Vindicate (Recovered Innocence #1)(78)
I set Cora’s files down where she directs me. Her office is small with two desks in the middle facing each other. It’s an odd arrangement, but Cora likes it this way I guess.
She gestures to the desk opposite hers. “Have a seat.” She sifts through her pile of files until she finds what she’s looking for, then pulls it out and comes around to where I’m sitting. “I thought maybe I’d start you off with some simple searches.” She twitches the mouse, bringing the computer screen to life. “These are the search sites we use.”
Clicking on the top three bookmarked sites, she brings them up, explaining how they use them and what information they can provide. She has me do some easy searches, then leaves me on my own. I don’t suck at it. I’m actually quite good. And I like the work. I’m halfway through the searches Cora wanted me to do when Savannah sticks her head in the door.
“Your ten o’clock is here,” she tells Cora, her gaze darts to me then back to Cora.
“Thanks, Savannah. Want to sit in?” Cora asks me. “Take a break from the computer?”
“Sure.” I stand and stretch.
Savannah jumps and squeaks, then disappears from the doorway.
Cora’s mouth bends into a frown. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her lately.”
“Don’t you?”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Leave it.”
I follow Cora into the reception area. Savannah blocks whoever it is she’s talking to so I can’t see who it is, but whoever they are they’re small, much smaller than Savannah’s five-nine frame. Savannah shifts, revealing a pastel confection of a young woman about Cora’s age.
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…guarded…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.