The Row(47)

He always says the exact same thing: “Your father can’t be here yet, but I can. Thank you for letting me.”

Mr. Masters doesn’t release me as he whispers in my ear, “What kind of mischief have you gotten yourself into this time, Miss Riley?”

I whisper in response. “He’s fine. He’s with me.”

Mr. Masters pulls back and searches my eyes, then his gaze moves to my cheek. He squints and grabs my chin before lifting it to the light and staring at the bruising that is barely visible there. He growls and it shocks me. I’ve never heard Mr. Masters make a sound like that. “If that young man did this…”

“He didn’t,” I respond immediately, pulling my chin from his grasp. When he just stares at me, I finally give him the truth in an effort to get Jordan off the hook. “It was Mama. We had a discussion … and we didn’t see eye to eye on things.”

Mr. Masters winces and shakes his head with closed eyes. “If this ever happens again, you come to me immediately. Understand?”

“I do.”

He nods again before tossing a look over his shoulder and moving aside so I get a glimpse of Jordan sitting in one of the office chairs and eyeing Masters warily. “Do you even know who he is?”

I falter as I respond, “D-do you?”

“Of course,” he scoffs, before walking back toward his desk and raising his voice to a normal level. “It’s my business to know. I was very sorry to hear about what happened to your mother.”

“Oh, thanks,” Jordan mutters, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.

I hadn’t expected Mr. Masters to know Jordan on sight, but I can’t say I’m shocked by it. I take a seat in the chair beside Jordan, patting his hand as I pass since it seems he needs some reassurance. His normally olive skin has gone sickly gray.

Mr. Masters stands with his hands clasped loosely in front of him. I recognize the stance immediately: he looks like he does in a courtroom. Me bringing Jordan here has thrown him out of his element and so he’s reacting in a way that makes him more comfortable. He’s putting on his lawyer face.

We watch Mr. Masters stare out at the Houston skyline. It glitters back at him as the sun moves across the sky. It appears he’s seduced by the view, but I know better. His mind is in here, noting the awkward shifting of Jordan in the seat beside me.

I’ve spent enough time with Masters and my father to understand men like them. Good lawyers are one part actor, one part confidant, and one part shark. Even more important to understanding them is to know that you can never predict when they might jump from one role to the next.

He doesn’t trust Jordan, wants to protect me, and is trying to figure out why I brought him. It’s a complicated dance he’s trying to move gracefully through, while I just want to dive straight to the point. Just as I give up on waiting and open my mouth to speak, Mr. Masters jumps in and I know immediately that this had been the cue he’d been waiting for.

“You probably remember the first time we were introduced, but do you know when I first met you, Riley?”

“No, but you’ve known Daddy for as long as I can remember.” I’m not sure where he’s going with this. He could be about to drop something big on me, or he could be trying to make an impression on Jordan. So I keep my voice confident and my tone level—the way Daddy taught me to answer reporters when I was eight and the first one asked me what I thought of my “daddy being a filthy murderer.”

He turns from the window and moves to lean against the desk directly in front of me. His smile is kind and warm, so I relax a bit.

“You’re right, I have. Years before he went to jail, we were thick as the dew on Dixie. I met you on the day you were born.” He folds his arms across his chest and leans back as though relishing the memory. It always strikes me as entertaining how much more often these kinds of sayings seem to come out in his language when he’s in his lawyer mode. “David started with the firm just after your mama found out you were on your way into this world. He was the most terrified young father I’d ever seen.”

No one has ever told me what life was like that long before the trial. And now, I don’t dare speak for fear that he won’t continue. My heart clenches up tight when he stops. Mama never likes to talk about it because she says focusing on what she lost would only make her sad all over again. Sometimes I wonder if she ever thinks about what I lost—about the fact that it wasn’t just her.

I hope that if I don’t say anything then maybe Mr. Masters will go on. My fingers grip the arms of the oversized leather chair, but I don’t notice until the nail beds of both hands start to tingle from lack of circulation.

Mr. Masters chuckles. “You should have seen him. David looked like he was scared he might hurt you or your mama. Like you were delicate little flowers that he might break if he wasn’t extremely careful.”

The imagery is nice and I cling to it like a cozy blanket in my mind. Wrapping my thoughts up within it to hide from all the nightmare-inspired fears of my father as a murderer with blood coating his hands and rage spilling from his eyes.

“Now.” Mr. Masters leans forward and the new glint in his eyes warns me before his words even come. “Can you explain to me why such a flower would bring the son of the man who put her father in prison into my office?”

“Why does who my father is matter?” Jordan jumps in before I can respond.