* * *
A few days later
Marc
I was looking at my lawyer, John, on the other side of the glass, willing him to provide me with some good news. Since Sanderson’s visit, there had been no communication from Ash or George.
I’d told George the last time he came not to leave Ash’s side if he could help it. It was more important he was there with her, on the estate. Pretending things were normal, would, at least, keep her father in check.
Maybe. Now that I knew what Sanderson was, I couldn’t be certain.
All that time Ash had talked about her father, about the creep he’d brought around, and I’d thought it was so much drama. The burner phone, the way she hid her movements so as not to seem like she was stepping off the path her father had laid out for her. All of it made sense now.
She’d been legitimately frightened, and I’d fucking given her shit about it.
Another reason to be angry. Another chunk of it to swallow. My gut was so filled with suppressed rage, I could barely eat.
“Talk to me, John,” I growled.
He lifted his hands. “They want to know what you did with the twenty million dollars. I think if you tell them, we might be able to make a deal.”
“I didn’t steal twenty million dollars. I took two thousand from an account that was in my name, money I’d earned through investing it.”
“I believe you,” John said. “I do. But it’s about what we can prove in court. Or at least, I think it is. Now is probably the time to tell you I’ve never actually been in a courtroom.”
“I’m fucked,” I muttered.
Just then, the door to the visitor area opened and I saw a suit walk in. Another lawyer, no doubt here to see his client, but, unlike John, who was still carrying a backpack, this guy was sporting what I knew to be a three-thousand-dollar, designer briefcase. The guy caught my attention enough for me to follow his movements, only to realize he was stopping directly behind John.
“Marc Campbell?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve just posted your bail. They’re going to process and release you. I’ll have a car waiting outside. If you wouldn’t mind, there is someone who would like to speak with you.”
“I mind,” John said, twisting in his seat. “Who the fuck are you?”
The man turned over a business card to John.
“I’m his lawyer,” John said, reading the card.
“No. You are someone who just passed the bar exam. I’m his new lawyer. Steven Entwhistle. I’ll be waiting for you outside, Marc.”
He left then, and the guard was there behind me.
“Campbell. Let’s go. Bail’s been posted.”
It was surreal. One minute, John’s asking me to tell the prosecutors where I stashed twenty million dollars, then next thing I knew, I was back in the clothes I’d worn on the flight from Vegas, standing outside on the streets of New York.
John was there, too. Eager, clearly nervous. At least he hadn’t left me.
“I checked the guy’s credentials. Holy fuck, Marc. He’s, like, the leading defense attorney in the whole damn country. His firm is legendary. Why the hell am I here if you can afford him?”
“I can’t afford him,” I said, just as a limousine pulled up in front of the correctional facility.
The door opened, and Entwhistle stepped out. “Mr. Campbell, if you would please join us.”
I shook my head. I knew the players I was dealing with now. I had no certainty this wasn’t a trap. A more expedient way to get me out of the picture. What if Sanderson’s men hadn’t gotten to the chapel to intercept the license and it was already filed at the courthouse?
