In an instant, it occurred to her the door must lead to wherever they held a criminal defendant. A courthouse jail cell?
Her whole body froze at the approach of the man dressed in an ill-fitting gray suit. A trim, athletically built man she only recognized from his mug shots and a vague memory from the time he’d served on the town council. Jeremy Covington, local quarry owner.
Her attacker.
Numbly, she sensed Clayton turn around; perhaps he was ready to start moving again. But her mind hardly processed Clay’s nearness as Covington stepped closer.
Closer.
The man’s face was expressionless. She had a clear view from where she stood at the end of the row, but realized Clay might not be able to see because of people lingering in the rows ahead of them. Covington’s gray eyes stared straight ahead, focused on the back of the bailiff’s head. Yet at the last minute the prisoner’s eyes veered straight to her.
“Nice skirt, Gabriella,” he muttered so quietly she wondered if she was the only one who heard.
Her knees almost gave out. She grabbed the bench in front of her to steady herself even though Clay still held her other hand.
Clay’s grip tightened around her fingers, tugging her near. “Gabby? What happened? Are you okay?” Clay tilted his head to look past two women now crowding the aisle between the swinging authorized personnel door and the spot where Gabriella stood.
Jeremy Covington was already gone.
She remembered the skirt reference all too well. She’d dreamed about that last conversation too many times.
Been thinking about me?
You’re all I think about.
Are you wearing a dress?
How short?
She couldn’t think about the responses she’d typed back. Or the way her attacker had mocked them later. So she focused on Clayton’s dark eyes and the tender concern she found there.
“I want to leave.” She inhaled deep breaths to calm down as her heart rate spiked toward all-out panic. She focused on exhaling slowly between clenched teeth. “Now.”
“Done.” Clay wrapped an arm around her shoulders and guided her toward the exit, offering curt apologies and brief explanations that, “My wife is ill.”
Gabriella kept her head tucked against Clay’s shoulder, not caring if anyone who saw them knew she wasn’t his wife. She was most definitely ill.
“My brother?” She remembered belatedly as they pushed through the worst of the crowd and out into the expansive lobby area that they’d been headed toward Zach and Heather. Gabby owed Zach, at least, an explanation.
Clay lowered his voice for her ears only. “We just passed a hallway where he was having a heated conversation with Sam. He didn’t even notice us go by.”
Eager to get outdoors into fresh air, she picked up her pace.
“They were counting on using a whole lot of information from that computer to build their case.” She hadn’t wanted all of the details regarding the police work involved in bringing Covington to trial, but she remembered that much. “Zach thought once they had all the evidence, Covington’s conviction was certain.”
“They’ll get it admitted with a different approach,” Clay assured her as he used his free arm to lever open the courthouse doors. The weak November sunlight spilled over them, the cool air a welcome relief after the close atmosphere in the courtroom. “An objection is just a stumbling block. The DA will have to work a little harder to build the foundation. March a few more people in there who can testify that’s the computer or maybe scrounge up photos from old house parties where the computer is in the background.”
She thought about that while they took the long stonestairs down to the street. She trusted his take on it. As a private investigator, he’d no doubt been a part of many courtroom proceedings.
“Is that what upset you back there?” Clay asked, drawing her off to one side of the street, out of the way of foot traffic. “You went white.” He stopped in the protective shelter of a recessed brick window with a deep stone overhang. With the blinds pulled on the inside, no one was watching them. “You’re still really pale.”
His fingers found her cheek, tilting her jaw so she looked up at him. She was so grateful for him, and even so she resented feeling weak. Resented the way Jeremy Covington reduced her to panic all over again when she’d been psyching herself up to face him for weeks.
“Jeremy Covington spoke to me.”
“Did he threaten you?” Clay’s eyebrows swooped down in a fierce scowl. “Did the bailiff hear?” He shifted as if ready to return to the courtroom.
“No.” She placed her palms over the lapels of his jacket. “There was no threat and the bailiff didn’t hear.”
