Page 68 of You, Only You

Webb turned back to me with that kind, terrible smile. "You became a forensic accountant after your father's conviction, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Following the money. Exposing financial crimes." He tilted his head like a dog hearing a new sound. "One might say you built your entire career on your father's sins."

"One might say I built my career on expertise and ten years of work." My voice was steady. Good. "The sins were his. The career is mine."

"Of course." He nodded agreeably, which meant he was about to become significantly less agreeable. "But surely you can understand why some might question whether your judgment is influenced by personal history? Whether you might see criminals where none exist, simply because you're looking so hard for them?"

"I follow evidence. The evidence in this case is unambiguous."

"We'll see about that." Webb set down his tablet and clasped his hands, adopting the posture of a man about to have a difficult but necessary conversation. "Let's talk about how you discovered this evidence. You were auditing Sterling & Steele Law, correct?"

"Yes."

"And your primary point of contact was William Steele?"

"Yes."

"The same William Steele who has been the subject of multiple state bar inquiries? Who has a reputation in legal circles as someone who, shall we say, takes an unconventional approach to career management?"

"The same William Steele whose methods have been investigated and cleared. Repeatedly."

"Investigated and cleared." Webb smiled the way you smile when someone's just said exactly what you wanted them to say. "And yet you didn't just audit him, did you, Ms. Ashford? You joined forces with him. Became his partner in this investigation."

"The scope of my work expanded when I uncovered evidence of federal crimes."

"Expanded." He tasted the word. Found it delicious. "That's one way to put it. Another might be that you abandoned your role as an objective auditor and became personally invested in a particular outcome."

Chen stood. "Objection. Argumentative."

"Sustained. Rephrase, counselor."

Webb didn't miss a beat. He never did. Men like him didn't miss beats; they collected them. "Ms. Ashford, during the course of this investigation, where have you been living?"

My pulse climbed. Not to my face, I hoped. I'd practiced this. Rehearsed it. Stood in a bathroom mirror and said the words until they sounded matter-of-fact instead of incriminating. "In a secure location arranged by the FBI."

"And before that? After your apartment was broken into and your car was sabotaged?"

"I stayed at William Steele's penthouse."

"His penthouse." Webb let the words hang in the courtroom air like smoke. "For your safety, of course."

"Yes."

"So the subject of your audit offered you a place to live, and you accepted. You worked together daily. Shared meals. Spent evenings reviewing evidence in close proximity." His voice remained pleasant, but the pleasantness had developed a point. "Quite intimate quarters for an auditor and her subject."

"The circumstances were unusual. As I mentioned, my apartment was compromised and my vehicle was sabotaged. The FBI concurred that a secure location was necessary."

"I'm sure they did." He paused. Drew it out. The courtroom was quiet in the way that courtrooms get when everyone knows something is about to happen. "Ms. Ashford, isn't it true that your relationship with William Steele has become personal?"

The room contracted. I was aware of Chen tensing at the prosecution table. Of the jury's sudden forward lean. Of Reeves,that smile back on his face, wider now, because he knew what was coming and he was enjoying it.

"Define personal," I said. Buying time. A few seconds. I needed a few seconds.

"Romantic." Webb's voice lost its warmth in one clean motion, like a curtain dropping. "Isn't it true that you're romantically involved with William Steele? And that this involvement calls into question every piece of evidence you've presented today?"

I could lie. The word no was right there, sitting on my tongue, small and simple and safe. One syllable and I'd walk out of here with my professional standing intact. My license. The career I'd spent a decade building from the wreckage of my father's name.