Reasonable Doubt: Volume 3 (Reasonable Doubt #3)(45)

“We can get through this…We can still find a way to restore your name in this city, and you’re the best lawyer I know so…I know you can turn everything around and maybe help me too. Maybe forgive me?”

“I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you rot in prison, to make sure you never get out and that the parole board never gives you an ounce of sympathy.”

“You don’t mean that, Liam…”

“If I ever find a way to get away with murder, you and Kevin will be my first victims.”

The guard across from us gave me a look.

“Don’t be like this, Liam…”

“My name won’t be Liam for too much longer just so you know. It’ll be Andrew.”

“Are you leaving? Are you about to leave me here?”

“That should be you in the ground right now…” I noticed the funeral director stacking the chairs, mindlessly breaking down what was just another ceremony to him. “That should be you…”

One of the guards began speaking with the funeral staff, inquiring as to whether they should leave the premises or not. Noticing her time here was limited, Ava grabbed onto me. “Liam, I mean…Andrew. You clearly still love me because you’re trusting me with that…We can rebuild everything we had, we can start over, you and me…We can do this if you help me…”

I grabbed her hands and moved them away as one of the guards stepped closer.

“You know I don’t belong in prison,” she said, crying. “They’re transferring me to a permanent location next week…Save me, Andrew…Save me…”

I said nothing.

“If I could take everything back, I swear…I swear I would. Don’t you think I love Emma, too?”

“Loved,” I said. “It’s past tense now, don’t you think?”

She sighed. “Please don’t leave me…”

“I won’t.” I stepped back so the guards could escort her back to the van. “I’ll write…”

“Really?” Her eyes looked hopeful as she walked away. “Okay, I look forward to your letters…I look forward to fixing us…”

The rain picked up its pace, transitioning from a drizzle to a downpour, but I remained standing—unable to walk away from Emma. I re-read her tiny tombstone, crying as her face crossed my mind.

Emma Rose Henderson,

A Daddy’s girl, through and through.

Gone too soon,

But never forgotten…

I stared at those words for hours, letting the rain drench me to the bone. It wasn’t until the director informed me that the gates were closing, that I walked away.

Lost and heartbroken, I spent the next few months in a dizzying haze. Despite the fact that Ava was the one behind bars, the paper continued spouting her lies as facts, slandering me, and I didn’t even bother disputing it.

I didn’t have the energy.

I submitted written testimonies through lawyers I’d hired—knowing that eventually things would sort themselves out. I didn’t even care that Ava had hired her own high profile team to block me from getting a divorce.

I no longer gave a f**k about anything.

My firm collapsed before my very eyes—everything down to the sink-ware was sold off in parts, and in the legal community, the downfall became a warning, a tell-tale of what happened when status and greed consumed one of us.

I drank every morning, letting the alcohol numb my pain. And whenever I awoke from passing out, I drank again. It was only when I started drinking coffee that I could somewhat function well enough to get anything done.

Visiting the cemetery was too painful, almost as painful as stepping inside Emma’s room. So, I hired a few people to pack it away in boxes, telling them to leave out the “E” and “H” frames; I could bear to look at those since she’d hand-picked them.

For months, I mourned the life she would never have—attempting to make sense of it all. I knew deep down that I couldn’t stay here, but I couldn’t leave as the same man that I was; I knew that I’d never get over Emma, but I needed a way to cope. A way to slowly re-integrate myself into the real world.

Stopping by a newspaper stand, my eyes caught an article about the newest hotshot lawyer in town—Michael Weston. Dressed in one of the expensive suits that Kevin once raved about, he was the talk of the city and from the words I was reading, he was cocky—only slightly cockier than I had become recently.

“Oh, you got the last one…” A woman said as she stepped next to me.

“You want this paper?”

“Well…” She blushed. “Not really the paper. I just want the ad of Michael Weston so I can show my friends my ideal dream guy.”

“Have you read some of the shit he’s said in this interview?” I raised my eyebrow. “He’s an ass**le.”

“That just makes him more loveable, don’t you think.”

“They asked him what he does when he gets less than favorable reviews.” I couldn’t believe how f**king gullible this woman looked. “Do you want to know what he said?”

“Sure.” She crossed her arms. “What does he do when he gets bad reviews?”

“He looks at his bank account,” I said. “And then he claims, and I quote, ‘I don’t recall learning that someone needs to be well-liked in order to be successful.’ He really said that.”