Page 110 of The Bargain

43

Fatal Mistake

Elias

To everyone in the room, Sophie Sutton-Knight is a world-famous prosecutor. To me, she’s the living echo of someone I know and love all too well.

Despite the fine lines around the eyes and mouth and the dark hair streaked silver at the temple like a flash of lightning, the resemblance is unmistakable. She has Desdemona’s same clever brown eyes, the same proud line of the neck, the same captivating mix of stubborn pride and underlying ferocity. The same beauty, too.

For a moment, no one dares to move or speak. Desdemona’s mother strides into the room, gaze brushing coolly over lawyers who are now scrambling with their papers and folders, filing things away. The newspaper has already disappeared from view. Funny, that.

“Thank you, Mr Smith,” she says to my solicitor without looking at him. “I’ll take it from here.” To the rest of the room, as if throwing a bone to a bad dog, she adds, “I’ll be representing Mr Lennox from here on out.”

The lead Hastings lawyer, glancing at his colleagues, stammers, “We weren’t made aware of—this meeting, you see, was prearranged, and Mr Smith⁠—”

“Is no longer involved in this matter,” she cuts in. There’s a scratchiness to her voice like her vocal cords are rimed in frost. “You can direct all correspondence to me from now on.”

Her shoes crack briskly against the tiled floor as she steps closer. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like a moment alone with my client.”

Her tone isn’t raised, but she doesn’t need it to be. Her gaze is enough to slice through every protest like a guillotine blade. The lawyers exchange glances, and I can see the Pearsons bristling at her arrogance, but nobody dares to argue. Even the superintendent straightens, glancing uneasily around.

One by one, the vultures shuffle awkwardly out—the Hastings lawyers first, then the Pearsons and their lawyer, muttering amongst themselves, the police following after. The door shuts behind them with a final metallic click.

And then, it’s just me and her.

Sophie Sutton-Knight sets down her things—a cup of coffee, a brown paper bag, and a thick satchel—and leans back against the table, folding her arms.

“Hi, Elias.”

She’s dressed more casually than I imagined, given her fearsome reputation. Loose-fitting black trousers and blazer over a white T-shirt, chunky loafers that give her an oddly dorky air I didn’t quite expect. Her dark hair is tied back in a messy bun, and her accessories are simple: small gold hoops, a simple watch, big tortoiseshell glasses. She grins when she sees my expression.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Your kids look the spit of you,” I tell her.

I don’t sound like my heart is hammering in my chest—but it is.

“You think?” she says, sounding pleased. “My husband says the same, but I think they look like him.”

I’ve met Desdemona’s dad: his kids, like him, are all tall and athletic and glowing with good health and sunshine. But they have their mother’s presence, her essence, that vibrating strength and hint of arrogance that makes Desdemona such an awe-inspiring figure.

“Eat,” Sophie says, gesturing at the table. “I’ve brought some food and good coffee—help yourself.”

The smell of the coffee and the greasy paper bag mingles with the smell of her perfume, which is unexpectedly sweet and pleasant.

I don’t know why, but I expected her to smell like hot iron, like machinery. Maybe I expected her to be made of steel and adamant, a being of pure metal instead of flesh, like it’s not possible for someone like her to have a heart as fragile and fallible as the rest of us.

“You’re kind of the last person I expected to see,” I tell her finally, leaning back into my chair.

“Really?” she says, tilting her head. “I feel the opposite. I was scared you’d be wondering why I hadn’t shown up earlier.”

“I didn’t think you’d show at all,” I tell her frankly.

She lets out a soft laugh.

“Trust my daughter to fall in love with a pessimist.”

She pushes off the table, pulls up a chair and sits down, right next to me, one elbow hanging over the back of her chair. I can’t stop staring at her, like I’ve been given a rare opportunity to glimpse a mythical creature.