Touch of Red (Tracers #12)(96)

“Again?”

“Yep.”

“Isn’t this the third straight weekend? Reggie’s a tyrant.”

“It’s not him, it’s me,” Brynn said. “Our trial starts Monday in Dallas.”

“Oh.” Her sister sounded disappointed. “Are you ready for it?”

“Not even close.”

“Then I guess there’s no chance you’ll join us for dinner tomorrow?”

Us was Liz and her husband. Brynn loved them dearly, but she didn’t love being a third wheel.

“Mike’s got a college friend in from out of town,” Liz continued, “and we thought it would be fun to take him out for Tex-Mex.”

Brynn turned into the parking lot beside her office and whipped into her customary space. “I wish I could, but I’m slammed.”

“You’re just saying that because you think it’s a setup.”

“Well, isn’t it?”

“It’s Tex-Mex and margaritas. Totally casual. And this guy’s cute, trust me. You two will hit it off.”

Not likely. Liz and Brynn had a special language when it came to men. “Hot” meant drool-worthy alpha. “Cute” meant a teddy bear, and the last “cute” guy her sister had set her up with had been three inches shorter than Brynn.

Not that it should matter. Who cared what he looked like if he was decent and smart and managed to get through the evening without burping or bad-mouthing his ex? Brynn was the problem here. She wasn’t ready to get out there.

“I really have to work. And I’m not just saying that. But you guys have fun, okay?” Brynn slid out of her car just as her phone pinged from a text.

“Okay, well . . . I’ll call you tomorrow, just in case you change your mind and need a break.”

“Sounds good.”

Brynn hung up and checked the text. Ross. As usual, her partner’s message was short and to the point: Perez a no-show.

Brynn cursed and stomped her foot. The trial started in seventy-two hours, and their star witness was missing.

Reggie was going to go ballistic. He was going to blame her, and with good reason. He’d warned her Perez was a flight risk, but Brynn had been so preoccupied that she didn’t listen.

She strode across the lot, careful not to catch her Jimmy Choo sandals in any of the potholes. She dropped her phone in her purse as she mounted the steps to the converted Victorian that housed the offices of Blythe & Gunn.

Reggie had bought the property three years ago when he moved his law practice from Dallas to Pine Rock, a sleepy bedroom community north of Houston. From the street, the place looked charming. But years of dealing with leaky windows and temperamental plumbing had dampened Brynn’s enthusiasm for the architecture. The building was originally a boarding house, but Reggie had renovated it to accommodate six lawyers, two paralegals, an administrative assistant, and a receptionist—not to mention the steady flow of clients who drifted in and out seven days a week. Big trials were the firm’s gravy, but Saturday night arrests were its bread and butter.

The waiting room was empty of tearful mothers and hand-wringing spouses this morning. The receptionist’s chair was empty, too, and Brynn followed the smell of fresh coffee back to Reggie’s office.

Faith sat behind her mahogany desk, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Brynn stopped short. Reggie’s assistant never cried. She was an island of calm.

“Faith?”

She glanced up, startled, and her usually perfect mascara was streaked down her cheeks.

Brynn’s stomach knotted. It was Faith’s boys. Had to be. Her two teenage sons were constantly getting into trouble, and Faith had started to worry that her oldest was on drugs.

Brynn walked over and knelt beside her, taking her hand. “Faith, what happened?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

“Brynn!” Reggie’s voice boomed from his office. His door jerked open, and her silver-haired boss stepped out. “Brynn, get in here.”

She shot him a glare and returned her attention to Faith. “Are you all right?”

She dabbed her nose. “Yes, just . . . go on.”

Brynn rose and followed Reginald H. Gunn, Managing Partner, past the nameplate bearing his title. Shelves crammed with law books lined the walls, and towers of file boxes crowded every corner. Reggie walked behind his cluttered desk, and Brynn noted the pin-striped suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair. The pink silk handkerchief in the front pocket told her he planned to be in court later.

“Close the door, would you?”

She followed his gruff command, taking one last peek at Faith as she eased shut the door.

“Sit down.”

She crossed her arms, staying in place. “I’ll stand. What’s up?”

Reggie’s leather chair creaked as he sank into it. Then he ran a hand through his thick hair.

“Nate called me.” He glanced up. “Jen Ballard was killed last night.”

Brynn sagged back against the door. “What—”

“I don’t have all the details yet, but she was murdered sometime yesterday evening in her home.”

Murdered.

Brynn’s blood turned cold. Beautiful, witty Jen Ballard murdered. The words didn’t belong in the same sentence.