. Park is still sitting vigil, the poor, loyal husband. Perhaps he’s hoping this display of devotion will earn my forgiveness by morning. Before I drift off, I allow myself one last smug thought: Mission accomplished.

Park, Thursday, May 7, Sheriff Al Cannon Detention Center, Charleston I rub my bleary eyes and gulp the last of a large black coffee as I push through the heavy doors of the detention center. The sterile scent of disinfectant and the dull buzz of fluorescents greet me, along with a stern-looking deputy behind the check-in desk. Running on maybe two hours of sleep, courtesy of the overnight hospital stay with Caroline, I feel like a zombie wearing a suit. But I can’t reschedule this morning’s task. This is my first in-person meeting with the infamous Aaron Mitchell, and I need every scrap of intel I can get if I’m going to defend him. Kidman is already here, pacing the small waiting area like an anxious caged animal. The moment he sees me, he checks his watch with exaggerated indignation. “You said eight o’clock, boss. It’s half past. Is this your version of eight?” he snaps, keeping his voice low but heated. “I’ve been here forever. These deputies keep eyeing me like they’re about to lock me up too.” I suppress a groan. Right. I did tell him 8:00 am sharp. “Sorry, Kid. Had…a situation last night.” I can’t exactly go into detail here, so I hesitate over the choice of my next words. Kidman scowls. “Everything okay?” “Fine,” I say. “Caroline’s fine. It was nothing.” I jerk my head toward the reception desk. “Did you check us in?” “Yes, yes. They’re grabbing Mitchell from his cell.” He blows out a breath. “These guards have been staring me down since I got here. You know they hate us defense lawyers.” I muster a weak smirk. “Maybe because you introduced yourself the moment you walked in? I told you, just sit quietly and wait. Nothing riles up these law-and-order types like knowing we’re from Fleck & Garrison. In their eyes, we’re just money-hungry sharks getting rich by keeping scum on the streets.” Kidman smirks back. “They’re not entirely wrong.” I let out a tired chuckle. He’s not wrong either. But hey, I didn’t design the system. I just excel at playing it. We approach the reception counter to sign in formally. The deputy, a broad-shouldered man with a military haircut, barely looks at us, stone-faced. Beside him, a second officer, a woman with kind eyes, gives a polite smile. “Morning, Mrs. Wendy,” I say, reading her name tag and turning on the charm despite my fatigue. Her eyes flicker in recognition. “Good morning, Mister. Welcome.” The male deputy’s scowl deepens. I catch the name “Carver” on his badge; I ignore him and keep my focus on Wendy. “It’s Mrs., right? I recall from last time… You could pass for a college freshman though, even in uniform.” I give her an easy grin. A slight pink rises in her cheeks. “Oh— well. It’s Mrs., yes. And thank you.” Her smile falters for a second, probably remembering she’s supposed to be professional. “Um, if you’ll both sign here… Mr. Mitchell will be brought to Interview Room B shortly.” We sign in. Deputy Carver mutters something under his breath as he picks up the phone to notify someone of our arrival. I ignore the side commentary; Wendy’s handling us now, and that’s enough. Within a few minutes, a door buzzes open down the hall, and a corrections officer leads a man in an orange jumpsuit toward us. I square my shoulders, trying to push aside personal prejudices. Time to meet the devil. Aaron Mitchell, late 50s, looks… surprisingly ordinary, given his reputation. He’s of medium height, a bit paunchy, with thinning gray hair. If I passed him on the street, I’d think he was a math teacher or someone’s grandpa. It’s the eyes that give pause: something steely and cold in them, even as he sizes me up with a polite smile. “Mr. Mitchell, I’m Park Limond, your attorney,” I say, extending a hand. He gives me a firm handshake. His palms are calloused. “Good to meet you, Mr. Limond. Heard a lot about you.” His voice is gravelly, with a hint of Southern twang. “All good things, I hope.” I motioned for him to follow me into the private meeting room. Kidman trails us, shutting the door behind. We all sit at a plain metal table. The guard waits outside, but I know we’re likely being observed through the small window, and our conversation may be recorded if we’re not careful. Attorney-client confidentiality means nothing to some of these folks, unfortunately. I lean forward and speak in a measured tone. “Alright, Aaron. We don’t have much time, so I’ll get straight to it. The prosecution’s case against you is strong. I need you to be completely honest with me if I’m going to help you. Understood?” His jaw tightens a fraction. “I understand.” We start going over his version of events. It’s a grim story: his wife, Marjorie, was found bludgeoned to death in their garage with his sledgehammer lying beside her. No witnesses, but plenty of circumstantial evidence pointing to him: a history of domestic disputes, his fingerprints on the weapon, and strange inconsistencies in his alibi. He swears up and down he didn’t do it. “I loved Marjorie,” he says fervently, leaning forward. “We had our fights, but I’d never… I couldn’t…” His eyes actually misted a little. It’s either genuine or an Oscar-worthy performance. Hard to tell. As he talks, I notice something interesting whenever he denies guilt: a slight twitch in his left eye. Hmm. Kidman starts asking details about the timeline, and Aaron answers, but something in my gut twists. He’s lying. Or at least hiding something. I’ve interviewed enough clients to sense when bits don’t add up. He’s adamant he was at home watching TV when Marjorie was killed, but he hesitated slightly when I asked what he was watching. He eventually said Wheel of Fortune, which doesn’t even air at the time he gave. After an hour, we’ve covered most of the ground. My notepad is filled with scribbles, a lot of them question marks. We’ll need to corroborate whatever parts of his story we can. Right now, it’s looking bleak. I decide to confront him a bit, see if I can shake something loose. “Aaron, the evidence suggests Marjorie was trying to leave you. Neighbors heard her say she was moving out just the day before she died. If that’s true, it gives you a motive , anger, abandonment, etc. What do you say to that?” He clasps his hands, eyes downcast. “She… she talked about leaving sometimes, but she never meant it. Couples fight, you know.” My gaze stays on him, unblinking. “The neighbors say you had a screaming match that day. That she wanted a divorce and you told her ‘Over my dead body.’ ” His nostrils flare. “I never said that. People love to gossip and embellish. I won’t deny we fought. But I’d have never hurt her.” The eye twitched again. A memory of something flickers behind his eyes, I swear. Kidman jumps in, seeing my line of questioning might be hitting a nerve. “Look, if there’s anything… anything you’re keeping from us, now’s the time, Aaron. We can’t defend what we don’t know. And the DA will crawl up every orifice of your life to find surprises, so spare us those surprises.” Aaron’s face hardens. “I’m telling you everything I know. I didn’t kill my wife. Find the bastard who did, instead of grilling me.” I lean back, exchanging a glance with Kidman. Mitchell’s getting defensive and angry. So, probably not useful to push harder right now. We’ll have to investigate alternate suspects on our own. The truth is likely somewhere in the middle: maybe he didn’t plan to kill her, but a fight escalated and… No. I can’t think like that. If I believe he’s guilty, I can’t defend him properly. Right. Time to find an alternative theory to cling to. I force a reassuring smile. “Alright. We hear you. Our job is to defend you, and we will. But you’ve got to help us by thinking: who else could have done this? Do you have any enemies? Was Marjorie involved with anyone, any affair, or someone with a grudge?” He shakes his head emphatically. “No affairs. She wasn’t like that. Enemies… none that I know of. I mean, my older son from a previous marriage, he never got along with Marjorie, but he wouldn’t…” He trails off. My ears perk up. “Your son? What’s his name?” “Derek. But he lives in Tennessee and he and Marjorie haven’t spoken in years. I only mentioned it because of the word ‘enemies.’ Derek’s not an enemy, he just… disapproved of her.” Aaron frowns, seemingly realizing he might have given us a lead inadvertently. “But Derek’s a good boy. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. And he wasn’t even around.” I take note of that. Kidman, ever pragmatic, asks, “Do you have life insurance on Marjorie?” Aaron bristles, insulted. “Yeah, a policy. But nothing huge. I didn’t kill her for insurance money, if that’s what you’re implying.” I file away Kidman’s question. It’s a fair angle: follow the money. Something to check out later. We wrap up the meeting with a few more minor clarifications. As the guard comes to take Aaron back, I stand and grip his shoulder lightly. “We’re going to do everything we can, Aaron. I know it’s tough, but hang in there. And remember, if anyone inside tries to get you to talk about the case, don’t. Only speak freely to me or our investigator.” He nods, some of that earlier aggression gone. “Thank you, Mr. Limond. I appreciate it. I trust you.” I give him a curt nod. Inside, I don’t share that trust yet. But I’m determined to find something or anything that can cast reasonable doubt on his guilt. That’s my job, and reputation aside, I take it seriously. Once he’s led out, Kidman and I exit the room. He waits until we’re outside, walking to the parking lot, to speak. “What do you think?” he asks quietly. I exhale. The morning sun is blinding after the jail’s fluorescent gloom. “I think he’s hiding something. Maybe not the murder, but something important.” Kidman nods. “My thoughts too. Innocent people usually bend over backwards to help find the real culprit. He just kept insisting ‘I didn’t do it’ without offering any useful alternative.” “Exactly.” I unlock my car and toss my notepad in the back. “I want a deep dive on that older son, Derek. And maybe any colleagues or neighbors with weird behavior. We need someone else to point a finger at, if possible.” Kidman makes a note in his phone. “On it. I’ll also get a PI to canvass the neighborhood more to see if police missed anything.” I run a hand through my hair. Fatigue is weighing on me, but oddly, the adrenaline of prepping a case is helping me push through. “Also, let’s subpoena Marjorie’s phone records. Maybe she had a secret that no one else knew. I have a gut feeling this case isn’t as cut-and-dry as it looks.” Kidman raises an eyebrow. “Oh? You’ve got a theory?” I rub my jaw. “Not a theory yet. Just… a sense that Mitchell’s hiding something about Marjorie. Maybe something that could shift blame. He was too emphatic and angry. Like he’s protecting someone. If not himself, then who?” Kidman considers that. “You think it could be the son after all?” I shrug. “It’s possible. Or someone completely off our radar. Either way, I intend to find out. We’re going to win this case, no matter what it takes.” Saying that out loud, I feel a renewed spark of energy. This fight is just beginning, and I’m ready for it. In Charleston, fights like this are never clean, but if I drag some ugly truths out of the shadows to defend my client, so be it. Kidman claps me on the back. “That’s what I like to hear, boss.” I give him a faint grin and then slide into my car. As I drive out of the detention center lot, I notice my reflection in the rearview mirror, tired eyes, yes, but also a steely determination there. The adrenaline from the meeting is coursing through me. I live for challenges like this. It’s only as I head toward the highway that I realize something surprising: I haven’t thought about the woman in the red dress all morning. The chaos of last night and the intensity of this case shoved that entirely aside. But now, at a red light, her image creeps back into my mind. ADA Bridgette Leah, my opposing counsel. I feel an involuntary excitement at that prospect. In a few days, I’ll see her in court. It’s been a long time since a woman distracted me so much. I shake my head, chastising myself. Focus, Park. I have bigger things to handle: an unwinnable murder case, a wife who’s furious with me, despite her brief cease-fire last night, and an ego to maintain. The last thing I need is to complicate it further by fantasizing about a rival attorney.