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I'm starting to wonder whose side he's on. Then again, if we fought this, Dirk would get hundreds more billable hours.
I shake my head, even though he can't see it. "Need to talk to my brothers first."
"Alright," he says. "Give me a call. Sorry for bothering you on your vacation."
"Yeah, well. No avoiding it. Thanks, Dirk."
I hang up, unsure of what I'm thanking him for. It was just something Dad did and was good at. He claimed people liked it - thank-you's, I'm sorry's - even if there isn't a real need. It's seemed to check out. Though I forget most times.
I'm still standing where I wandered, staring at nothing. Brain buzzing. Eyes narrowed.
A dumb kid part of me feels like if I stay here, don't go back, maybe I can make it not have happened.
But it did happen. It's over. The trial is over. We lost.
Not officially, not yet.
Sure, I'll talk to my brothers. But they'll all agree. That deal's too sweet to pass up.
No use in fighting a losing battle.
And Kyra?
I need to tell her. Now.
I pick up my cup.
Back at the table, everyone's doing a good job of pretending to be more interested in their meals, minus Madison, who actually is. Halfway through her Italian wedding soup, she's got a soupy red mustache on her upper lip.
"What's up?" Greyson asks me as I sit down.
The satin-padded chair wants to guide me into a comfortable, half-sprawling position. I don't let it. I need to be sitting upright to say this.
"We lost the case," I say.
Silence, though not really. Families at other tables laugh and chat noisily. Waiters patiently explain menu choices. The mini-orchestra in the corner trills away some tune that sounds familiar and cloying.
Wine glass frozen in hand, halfway to his lips, Greyson stares at me. "What?"
"That was Dirk." I take a long swig of mine. God knows I need it. "Apparently, Goldtree has a star witness who just came forward admitting to the plagiarism. She's got proof too, proof that'll sink us. Dirk recommends we take their offer. They only want a few million."
"What the hell," Greyson grumbles, finally drinking his, then glaring at it, as if it's to blame. "Who?"
"That's what I'd like to know," Kyra says, frowning. Yet her eyes are too wide to be annoyed. Who knows what she's thinking.
"Maybe we should talk..." I begin, reaching for her hand.
Out of all the ways Kyra would want to be told, this can't be one of them.
"No," she says, avoiding my hand with a firm shake of her head. "Tell me."
"Kyra," I say, "you really should - "
"Tell me," she says.
"I don't think - "
"Tell me," she insists.
"Fine," I snap. If she wants to find out like this - all at once in front of everyone, then fine. "It's Pamela."
Her eyebrows leap, then she stares at me, the expression of someone still waiting for the answer. "Not funny."
Madison finally looks up from her soup, some of it slopping out of her spoon back into the bowl. "Did Pompom do something wrong, Mom?"
"No, she didn't," Kyra says firmly. "It's just some..." She looks to me.
All their eyes are on me, expectant. I look away. "Sorry, Kyra."
"No," she snaps, face dropping with every word, "that's not possible. She would've told me. She... she would've known, my case..." She trails off, getting out her phone and rising, abruptly stopping to wheel around to throw an unconvincing smile at Madison. "Sorry, I... Maddy, you OK to wait here with the others?"
Back at her soup, Madison just nods her dark-haired head with a slurpy sip. "Sure, Mom."
"Damn, that's awful," Harley comments, watching Kyra walk outside to make the call. "She and this Pamela are close?"
"Best friends for years," I say quietly, clenching the edge of the table.
"This case," Harley says, shaking her head.
'This case' is right. This can't look good for Kyra, who unknowingly had the witness they needed right under her nose.
Kyra comes back salt-white, with her eyebrows halfway up her face. "She admitted it. Wants to talk when I get back."
She half-sits half-falls into her chair. "I can't believe it."
Madison's looking up from her soup again. "What did Pompom do?"
"I..." Kyra shakes her head wearily. "She kept something from me. Something important. I'll explain when we get home."
My hand seeks out hers. But when I grab it, it's as cold and lifeless as a dead fish.
"I had no idea either," I tell her.
She has to know that. This is as much a blow to me as it is to her.
"I know," she says, though she isn't looking at me. Her fingers are around her small, rose-engraved spoon, turning and turning it. "Just... Goldtree making an offer to your lawyer like that, without consulting me at all? That can't be good. I tried calling them, but..."
Ring... ring... ring...
She snatches up her phone. "That's them. Sorry. Be right back." She hurries off.
