Sullivan will want a formal interview soon. The only reason he didn’t push to do it today was both Silas and I agreed she wasn’t in the right state of mind to answer any more questions. He wasn’t happy about it, but he wants her willing, and I all but assured him she wouldn’t be helpful if he forced her to continue.
Sullivan left hours ago, I’m sure chasing down leads even though he wouldn’t give me any details. The police will keep their opinions to themselves until they’re ready to go public. I stayed until the coroner took Ben’s body away. It just didn’t feel right leaving while he was still there, on the rug stained with his blood.
There’s still one cop car in the circle drive close to the house and another one out on the street. They killed the sirens and lights hours ago, but their presence is to deter the onlookers who continue to cruise up and down the street. I back out and wave to the officer stationed there to keep the media at bay. They showed up almost as quickly as the cops did.
Because of Ben’s notoriety in this town, the media isn’t going to back off this story anytime soon. The best we can all hope for is that this case doesn’t linger unsolved for long and the cops are able to catch his killer.
I can’t imagine what Camille is going through right now. She and Ben have been together a long time—since they were teenagers. Ben had mentioned a few months back that he was ready to try for kids now that the remodel was finished. And now he’s just…gone.
Sullivan won’t cross my or Camille’s name off his suspect list right away. It’s just the way things work, and I can’t even be mad about it. You always look at the spouse first. History tells you the odds are in favor of them being the killer. I can’t see it with Camille, though. That devastation, that fear, that grief were real.
But I can also admit I’m looking at this through the eyes of a friend, not a lawyer or detective. If she did it, she’s a hell of an actress. Solid Oscar performance.
I see Camille as the woman who has been trying to set me up on one blind date after another. The woman who always brought me lunch anytime she brought it for Ben. The one who makes sure to include me at every holiday, knowing how hard those occasions are since my parents passed away, one right after the other, a few years ago.
Camille has become a friend.
I want Sullivan to do his job the right way and cross off everyone who didn’t do it, including Camille, including me, so he can focus on who did kill him. But I’m prepared to step in if he tries pinning this on either one of us if no other leads pop up. I know there’s going to be a lot of pressure on him to close this case.
Even though I should go home, shower, pour a drink, end this fucking day, I head to the office instead. The eight a.m. staff meeting tomorrow is going to be brutal and I need to be prepared.
It was important I notified our employees about what happened to Ben before they heard it on the news. While I waited for the coroner to arrive, I took a minute to write the hardest email I would ever have to send. Sully told me they are keeping the details from the public for now by just saying Ben was found dead, not murdered, so I told them what I could.
Thankfully traffic is light this late on a Sunday and I make it to the office in good time. I park in my reserved spot and stare at the illuminated sign attached to the side of our building:bayliss and landry law firm. It’s like a punch in the gut.
Ben and I met freshman year at LSU. We were similar in a lot of ways—two white-trash kids from small towns, both attending school onscholarships—his academic, mine athletic. He knew on day one he wanted to be a lawyer. Hell, he probably knew it way before then. Not me. I had my eyes on the NFL and signing bonuses and the dream of one day making it to the Hall of Fame.
I dump my dirty clothes out of my gym bag then fill it with the files I took from Ben’s home office so I can bring them inside. Opening the back door to the office, I turn off the alarm, then reset it once I’ve locked myself inside. The images of Ben are still fresh enough that I’m taking precautions I haven’t before.
Whoever killed him is still out there.
Is his murderer someone who has been in this office? Someone Ben knew? Or was it random—a burglary gone bad?
Can’t go down that rabbit hole right now. It’s a waste of time to speculate on what-ifs until I familiarize myself with every part of Ben’s life and get details the police are willing to share once they comb through everything.
My office is in one back corner and Ben’s is in the other. The entire center of the building is sectioned off for assistants and paralegals, the conference room and a small break room. Ben loved coming in after hours to work. He liked having the place to himself. The silence.
I hate it. Sometimes it’s necessary, but I do my best work when this building is full of people and the noise level is something you can almost feel.
Instead of going to my office, I head to his, my limp more pronounced than I’d like. After spending most of the day pacing in Ben’s front yard, my knee is throbbing.
At the time, I thought the injury during the LSU–Bama game my senior year was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I was living mybest life as a starting running back for LSU until a gruesome tackle tore almost every ligament in my right knee. There was rehab and consults with specialists all across the country, but it came down to the simple fact that if I were to play again and reinjure that area, there was a good chance I would never walk again, so I walked away from the sport I loved while I still could.
A future with the NFL had been my dream since I was a kid, but being forced to reevaluate my life was a blessing in disguise. Was there a chance I would get drafted after my stint at LSU? Yes, but certainly not a guarantee. But once that was off the table, I had to come up with a new future.
Flipping the light on, I step just inside Ben’s office but no further than that. It looks like he just finished for the day, leaving everything ready to pick up where he left off. There are framed pictures of him and Camille behind his desk, like a highlight reel of their time together. Images from college, their wedding, their honeymoon, the ski trip they took last winter. The wall next to his desk showcases his academic and professional achievements. His diplomas from undergrad and law school. The certificate showing he passed the bar. Awards and recognitions of service from a number of charitable organizations.
Ben went into private practice immediately after graduating law school. Early in his career, he represented a state politician, Representative Wells, who was accused of killing his mistress in a drunken rage. No one else wanted to touch that case after the DA announced he would personally be prosecuting it. It should have been a slam-dunk conviction for the DA, but Ben whipped his ass. And that single acquittal changed the trajectory of his career. At twenty-seven, he became one of the most sought-after lawyers in this area.
There are stacks of file folders along the left side of his desk andseveral piles on the floor. The weight of what happened and how it changes everything presses down on me.
But tomorrow will be soon enough to tackle the work ahead of me in this room, because tonight I don’t have the strength to take another step inside.
Flipping the light back off, I shut the door.
I drop my gym bag with Ben’s files on the couch in my office and head straight to the built-in cabinets along one wall, opening the center one that houses a small bar setup. I pour two fingers of bourbon in a glass and throw it back, relishing the burn, then refill my glass, taking it with me to my chair.
I have similar pictures and achievements on my wall, but I zone in on the one of the two of us the day I signed the partnership papers and joined this firm.
