Chapter One
Rachel Lorn forged into the dismal crowd already clamoring in the aisle, no longer concerned with smells or attitudes. After devoting an August afternoon to figuring out how the concrete walls and terrazzo floor of the courthouse held the musty odor that hampered breathing, she realized odors were not the problem at all. Years of collective anger and disappointment loomed unabsorbed by the cold structure, stifling the air.
By the time she made her second appearance in September, she was seasoned enough to also know there are no distinct winners in criminal court. Both sides leave resentful for having been there in the first place, so there are no safe elbows to rub on the way out. She usually distanced herself from the others, burying her face in whichever self-help book she had tucked in her purse until they had cleared the room. Today, with the unexpected weight of her demotion from witness to loser, she shared their urgency enough to funnel through the exit with them.
Sandwiched between the sobbing mother of a newly convicted drug pusher and a man whose laptop had mysteriously shown up on the counter of a quick mart the same night it was robbed, she made her final contribution to the stuffy atmosphere and wished she had a court advocate at her side. She had declined the service when offered, unable to imagine herself being afraid inside a courthouse. A lot could change in the few seconds it took a judge to voice his decision.
“Wait up, Rachel.” Alex Bogstram’s voice thundered over the hum of the resentful herd nearing the door. Her heart paused but the rest of her continued to inch forward with the crowd. She had nothing left to say to the incompetent prosecutor; nothing that wouldn’t land her in jail anyway. Waiting for him would only delay her reunion with fresh air and he wasn’t worth it.
Alex excused his way through the swarm and caught up with her in the lobby. “At least let me walk you to your car.”
“Don’t bother. You’re worried about my trip to the car when I’ll never be safe again?” She stopped short, forcing him to stagger to keep from running over her. “Kinda silly, don’t you think?” Two feet of auburn ponytail escaped the pins on the back of her head as she whipped around to storm away, smacking his face before settling on her spine.
“Your restraining order is still in effect.” His tone lacked the confidence she wanted to hear as he trotted to keep up with her. “What happened in there doesn’t change that.”
“Spare me the good news.” She gained a few steps on him, dodged a clerk who struggled to balance an armload of files, and left Alex to catch the folders and apologize for her.
He moved in on her again as she approached the outer door. “Please. Let me buy your lunch. We can talk about Judge Burke’s decision.”
She spun around to face him, knowing the crimson exhibit that used to be the whites of her eyes and the now yellowing bruises on her face turned his stomach. He had avoided eye contact during their first meeting, and more recently had asked how long black eyes could last. She glared at him now, hoping he remembered her response as clearly as she did. I’m not sure, but I promise not nearly as long as the fear.
“Don’t insult me,” she said when his expression convinced her he remembered. “That piece of paper won’t stop Matthew Dickert if he wants me dead. And you sure as hell won’t stop him.”
She drew satisfaction from the discomfort that settled on his face in lieu of a response and escaped when a bailiff detained him with a question. He helped put her in misery, let him sample the fruits of his labor. She charged through the filthy glass door, anxiously sucking in exhaust fumes and the city’s infamous backed-up sewer stench. As her lungs filled, her bravado waned. The building she had detested only moments before became her last refuge. Out here, she had no metal detectors or armed guards.
The door opened slowly behind her, gently bumping her shoulder. “Excuse me,” a clerk advised. “You’re blocking the exit.”
Rachel acknowledged him with a half smile and looked through the oily window to make sure neither Matthew Dickert nor Alex Bogstram was behind him before she stepped aside to repin her ponytail into a tight bun. She waited for the rush of people to thin before starting down the stairs, and then stopped halfway down for a cigarette.
Tears stung her eyes as she searched for a lighter and her hand hit the restraining order and pages of documented threats in her purse. The wasted hours. All the preparation and court time. All for nothing now. Her perseverance had only served to fuel Matthew Dickert’s anger and today, Judge John W. Burke granted him a plea bargain, a probated sentence, and free reign to act on that anger. Three for the creep, zero for justice.
She drew another deep breath. Enough already. Grief could wait until she locked herself safely in her own home. For now, she would follow her attacker’s lead and harness her anger into purpose. She had the advantage, given the generous deposit’s the judge, the prosecutor, and the system had made into her anger bank that morning.
Armed with a lit cigarette, a stick pen, and long legs that had won regional recognition in high school track, she began her six-block trek to the car. Who needed any of them? What good was a court advocate who wasn’t allowed to assist outside the building where the real danger waited? Or friends who tired of a legal battle after the first month? That was unfair. How could she blame her friends when she herself resented wasting vacation time on court? What she certainly did not need was a prosecutor to walk her to the car.
Imagining the conversation her parents would have if they saw her walking the street with a lit cigarette distracted her thoughts the first block. She even managed a smile as she realized that by the time they got through blaming each other, taking the blame back to protect the other, and wallowing in martyrdom together, the cigarette would be gone. What would the prosecutor have said about her unladylike behavior? Lucky he wasn’t beside her because she would probably want to burn him, or at least the jacket he seemed to never take off no matter how warm it got in the suffocating courtroom.
In his defense, she admitted it was unfortunate that Alex had been the third prosecutor assigned to her case. Reliving every detail for his sake wasn’t her idea of fun or productive. If he needed to know anything about her stalker, the system that had ignored her, or the assault, he should have asked better questions instead of expecting her to volunteer the information. Then again, maybe the law sucks, and neither of them was responsible for her fate. No matter, as long as it felt good to do so, she would blame everyone involved, including Alex Bogstram.
Ripples of apprehension fluttered through her chest as she waited at the corner for the light to change. Anyone could be in the group of people collecting behind her. How would she know if Matthew Dickert was there? His attorney had taken him into one of the small annex rooms after Judge Burke delivered the verdict. Were they still in there signing papers and meeting parole officers, or had he exited through the west end of the building while she stood on the stairs at the east end?
How soon and how closely would they watch him? Alex probably knew the answers, but she had blown him off.
Pressure crept up her neck and settled in a dull thud in her head as pedestrians crowded behind her. If Matthew was back there and decided to make a move, she would have to choose between running into traffic and jumping over the newspaper stand beside her to get away. Or would someone surrender their coveted place in line to help her?
She reached in her purse to replace the cigarette she had let burn to the filter and turned to block the wind from the lighter, sneaking a peripheral scan of the people who unknowingly shared her destiny. Two women stood directly behind her. Was it her responsibility to tell them it might be dangerous to stand close to her? Fortunately, Matthew was nowhere in sight so she dropped the thought.
When the walk signal flashed, she stepped off the curb. Female voices followed closely, delivering a brief respite from anxiety until a heavy hand reached between the women and grabbed her shoulder. Heart ripping through her chest and cigarette poised at eye level, she turned. The female brigade separated and Alex stepped forward.
“Don’t ever do that again.” Anger quickly replaced the relief she had felt when discovering it wasn’t Matthew. She dropped the lit cigarette and the old filter she had planned to deposit in the first trashcan she passed, and caught her purse before it slid off her shoulder. “You scared me half to death and came close to losing an eye.”
“Are you okay?” the woman on her right asked while the other fished a phone from her purse.
“I’m fine,” Rachel said, stepping out of the crosswalk and up at the curb. “Embarrassed and shaken, but okay. Thanks.”
The women moved on and Rachel waited for the crowd to thin before addressing Alex. “Please, leave me alone. You aren’t helping my nerves any.” She stared at the ground to hide tears. Three months of bruises, jumping at every sound, tears from nowhere, and total confusion had caused enough humiliation for a lifetime. She refused to add to it by letting him see her cry on a busy street corner now.
If there was any justice, Matthew Dickert would be in jail and she would have her life and strength back. Thinking about that would guarantee tears so she mumbled something about needing to go.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said, keeping a safe distance with his arms at his sides. Still, she felt his eyes holding her as miserably captive as if he had her in a death grip. “I wasn’t thinking when I touched you.”
She exhaled an audible sigh and nodded, acknowledgment but something short of accepting his apology.
“I wanted to catch you before you got too far away. I knew you were scared. I’m serious about walking you to the car.”
“I was serious about no,” she said. “I was never afraid of anything before Matthew Dickert.” She hated the defensiveness in her tone, and wondered why it was so important for her to tell everyone that. “Until you live through a stalker, you can’t imagine how frightening an unexpected tap on the shoulder can be.” She finally looked up.
“We’re blocking traffic.” He stepped away from the corner to leave room for the new gathering of crossers. “How about lunch?” He nodded to indicate the restaurant behind her. “They’re famous for their breaded oysters. Ever tried them?”
Returning her focus to the ground, she shrugged. She wasn’t hungry but she wasn’t in any shape to drive either. “I thought he’d be in jail and I could stop looking over my shoulder. I planned to walk out of there with my head high and pick up where my life left off. Guess I need a new plan.”
“Start by having lunch with me.”
She walked toward the door of the oyster bar and he followed, maintaining the safe distance. “Maybe I can help with the new plan,” he offered.
She didn’t want his help now. He had his chance to set things right in her life and failed. If he made one more attempt to prove his altruism she would bolt, or puke. Fortunately, he allowed her to open the door when she beat him to it so she didn’t have to do either.
They stepped inside and she froze in place until her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she was able to scan the room for her enemy. “Something quiet in the corner if you have it,” Alex instructed the hostess and motioned for Rachel to go ahead, walking between him and the hostess to the table. She rolled her eyes from side to side without turning her head so he wouldn’t notice as she scanned the diners.
Even though she hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before, she took the menu planning only to order iced tea with lemon. She wouldn’t take anything from him. She would calm her nerves, hear his idea of a contribution to her new plan, and get out of there quickly.
After a few minutes in the corner with her back to the wall, her legs stopped shaking and her heart rate returned to normal. By the time the waitress came to collect their orders, aromas from the tables around them had enticed her appetite. She added fried cod and onion rings to her iced tea order. Alex stuck to his original plan, asking for oysters and a beer.
The waitress walked away with their orders and Alex leaned across the table to speak softly. “I don’t know how to handle this tactfully, so I’ll just be blunt. If you want to use the ladies’ room or anything, let me know and I’ll walk you to the door.”
She bit her cheek and studied his face for sincerity. Maybe he wasn’t so bad.
Just as her opinion of him warmed, he downed the beer and anxiously looked for the waitress. Maybe alcoholic lunches contributed to his failure to put Matthew in jail. Whose life would this lunch destroy?
“Are you allowed to drink when you’re working?” She shook her head as she scanned the line of suits and ties seated at the bar. How many of them were prosecutors or judges who had run across the street to drink their lunch?
“Allowed? Probably. Would I? Nope.” He got the waitress’ attention and asked for another beer. “You were my last case. I’m officially on my weekend now.”
She coiled an empty sugar packet and rolled it between her thumb and index finger, trying to decide if his explanation meant anything to her.
“Look, Rachel. I feel terrible about the way things turned out.” He sighed and accepted the beer from the waitress, setting it aside without taking a drink. “I was so sure he’d get some time.”
“How’d it happen?” she asked, picking up another wrapper.
“We got screwed. The plea shouldn’t have gone through without our approval, or at least some discussion.”
“You really didn’t know?” She dropped the papers in the ashtray and looked him in the eye.
He shook his head. “I’ll dissect the whole thing later. For now, I feel cheated, same as you do, and I’m drowning my sorrows.” He took a drink and smiled. “Want to join me? I’ll spring for a taxi ride home.”
“I don’t drink,” she said, raising her tea glass.
“I don’t either.” He clinked his beer bottle against her glass. “Except at weddings and funerals. Never for you?”
“Okay. Never was an exaggeration. Weddings, New Years, a glass of wine with Thanksgiving dinner. Every once in a great while when I get together with certain cousins. Celebrations. This isn’t exactly a day to celebrate.”
She watched him sip in silence for a minute and then smiled. “Drowning sorrows might not be all bad unless you have as many sorrows as I’ve had lately. That was your original rationalization.” She watched for mockery or humor and detected neither. “You really do feel bad about this, don’t you?”
“I really do. I don’t know what I could have done differently. Can you forgive me for not knowing?”
Could she? Was it that simple? She had hard feelings toward him before the judge made his decision, simply because of the way they had met. Unfair, but true , and she didn’t know if it was even a matter of forgiveness. “That’s not important. I was an assignment. A case number. It’s over now. You’ll get someone new tomorrow and you can forget about me.”
“But I won’t.”
“You can’t do that,” she cautioned. “You’ll burn out quickly if you get emotionally tied to your assignments.”
“That’s the social worker talking. Tell me what the woman thinks.”
She looked around, willing the waitress to rescue her from the request. What did he mean by that and why did it alarm her? One of her biggest criticisms of the system had been their refusal to recognize her as a real person with thoughts and feelings. To them she wasn’t even deserving of the title victim or plaintiff. She was a witness to a crime committed against the State. Screw that. He smashed her face, not a map of Kentucky. Alex calling her a woman now should feel good. Why didn’t it?
“The woman appreciates your concern, and reluctantly admits the judge is more to blame. But she wants to blame everyone right now.”
He forced a smile. “I’ll accept that. Rachel, I’m new at this. I don’t know the rules about alcohol at lunch or fraternizing with former clients. Right or wrong, I’d like to be your friend now and help you live with the outcome of this mess. Is that possible?”
The food arrived. Alex added a salad and water to his order, both of which came before either of them spoke of anything other than the food on the table.
“I guess anything is possible,” she said after she had swallowed her first bite. He creased his brow. “It’s possible we could be friends,” she clarified.
“So I don’t have to worry about losing an eye?”
“Only if you touch me.”
“Deal.” He raised his hands in surrender.
The truce lasted throughout the meal. They laughed when Rachel gave a cynical description of the desk job the counseling center had demoted her to until her wounds healed. “You’d think it might console abuse clients to know their counselor had actually experienced what she claims she can resolve, wouldn’t you? Or administration might understand that keeping my life normal would help me more than sitting at a desk with one more problem to think about?”
Alex laughed. “I’m on your side. I would prefer my counselor have experience.”
“You’d see a counselor?” she asked. “I wouldn’t have guessed that about you.
“You think I have no problems? I saw a grief counselor once.”
“Sorry. Did you lose someone close?”
He shook his head. “Don’t laugh. My Great Dane. Hit by a car.”
She dropped her head and hid her mouth in the napkin.
“That’s very unprofessional,” he admonished before laughing.
“I apologize.” She laughed with him. “This isn’t professional, but you aren’t my client. We’re friends. Remember?”
He waited for her to wipe her mouth and place the napkin on the table. “Well, friend, where do you go from here? Thought any more about having a few drinks with me?”
“You’re serious.”
“Very serious. You need to relax and laugh after what you’ve been through today. I’m a funny drunk and one more beer ought to just about do the job.”
She scanned the room again and turned her nose up. “Here? Can’t imagine this place being any fun.”
“Wherever you like. We can go to a bar, or the park, or your mother’s back porch for all I care. Name a place, and tell me what you like to drink.”
“Bacardi and orange juice,” she said, pulling the sugar wrappers out of the ashtray and twisting them together. “A favorite with the cousins. I’m not sure I’ll relax in a public place though. How closely will they watch him?”
“Not very I’m afraid.” He sighed again. “Would you be more comfortable at home?”
She shrugged.
“I’m not backing out of taxi fare. Just want you to be comfortable. If we go to your house, we can take your car so you won’t be stranded later. I’ll taxi back to mine, or home if you want to get rid of me before I’m safe to drive again.”
She reached under the table for her purse, shocked that she was agreeing to do this. “Let’s go,” she said before she backed out.
He paid the check, walked out before her, and looked for Matthew Dickert on the street. They walked to the car. Again, him kept a distance. She stopped looking over her shoulder. It was impossible to hate Alex Bogstram when he tried so hard to please her.
“Were both of these garages full this morning?” he asked as they passed the second. “Or are you a fitness buff?”
“Garages are scary places when someone is stalking you.” She pointed out a black Honda on the street. “That’s mine.”
Apologizing over the roof of the car, she unlocked her door and pressed the button to release his. “I didn’t expect company, so my place is a mess.”
“Careful!” he warned before she sat down.
She jumped back and screamed when she saw the single yellow rose on her seat. Alex ran around the car and stood helplessly on the curb until she reached for his arm to steady her legs. Realizing for the first time that he stood head and shoulders over her five foot seven, she felt safer in his presence and was grateful he had chased her down to walk her to the car.
“Get it out. Please.”
“I assume you have reason to believe this is from Matthew,” he said, removing the flower and holding it out of her sight while she got in.
She nodded. “No doubt. I don’t know how that deranged loser got in my car, but I’m sure it was him.”
Alex closed her door and walked around to get in the other side. “Let’s call the police. You have a restraining order. He can’t do this.”
She snorted. “You have delusions where the legal system is concerned. Restraining orders are only good if the perpetrator is present when the police arrive. They’ll laugh if I call about a rose in my car.”
“Not under the circumstances,” he said with naïve certainty.
“I promise. The order is a joke.”
“I’ll be your witness. What can it hurt? I’ll support you if they don’t take this seriously.” He pulled out a phone and raised his eyebrows in question. “Can I?”
“Suit yourself,” she said. “Apparently, you want to learn this lesson first hand.”
