I glanced over her head at the frames on my desk. Fivephotographs that said more than any words could. That said,I choose to trust you, even when trust terrifies me.
I wish it could have lasted. But the next person who’d visit my office wouldn’t just turn the case on its side; it would expose Faith’s secrets …
52
RYKER
The door to my office slammed open hard enough to rattle the framed law degree on the wall.
“Have a piece of advice for you, Kincaid.” Wolfe strode past my assistant’s protests like she didn’t exist, his voice dripping satisfaction. “If your entire business model is predicated on exclusively representing innocent clients, next time, do a little due diligence to make sure they’re actually innocent before you take them on.”
He slid a manila envelope across my mahogany desk with the kind of theatrical flourish that belonged in a bad courtroom drama. The thing was thick. Too thick for comfort.
I didn’t touch it. Not yet. “Nice of you to make an appointment, Wolfe.”
“While you’ve been busy digging into my victim,” he continued, ignoring my sarcasm as he settled into the client chair without invitation, “I’ve been looking into your client. What I found?” He gestured at the envelope like it contained nuclear launch codes. “Let’s just say, foster care records are a bitch to get, but private investigators with the right connections? They work miracles.”
My muscles tensed. Foster care records weren’t criminal records. They wouldn’t show up in standard background checks,and my team hadn’t had luck cracking them yet. Judge Kearns must have pulled strings to make this happen.
“We both know people reveal patterns long before they get caught.” His smirk widened as he nodded at the envelope. “Go ahead. Take a look.”
I kept my expression neutral as I opened it, but inside, my stomach dropped with each page. The first document was a sworn affidavit. Then another. Then another.
Behind him, I could see the rainbow sparkle gift bag still sitting on my credenza. An hour ago, it had been a colorful promise.
“Seven former foster siblings,” Wolfe narrated like he was savoring a fine wine. “All willing to testify about Faith Morrison’s violent tendencies. How one had locked herself in the bathroom with a knife when Faith got angry. Or how Faith chased one like an animal because she borrowed her sweater.”
The papers felt heavier with each page I turned. Notarized statements. Medical records with names redacted but injuries detailed. My chest tightened as I read an ER report describing a thirteen-year-old girl with defensive wounds and a puncture wound to her abdomen.
My eyes snagged on the photo of us at Axel’s dinner. Faith looking at me like I hung the moon. What I remembered about that night told a different story. How guarded she’d been. How she’d barely spoken to me, barely met my eyes. With that one photo, she’d rewritten history. Made me believe I’d been blind to something that was always there.
Now I wondered what else she’d rewritten.
“That one?” Wolfe tapped the medical report. “Sixteen-year-old Faith Morrison’s roommate. Stabbed with a pair of scissors during an argument over a boy. No charges filed because, well, foster kids fighting each other? System barely blinks. But the girl remembers. Oh, she remembers everything.”
I flipped to the next document. A psychological evaluation from a group home.Subject displays concerning patterns of escalationwhen threatened. Recommend isolation protocols during aggressive episodes.
“And here’s my personal favorite.” Wolfe pulled out his phone, swiping to a video. “Posted on social media years ago. Deleted within hours, but the internet is forever.”
The video was shaky, clearly filmed at a bar. Faith’s face filled the frame for a moment, her eyes wild with rage as she held a broken bottle to another woman’s throat. The audio was muffled, but I could make out her words: “I’ll fucking end you!”
The blood drained from my face. This wasn’t teenage survival. This was adult Faith. Years ago, sure, but how much of that woman was the same one who’d stood in this office and given me photographs of trust?
“Now, technically,” Wolfe continued, pocketing his phone, “that could be drunken bravado. But combined with everything else? With the pattern of violence, the threats, the foster siblings who’ll testify?” He leaned forward, his cologne aggressive in the small space. “Your innocent client is starting to look like a killer in training who finally graduated.”
I forced my face to remain impassive, years of courtroom practice keeping my hands steady, even as my mind raced. “Childhood trauma and bar fights? That’s your big case theory?”
But even as I said it, poison spread through my chest. She’d hidden this from me. I’d explicitly told her to share every skeleton, every dirty secret that could come back to haunt us. She’d looked me in the eye and held back an entire history of violence.
I’d given her everything. My time. A caseload that could have been dedicated to several high-paying clients, clients that would have kept my new firm afloat, kept my employees paid. I’d staked my reputation on her. Made enemies with a judge, with a DA. People who could bury me and my cases for years.
But most of all, I’d given her my heart.
And she’d taken it, knowing she was lying to me the entire time.
“Not a theory.” Wolfe’s voice pulled me back. “A narrative.And juries devour narratives like starving dogs.” He straightened his tie with practiced precision. “You and I both know I’m not just trying her for one murder, Kincaid. I’m putting her whole life on trial. And right now?” He glanced at the papers spread across my desk. “Her life looks like a documentary about how killers are made.”
He stood, smoothing his jacket. “Oh, and there’s more evidence coming. My investigator found three former employers willing to testify about missing money. You know how juries hate thieves.”
