Atone (Recovered Innocence #2)(3)
All lace and silk, she’s sweet looking in her soft colors like she just walked out of a Sunday church service. But the look in her eyes is wary…suspicious…jaded, reminding me of angry, hard prison stares. This chick’s seen some shit. More than that, she’s experienced some shit, has maybe even done some shit. She’s a survivor. This I understand. I recognize her in the same way I recognize the new man that stares back at me in the mirror.
Her costume is nearly perfect. I bet if I sniffed her she’d smell like baby powder and lemons. I edge closer to her. She catches me with a sudden flick of a glance, freezing me where I stand. Everything about her shouts Back the f*ck off. It only makes me want to draw closer. Who is she? Who or what made her this way? And why does she look at me like she knows who I am? Not the TV-news-segment me, but the real me, the Beau deep down inside.
For the first time since I got out of prison I don’t feel alone. There really are others out there like me. One of them is standing mere feet in front of me, regarding me with the same guarded, expectant look I’m wearing.
And she’s beautiful.
Chapter 2
Vera
The office of the private investigation agency isn’t special. After all I’ve heard about it, I was expecting something more lavish or flashy. It’s understated and utilitarian, like a government building. Whoever decorated it didn’t care about esthetics, only functionality and, distantly second, comfort. There are a few photos on the walls and some news clippings of their most notable cases—mainly, images of the two men the agency helped free after serving prison sentences for crimes they didn’t commit. I lean closer to get a better look.
One photo is of Maurice Battle, an elderly black man who was freed after nearly four decades. The other is of Beau Hollis, a younger white man about my age. The grainy black-and-white newspaper photo washes out a lot of detail, but I can tell he’s handsome. Other than that, there’s nothing remarkable about either man. You’d pass them on the street and not have a clue about what they’d been through. I’m working on that trick.
I touch a finger to the glass over the photo of Maurice Battle. Thirty-nine years is a hell of a long time to be locked away.
The tall, blond receptionist, who greeted me when I first walked in, returns. “Cora will be with you in a moment. Can I offer you a beverage? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
“No, thank you.”
She shifts, gesturing to the young woman joining us. “This is Cora Hollis.” The rest of what she says fades to background noise.
It takes everything in me to stay still and not let the careful mask I’ve perfected slip. Behind Cora is the young man from the photograph. His gaze connects with mine and I hear an audible snick like the sound of a lock being engaged or the cock of a gun hammer. Danger radiates in the air around him. Instinctively, I adjust my stance. He watches me like he knows me, like he knows what I’ll do next before I can even think to do it. The other two women in the room seem oblivious to the force of him. No. Not the receptionist. She keeps just out of his reach.
He tilts his head to the side and looks me over like he can see through my carefully maintained appearance. It amuses him that he can do it. I raise my chin and look down my nose at him, staring right back just as bold and brazen as he does. Standing a full foot and a half taller than me, he clearly has the advantage. I’ve fought men his size and lost, but that wouldn’t stop me from taking him on if I had to. He concedes this with a nod that tells me he means me no harm. His eyes crease at the corners in a smile that doesn’t reach his mouth.
I slowly let out the breath I’ve been holding. He uses his size and attitude the way I use clothing and makeup—to project an image the rest of world would expect and accept. His is as careful and meticulous as mine. Predictable. Protective. Very, very protective. Inclining my head, I acknowledge him in return.
I shake Cora’s offered hand. Her handshake is firm and brief. She’s about my age, I’d guess, with striking blue eyes that match the streaks woven through her black hair. She introduces me to a man who doesn’t need an introduction. Beau. Beau Hollis. Her brother. She explains that he’ll be taking the meeting with her and asks if that’s okay.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s fine.”
It is. Despite my initial reaction to him, I know Beau wouldn’t harm me. I don’t know why I know this, I just do. He responds with more eye crinkling and doesn’t offer his hand. I’m glad. I don’t like touching strangers. Especially men.
He gives me a wide berth as I pass, following Cora into a conference room. I can feel him behind me, but it’s not an uncomfortable sensation. It’s an I’ve got your back awareness, unlike the watch your back feeling I get from most men. We move around each other like potential opponents on a battlefield, sizing up each other, gauging strengths and weaknesses. There’s some admiration as well, and a keen sense of attraction between us that has me struggling to maintain my cool, unaffected fa?ade.
He mesmerizes me. I seem to hold the same fascination for him, because once we make eye contact again across the conference table we’re reluctant to break it. If Cora notices, she doesn’t let on as she asks me how the agency can help me.
“I need help finding my sister,” I tell them.
Cora holds her pen suspended above a notebook. “Can you tell us about her?”