–Cody: She’s a lawyer. And she’ll take care of you.
Trepidation presses an icy kiss on the base of my neck. I’m not sure what Cody means by “take care of me.” But it can’t be anything good if Nicholas wants me to see an attorney.
–Me: What is this about?
–Cody: A possible lawsuit.
–Me: What lawsuit?
–Cody: Nicholas didn’t say. Jeremiah will tell you.
An acidic knot tightens in my belly.
–Me: Where’s Nicholas?
–Cody: I’m not at liberty to say.
–Me: Is he okay?
Is everything okay? Do you think things are going to be fine?
–Cody: I’m also not at liberty to say.
–Me: Is there anything you’re at liberty to say?
–Cody: Your car has been repaired. It’s been delivered to the mansion already, so you can drive it to Huxley & Webber. If that’s inconvenient, I can have a driver pick you up instead.
His texts couldn’t be dryer. Or more impersonal. Noah’s judgmental attitude coms back to mind, and I tighten my grip on the phone. Does Cody feel the same way as Noah?
–Me: Are you upset with me?
–Cody: No. That isn’t part of my job.
Ugh. I exhale with frustration. He sounds like an accidental love child between Skynet and ChatGPT.
–Cody: Do you have any instructions?
–Me: Can you let Nicholas know I’d like to speak to him?
–Cody: Yes. If that’s all, have a good day.
I have another coffee. Nicholas doesn’t text. Or call. Actually, I realize he hasn’t even read my text. His phone might be dead. He didn’t take his charger two days ago when he walked out.
Once he charges his phone, he’ll respond.
* * *
I take my car, which now purrs like a happy cat, to Huxley & Webber. It’s housed in a huge, swanky building with shiny chrome and glass. From the chandeliers to the sand-blasted logo on frosted glass walls to the gleaming elevators, everything screams courtroom success and victory.
The receptionist is in a crimson suit and smiles professionally when she sees me. I give her my name, and her smile grows wider. “Jeremiah’s waiting for you.” She shows me to a meeting room with an amazing view of the city.
I sit at the long, rectangular table and tap on it in random rhythm. It isn’t a minute before the door opens and a tall, slim woman in spike heels walks inside. She’s in a teal silk jumpsuit and a jacket, and three strings of pearls circle her throat.
“Jeremiah Huxley.” She extends her well-manicured hand. “A pleasure.”
I stand and shake her hand, stunned she is the Jeremiah.
“Please. Take a seat. Let’s go over your case against Jack Peterson.”
