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He glances up at me. “Cat from Cat Does Crime,” he says. “I was a fan until you dogged my performance. I read your true crime on the Piaz murders. It was good, but I’ll write my own book on this. Move along. I’m busy.”
Okay.
Reese just lost his title. He’s no longer Mr. Arrogant Asshole. This guy stole it from him.
I walk back to my seat, sit down, and spend the next hour working on my column. My closing statement is this: When you charge a suspect without proof to satisfy the public, you disappoint that very public when you can’t deliver a conviction. But it’s not just the public you fail. It’s the charge when you have proof, and not sooner. And so, I’m going to challenge the defense to do more than protect their client. Give us the killer. Give that woman and child, and their family, justice. Until then, —Cat.
I look up to realize that some time along the way, the new Mr. Arrogant Asshole has left, and I grab my phone and dial Reese. His voice mail picks up and I leave a message.
“Hopefully that hotdog didn’t kill you and you get this message. Here is my closing statement, which I’m not changing, but I want you to know about it.” I read it to his voice mail and then add, “Good night, Reese.” I end the call and pack up, heading back to my apartment.
As I enter the building, I stare at the fancy tiled floors and glance up at the towering ceiling. I inherited my apartment when my mother died. It had been her getaway. Her escape from my father, and he knew about it. I was unsure what to do with that little piece of information when I found out about it, but I tucked it away and pretended it didn’t exist. Or I thought I did. Now, tonight, something about that encounter with Reese has stirred old feelings I don’t want to feel, back to life. I don’t even know what to call the feelings. Betrayal. I’d felt betrayed when I realized nothing about my life was exactly what I’d thought it to be. My parents were not happy.
And so I do what I do when I feel lost. I enter my luxury apartment, pour wine, and find my way to my favorite spot. A claw-foot tub hugged by windows, the moon and stars sparkling outside the window. I waste no time running a hot bubble bath, stripping down, and climbing inside. I’m halfway finished with my glass of wine when my phone rings. I glance at the number I now know to be Reese’s and, with wet, bubble-covered hands, answer on speaker.
“Hello, Reese,” I say.
“I’m going to tell you what I told Lauren, when I told her I was going to pursue you.”
“You told Lauren that you were—”
“Yes. I did. And she wished me luck. To which I replied: Challenge accepted. Which brings me to your closing statement: Challenge accepted, Cat. Good night.”
He hangs up.
I sit up and forget how wet I am, calling Lauren. “I wondered when you were going to call,” she says.
“Did Reese—”
“Yes. And I told him good luck.”
“And he said?”
“Challenge accepted. But I know you. He’s the kind of man you’re drawn to and fear. And he’s your job. What are you going to do?”
I don’t deny anything she’s just said. We worked twenty-hour days together at the DA’s office. We talked. A lot. Lauren knows me more than most. More than anyone, really.
“Cat?” she presses.
“What am I going to do?” I repeat. “I’m going to get naked with that man and say goodbye.”
She laughs. “Then I’m going to tell you what I told him. Good luck.”
I scowl as if she can see me. “Challenge accepted.”
She laughs louder, and I hang up.
Chapter six
Cat
Day 4: The Trial of the Century
Iwake up exhausted and in need of caffeine, which is Reese’s fault. He was on my mind last night, keeping me awake, which is unacceptable unless we’re naked and together. Thinking means I’m getting too involved with him emotionally, and I’m not doing that now or ever. Deciding my coffee stop is safe today, or rather necessary for everyone else’s safety, I pull myself out of bed and hurry to the shower, then put my Keurig to use to make a cup of coffee, which I drink while drying my hair, then flatiron it to a sleek shine. I don’t tie it back, and tell myself that has nothing to do with Reese. It’s the tired thing motivating this decision. I need the attention off my puffy-ass face.
I dress in a favorite outfit, a burgundy pantsuit with pants that hit at the ankle. I pair it with stilettos, and the shirt beneath the jacket is white; I then head to the coffee shop, where I read my newly posted column, as is my routine, and I do like my routines. The fact that I’m pleased with what I’ve written helps take the edge off my crankiness. And the fact that every other headline is about a baby killer, and headlines make my fact-based commentary stand out. Finally, it’s my turn in line, and I order my white mocha, while trying not to admit that I’m a tiny bit disappointed that Reese has not shown up.
Once I’m at the courthouse, I wade through the gaggle out front. Once inside, I discover that I’m seated near Reese again, and when he enters, his eyes find mine and his words are in the air between us: Challenge accepted. At the moment, they’re about him and me and me and him, not this case. But as he takes the courtroom reins, it becomes clear that he’s up to that challenge as well. He calls the family and friends of the victim to the stand, and one by one, proves that no one knew his client was someone involved with the deceased. His client knew her, but he wasn’t sleeping with her. He was trying to help her out of an abusive situation with her boyfriend.
