Page 18 of Hard Heart

“The car is wonderful, and you shouldn’t have bought it.”

I’d got her a suitcase with a matching cabin bag for her birthday, so I’d feel guilty for the rest of my life.

“Aren’t you the one who tells me to listen to my gut and follow my heart? Oh, oh, I told Mum and Dad I want to visit you, but they said I have to stay home over Christmas. So I’m coming at Easter, okay?”

Disappointing, but at least Easter fell after the bar exam. I planned to study like a demon over the Christmas period while my parents thought I was with Rudd’s family. I’d have to talk to Heidi about Flora staying with us for a week or two, but I was certain she’d be okay with it, especially if I offered some extra towards the rent. Plus I’d have to beg Raelene to approve my paid time off—I only got two weeks of leave at the Justice Project compared to the five weeks I’d been allowed when I worked for the CPS.

“That sounds great. Do you know the exact dates yet?”

“I still need to book flights. Mum’s worried about me travelling alone, but I won’t be on my own for long, will I? I’ll have you.”

“Exactly. I can speak to her if she gets difficult.”

“Uh, so she wants you to call anyway. Mum called Rhoda to ask about Christmas plans, and…”

My stomach dropped. “Shit, they know about Rudd?”

That would explain the seven calls from Mum I’d ignored and the two I’d missed from Rhoda.

“I don’t think Rhoda realised you hadn’t told them. Mum asked me if I knew, and I just played dumb, okay? Don’t tell them I was keeping secrets.”

“I won’t; I promise.”

“They think you’ll be coming home now. Dad’s back to muttering that all musicians are arseholes, and Mum’s grumbling about wasted tuition fees and vacuuming your bedroom. How’s the new job going?”

“It’s going. I’m supposed to be making my first prison visit with Raelene next week.”

To Redding’s Hill, the same fine establishment where Sykes was currently incarcerated, except I wouldn’t be speaking with him. No, we were due to meet with Elias Jones. I’d spent a day this week drafting a petition to request the release of the police records relating to his case. If they’d kept the physical evidence—which they should have—we’d arrange to send the victim’s stained underwear to a private lab for testing and see where that got us.

“Ooh, exciting,” Flora said. “What case? Are you allowed to tell me?”

“A murder case.”

“Yikes, be careful.”

“I’ll be fine—visits are carefully controlled.”

As a prospective attorney, Raelene had written to the warden’s office with a formal request to meet Jones, which included her proof of ID and bar admission. I was able to join her as a paralegal, and I’d had to submit my own documentation to get prior clearance.

This process meant I wouldn’t simply be able to meet Levi Sykes, even if I lost my marbles enough to try. I didn’t have a Virginia bar card. My New York attorney ID had no standing here. If Sykes didn’t add me to his personal visitor list, I wouldn’t be permitted to see him. Entertainment law had been so much more straightforward. You just emailed the artist’s PA, then you called and reminded them to read the email, then you called them again to chase for a reply.

“I watched a documentary about a prison once, and they make weapons out of all kinds of stuff. Knuckle-dusters, shivs, clubs, whips with razor blades tied to the lash…”

“You’re making me feel so much better about this.”

“Sorry. Message me when you get back? I’ll worry otherwise.”

“I’ll text, I promise.”

“And you need to call Mum.”

“I will.”

Later. Much later. Compared to a lecture from my parents, becoming a murder victim was actually an attractive option.

CHAPTER 8

SERAFINA