some delay, he finally bolted up from his chair. He ran out through the living room, through the kitchen, to the mudroom, where the back door to the garage hung wide open.
He couldn't understand why Julia had left the door open again. He saw her purse on the floor by the coat hooks where it usually hung, its contents scattered on the floor. And as he crouched to pick it up he finally saw the blood dripping down the white wainscoting, his eyes trailing it down to see her black skirt, her long leg, her foot in its yellow Tory Burch shoe sticking out by the back stairs, her body, her face concealed by the lowest steps.
And in that moment, all the air left his lungs as he collapsed to the floor. Shaking uncontrollably, he rubbed her leg, calling to her, whispering her name, knowing she would never answer him again.
After a minute, his heart all but dead, he finally looked up, to see his best friend standing over them with tear-streaked eyes. Nick released her leg and rose to his feet. Marcus laid his hands upon Nick's shoulders, holding him back from advancing toward Julia's upper body, putting all 220 pounds of what was once muscle into keeping him from a sight that would haunt him till the end of days.
As Nick fought his best friend to get near his wife, a scream of anguish finally poured forth, filling the small room before dissolving to silent tears, the sounds of the world falling away to nothing as the reality of the moment set in.
They waited at Marcus's house next door, silently sitting on the front steps for over an hour before they heard the sirens announcing to the neighborhood that something horrible had happened. It was a sound that would be with Nick forever, for it was the sound track to his tragic loss and the prelude to the unthinkable nightmare of accusations that were about to begin.
The gray-haired man stuck his head into the room, again. "His attorney's here."
"That was fast," Dance said.
"The wealthy don't wait," Shannon said, speaking for the first time, as he tipped his chair forward and stood up. His eyes bore into Nick as he headed for the door.
"Let's go." The gray-haired man waved his hand, ushering the two policemen out.
The door closed with a loud clang behind them but reopened not thirty seconds later; Nick's heart hadn't even had a moment to slow.
The man walked in as if he owned the room, tall, polished, with an air of wisdom and calm that displaced some of the terror that had enveloped Nick for much of the last several hours. His hair was dark, flecked with gray, silver highlights at the temple; his eyes were sharp and focused. His face was weathered from life, character lines etching the tanned skin about his eyes and forehead. He was dressed in a double-breasted blue blazer and sharply creased linen pants, his yellow silk tie set off against a pale blue shirt, all of it combining to display a man of refinement and taste. He even smelled rich.
"They already took most of you, eh?" the man said in a deep European-sounding voice as he pulled out a metal chair and took a seat across from Nick.
Nick stared at the man, confusion filling his eyes.
"Your wallet, keys, cell phone, even your watch," the man said, looking at the pale stripe on Nick's bare wrist. "They slowly strip your identity, then they take away your heart, and finally your soul, until you'll say whatever they want you to say."
"Who are you?" Nick asked, the first words he had spoken inside the confines of these walls. "Did Mitch send you?"
"No." The man paused, looking about the room, assessing it and Nick at the same time. "With the case they have against you, an attorney is the last thing you need. He'll charge six hundred an hour, give you a bill for half a million, and make you feel like you owe him as you sit in your prison cell doing twenty-five to life."
Nick stared at the elegant man, even more confused. "Mitch is on his way. I've got nothing to say to you."
The man nodded, exuding calm, as he laid his arms upon the table and
He couldn't understand why Julia had left the door open again. He saw her purse on the floor by the coat hooks where it usually hung, its contents scattered on the floor. And as he crouched to pick it up he finally saw the blood dripping down the white wainscoting, his eyes trailing it down to see her black skirt, her long leg, her foot in its yellow Tory Burch shoe sticking out by the back stairs, her body, her face concealed by the lowest steps.
And in that moment, all the air left his lungs as he collapsed to the floor. Shaking uncontrollably, he rubbed her leg, calling to her, whispering her name, knowing she would never answer him again.
After a minute, his heart all but dead, he finally looked up, to see his best friend standing over them with tear-streaked eyes. Nick released her leg and rose to his feet. Marcus laid his hands upon Nick's shoulders, holding him back from advancing toward Julia's upper body, putting all 220 pounds of what was once muscle into keeping him from a sight that would haunt him till the end of days.
As Nick fought his best friend to get near his wife, a scream of anguish finally poured forth, filling the small room before dissolving to silent tears, the sounds of the world falling away to nothing as the reality of the moment set in.
They waited at Marcus's house next door, silently sitting on the front steps for over an hour before they heard the sirens announcing to the neighborhood that something horrible had happened. It was a sound that would be with Nick forever, for it was the sound track to his tragic loss and the prelude to the unthinkable nightmare of accusations that were about to begin.
The gray-haired man stuck his head into the room, again. "His attorney's here."
"That was fast," Dance said.
"The wealthy don't wait," Shannon said, speaking for the first time, as he tipped his chair forward and stood up. His eyes bore into Nick as he headed for the door.
"Let's go." The gray-haired man waved his hand, ushering the two policemen out.
The door closed with a loud clang behind them but reopened not thirty seconds later; Nick's heart hadn't even had a moment to slow.
The man walked in as if he owned the room, tall, polished, with an air of wisdom and calm that displaced some of the terror that had enveloped Nick for much of the last several hours. His hair was dark, flecked with gray, silver highlights at the temple; his eyes were sharp and focused. His face was weathered from life, character lines etching the tanned skin about his eyes and forehead. He was dressed in a double-breasted blue blazer and sharply creased linen pants, his yellow silk tie set off against a pale blue shirt, all of it combining to display a man of refinement and taste. He even smelled rich.
"They already took most of you, eh?" the man said in a deep European-sounding voice as he pulled out a metal chair and took a seat across from Nick.
Nick stared at the man, confusion filling his eyes.
"Your wallet, keys, cell phone, even your watch," the man said, looking at the pale stripe on Nick's bare wrist. "They slowly strip your identity, then they take away your heart, and finally your soul, until you'll say whatever they want you to say."
"Who are you?" Nick asked, the first words he had spoken inside the confines of these walls. "Did Mitch send you?"
"No." The man paused, looking about the room, assessing it and Nick at the same time. "With the case they have against you, an attorney is the last thing you need. He'll charge six hundred an hour, give you a bill for half a million, and make you feel like you owe him as you sit in your prison cell doing twenty-five to life."
Nick stared at the elegant man, even more confused. "Mitch is on his way. I've got nothing to say to you."
The man nodded, exuding calm, as he laid his arms upon the table and
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