I connected my phone to the old Bluetooth speaker, scrolling through playlists. Anything to avoid thinking about what came next—the truths I needed to tell, the way everything might change once I did.
“Let me guess,” he said, applying tape to the window frame with surprising precision. “Something angry. Screaming vocals. Drums that sound like someone attacking a trash can.”
“Because I’m so dark and twisted?” I selected my painting playlist, and the opening notes of Fleetwood Mac filled theroom.
“Classic rock?” He actually looked disappointed. “That’s unexpectedly normal.”
“What exactly did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Death metal. Gregorian chants. TheFrozensoundtrack on repeat.”
I laughed despite myself. “And what does the sophisticated Ryker Kincaid listen to while preparing devastating cross-examinations?”
“Take a guess.”
“Classical. No, wait …” I studied him as he worked, the way his shoulders moved under his shirt. The way those delicious tattoos shifted every time his muscles flexed. “Country. All those sob stories about trucks and heartbreak.”
“Pop music.”
I nearly dropped my paint roller. “You’re joking.”
“Britney, Taylor, Ariana.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Very motivating for destroying prosecutorial arguments.”
“You’re telling me you listen to ‘Shake It Off’ while reviewing murder cases?”
“Allegedly.” That smirk again. “Can’t prove it in court.”
I pried open the paint can, and the sharp, clean scent of fresh paint hit me. The lime green practically glowed in the light streaming through the window.
“That’s …” Ryker stared at the color. “That’s very green.”
“Electric Lime, according to the label.” I stirred it with a paint stick, watching the neon swirl. “Jess picked it out. Said her room in her last placement was gray. Everything was gray. She wanted color.”
“Well, she’s definitely getting color. That’s visible from space.”
“Says the man who probably has a beige apartment.”
“Navy blue actually. Very sophisticated.”
I smiled.
We worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, the music filling the space between us. I rolled the lime green onto the wall, and even I had to admit, it was kind of perfect. Loud.Unapologetic. Exactly what a kid who’d been told to be quiet and invisible needed.
I understood that impulse. The need to take up space after years of making yourself small.
But I could feel the weight of unasked questions, the elephant in the room, wearing a prison jumpsuit with my name on it. Every brushstroke was another second closer to the conversation I’d been avoiding.
“This is nice,” I said quietly, surprising myself. “Normal.”
“Normal?”
“You know, two people, painting a room, talking about music.” I dipped my roller in the paint tray, the lime green coating the foam like liquid highlighter. “Like something regular people do. Couples even.”
The word hung in the air between us.Couples. As if we were anything close to that. As if I wasn’t his client, accused of murder. As if he wasn’t the only thing standing between me and life in prison.
“Faith …”
“I know what you’re going to say.” I attacked the wall with perhaps more vigor than necessary. “This is inappropriate. You’re my lawyer. There are boundaries.”
