Page 27 of Hard Heart

“Help me? So far, you’ve trespassed on my property and lied about your occupation.”

So the big bozo biker really had managed to get in touch with Sykes? Consider my curiosity piqued. How did the two know each other?

“I didn’t lie. I told your rude friend that I work for the Justice Project, which is the truth. Did you or did you not fill in a long and very detailed application telling us how you were the victim of a Big Oil conspiracy?”

“I sent that form seven years ago.”

“Yes, well, things got a bit behind. They brought me in to help with the backlog.”

I was fairly sure my predecessor had been stuffing half the forms into the back of a cupboard, but nobody had come right out and admitted that.

“If you want to discuss representation, why didn’t you just contact the visitation coordinator like a normal lawyer?”

Fuck. This wasn’t what I’d been expecting. Not a call out of the blue, not an interrogation, and not a man who saw everything I was trying to hide. Obviously, I knew Sykes was book smart—he’d graduated high school three years early and been on a fast track to a PhD when he was arrested—but he was widely reported to be socially awkward and inept when it came to nuanced conversation.

This wasn’t that.

“We’re nowhere near the stage of discussing representation.”

“The remainder of the question still stands.”

“I live six hours away from Redding’s Hill.”

“And I’m not worth the drive?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“Stop twisting my words.”

“Stop evading my questions.”

Hell, I was shaking. I held up a hand and studied the tremor. Raelene was right—I shouldn’t have started along this road. The case was impossible. Sykes was sharp, and I was way, way out of my depth.

“I am a lawyer, but I’m not licensed in Virginia,” I said, my whisper quieter than his. “Only in England and New York.”

“Interesting.”

“I’ll be sitting the bar exam in February.”

“That’s a lot of bar exams for someone so young.”

“You have no idea how old I am,” I snapped.

“Twenty-five? Duke said you were no older than his daughter, and she’s twenty-six.”

“Well, he was wrong. I’m twenty-seven.” And also dumb for falling into such an obviously baited trap. Never discuss your personal life with a client. Potential client. Whatever. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Twenty-seven, and you’re on your third jurisdiction. You crossed an ocean, and then you hopped over state lines. An ambitious lawyer would see Virginia as a step down from New York, so why the move? A problem at work? Or in your personal life?” He paused for a moment. “Based on your opening, I’ll assume the latter. Husband or boyfriend?”

“None of your business, smart-arse.”

“Girlfriend?”

“We’re here to talk about you, although that’s something I’m rapidly regretting. Big Oil, huh?”

“I know how preposterous it sounds.”