He Defended My Mother's Killer, Now He Pays with His Life novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: White Roses

At her late mother's house Brice arrives with tears and roses and lies to her face about Tull's defense, which she records, and the detective waiting on the porch says Brice's name is on page one of the filing.

"Your brother," I said.

Samson Briggs shifted the wrapped bottle to his other arm.

"Half-brother. Same father. We haven't spoken in three years."

"He told me he was an only child."

The detective looked at me for a long moment.

"Told you," he said. "How long have you known Brice?"

"Four years. I was his girlfriend until about ten minutes ago."

He did not say anything.

I watched the information land on his face, and I watched him decide not to ask.

"I came to wish him happy birthday," he said, and set the bottle on the lobby desk. "I think I'll skip it."

"You should."

"Where are you going?"

"My mother's house."

He took a card from his jacket and held it out.

"Call me if you need anything."

I took the card.

I did not tell him what I had heard in the closet.

I did not know yet whether he was one of them.

The house was exactly the way my mother had left it three years ago.

The same blue mug on the drying rack, the same hospital badge on the hook by the door.

The power was still on, because I had never stopped paying the bill.

I sat on her kitchen floor with my back against the cabinets and my suitcase beside me, and I did not cry.

I played the recording once, all the way through.

At the end I heard Brice's voice say, She trusts me more than she trusts the ground she stands on.

Then I saved the file in three places.

At ten past two a car pulled up outside.

I knew the engine. It was a black car-service sedan, and the driver waited at the curb while Brice climbed the porch steps with an armful of white roses.

My mother's favorite.

He knew that.

I opened the door before he could knock.

"Vic." His eyes were red. "Thank God. I've called you thirty times."

"It's two in the morning."

"I couldn't sit in that apartment." He held out the roses. "Can I come in?"

I let him in, and I left the roses on the hall table.

He stood in my mother's kitchen with his hands open.

"I'm the worst man alive," he said. "You can say it. I won't argue."

"Go on."

"It was a mistake. One night. I was drunk, I was lonely, you've been gone for three and a half years."

"Eight months," I said.

His mouth stopped.

"I heard your whole conversation, Brice. I was in the closet for it."

He rubbed his face with both hands.

"Okay. Okay. It was longer than one night. But it meant nothing. She meant nothing."

"She's been my best friend for nine years."

"I know. I know what that makes me." His voice cracked, and a tear ran down his cheek. "I wanted to tell you every day. I couldn't stand it."

He was good.

Four years I had believed that face.

I let a tear of my own go, because it helped, and I let him step close and take my hands.

His watch pressed cold against my wrist. The green strap I had bought him in Sydney.

"Tell me you can forgive me," he said. "Not tonight. Someday."

"I'm so tired," I said. "I need to think."

"Of course."

"Can I ask you something unrelated?"

"Anything."

"Do you ever think about Tull?"

I felt his fingers stiffen on mine.

"Why?"

"I was on the plane for fifteen hours, and I couldn't stop. I never asked what the man who got him off was like."

"Vic." He rubbed the back of his neck. "A big firm downtown sent a hotshot. I never met him. I never spoke to Tull either. You know I stayed out of it for your sake."

"You sat in the gallery every day."

"Every day. Behind the prosecutor. Ask anyone."

"I believe you," I said.

He kissed my forehead.

In my pocket, the red light kept running.

"Come home tomorrow," he said at the door. "Come to the apartment, we'll order Thai, we'll talk like adults. Don't do anything you can't take back. Promise me."

"I promise I'll think."

He smiled with wet eyes and walked down the steps.

The car door shut, and the sedan pulled away.

I stood in the dark hallway with my hand on the doorframe and let myself shake.

He had looked me in the face and lied about my mother's killer.

He had done it so smoothly that I almost wanted to believe it.

I locked the front door and turned around.

Someone was standing on the porch, outside the glass.

I flicked on the porch light.

It was Samson Briggs, with his jacket collar up and his hands in his pockets.

I opened the door a crack, with the chain on.

"I followed his car," he said. "I'm sorry. I should have knocked the second he left."

"You were listening."

"I heard enough through the open window." His voice was quiet and rough. "Victoria. He's lying to you."

"I know."

"No. You don't know how much." He looked down at the porch boards, and then straight at me. "Brice's name is on page one of Russell Tull's defense filing."

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