Chapter 20: Dry Cleaner

Seven months later, Grady's appeal came up on the last Monday in April.

I was forty weeks pregnant, and I climbed the courthouse steps one at a time with Marshall's hand under my elbow.

"The doctor said any day," I said.

"The doctor also said no stairs."

"The doctor didn't say which courthouse."

He laughed and did not let go.

Cadence came up behind us, thirty-eight weeks along and waddling worse than I was, with Lacey carrying both our bags.

We were a very slow parade.

At the top, a woman stepped out from beside the pillar and said my name.

"Mrs. Whitlow? Cora?"

She was in her forties, in a camel coat with a leather purse held in front of her with both hands.

She had a face I did not know and a voice I had never heard.

"I'm sorry to do this on the steps," she said.

"I've tried the lawyer's office three times and lost my nerve at the door. My name doesn't matter."

"In his phone I'm saved as Dry Cleaner."

I stopped walking.

Marshall's hand went still on my arm.

"I own a shop on Far Hills," she said. "Grady has been bringing me his shirts for four years."

"For three of those years I was the one waiting up for him."

"He told me you were his landlord's accountant," I said, because it was the only thing in my mind.

"He told me you were a roommate," she said.

She opened the purse and took out a cheap gray phone with a cracked corner.

"This is the one the fixer bought me. He said it was safer for Grady's campaign."

"He said nothing I sent could be traced."