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“Yes. I’m sure and you sound better, by the way.”
“I am,” she says. “It’s crazy and sudden. I was sick all the time. Now I’m not.”
We hang up five minutes later, and I ask myself the same question she asked me. Is something wrong with me and Reese? Maybe it’s just dysfunctional me, looking for a problem. I shake off that thought and go back to my closing statement but I end up staring at the page. Nothing comes to me. I force myself to start typing:
The system worked today. You are innocent until proven guilty. Nelson Ward was not proven guilty. But justice is not done until the crime is solved. It’s time that we the people demand that the crime be solved. Demand justice for Jennifer Wright and her unborn child. Until then, —Cat.
There. Done. Marked off my list.
From there, I plan out next week’s columns, and I’ve just finished up when my cellphone rings again. I look down to find Liz’s number on caller ID. “Hi Liz.”
“I just heard from your publisher,” she says.
I glance at the time. “At eight o’clock on a Friday night?”
“Yes. The trial ended. They’re in a panic to sign you. They raised the offer to seven hundred thousand. Five hundred for the trial book as long as Reese Summer signs on as a consultant. His compensation is on you. The second option book, will be two hundred thousand, which is double your last book.”
As long as Reese signs a consulting form. That knots my stomach for no good reason. He will. I know he will. “Okay.”
“Okay? I just said seven hundred thousand dollars and you said okay? I know we said seven-fifty but this is close.”
“I know. I’m exhausted. It’s been a crazy week.”
“You and Reese have issues.”
“No.”
“No?” she presses.
“No.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“Yes,” I say. “Is this better than taking a proposal out to the masses? I don’t like their connection to Dan.”
“I believe it is for this reason: If you walk away from your option publisher and don’t get more, your option publisher won’t take you back at this price. This is a lot of money to gamble with.”
“Right. I’ll let you know Monday.”
“Sunday night,” she insists.
“Okay.”
“I don’t like ‘okay,’ Cat.”
“Okay.”
She makes a frustrated sound. “I’ll call you Sunday.” She hangs up. I send my column to my editor that appears to be hanging in my browser and consider starting on Monday’s, but Kelli’s arrest would change it completely. Instead, I research what I’m going to write about post-Nelson Ward. Maybe post-Reese Summer. I pinpoint a few interesting cases and start doing research, two of which I’d like to sit in on the trials when they begin.
It’s nine, and the coffee shop is empty and closing in half an hour when my phone rings with Reese’s number, and I breathe out, nervous to answer when that is not what I feel with Reese. “Hello.”
“Hey, beautiful. Are you at home?”
Home. Which home? His home? My home? “I’m at the coffee shop.”
“I’m in an Uber. Hold on.” I can hear him giving the driver this address. “Okay. On my way. Nelson gave a statement about Kelli before getting on a plane and out of town.”
“Out of the country?”
