AN: Okay, so excited you guys are jumping in on this ride with me. I am taking much liberties with this story, so bear with me and my crazy imagination. I hope everyone had a great weekend. Please enjoy the lengthy update!
Chapter
Two
MICHONNE
Warm lips exploring my abdomen draw me out from a deep death-like sleep. Through my hazy vision, I instantly recognize the gauzy chandelier hanging from the ornate ceiling and immediately I am flooded with regret.
"What time is it?" I ask, shifting away from those lips. But a determined forearm locks me into place.
"Last I checked," replies the voice belonging to that arm from underneath the covers, "just about six-thirty."
The kisses start drifting lower.
"Shane, stop." Throwing off the comforter, my hands tug his face upwards to meet my eyes.
"What's the matter?"
I pry myself out from his grip, dragging the sheet with me as I roll out of his bed. "Thank you, for letting me crash here yesterday. This...Us...We shouldn't have. I shouldn't have."
Groaning, he turns and drops himself back onto the satin pillows. His hand drags over his face as he swears, "Oh sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph! You have got to be kidding me."
I roll my eyes, making deft movements to collect my clothes. I know what's coming. As per usual, he's about to explode.
"Michonne. You can't keep doing this to me. Something goes bad, you show up here, we get into it and then you bolt for the door."
He's right. I won't deny it. This is the third time I've done this since we've ended our engagement. I've developed a twisted pattern of seeking him out whenever I have a crisis, big or small.
And yesterday was both big and small.
Whilst sliding on my pants I shoot a quick glance across at him. He's sitting upright now, the gold chain and angel pendant I surprised him with last year, rests against his impressive, well-toned, bronzed chest beckoning me. A reminder of why I keep coming back.
With a deep intake of air, I focus on the task at hand: Getting the hell out of there.
"Where do you think you're going?" he says. "You can stay. I have no problem with that."
"I know. And I'm sorry." Though I loathe to admit it, the recent events in my life are taking a toll. I am fighting tooth and nail not to spiral into a state of panic so, I just—I just needed something. Someone. I needed comfort. And Shane...God forgive me I'm so embarrassed...but Shane is always willing. We were only supposed to talk, but from the moment I came over I hardly said much of anything.
Showing up at his house, uninvited, was a much better option than running to my mother's in any case. The last thing I want is to go crying on her shoulders, burdening her further with my problems. I am a grown woman afterall. I'm supposed to be responsible for myself, handle my own affairs. Been doing just that ever since I hit my teens.
"Sorry?" Biting his bottom lip Shane laughs in a 'Are you shitting me?' kind of way. "Babe, it's been three months. We were supposed to be married by now. What are you doing? You said you wanted space. I gave you your space. Hell I even took the fall. I became the bad guy in town and that's all on you. But I told myself, "Shane ole boy, you know what? That's okay, because she's coming back to you buddy. She has to. You've been so good at taking care of her, not getting back together is ludicrous. Not to mention for four years you behaved like a gentleman, remained absolutely faithful."
'What the—'
My hands jerk down my sweater from over my head. "You're supposed to!"
"Woman you know me. You know how I used to do. But I changed. Except...it ain't enough. You're just playing me. And I am such a world class fool."
Oh god, help me. "No, you're not."
"Yes, I am. I truly am." His arms lock across his chest.
With an exaggerated sigh, I step back over to the bed plopping down next to him. My palm rubs the top of his newly shaved head. "Shane. No."
'You're just in-love with the wrong damn woman and too prideful to admit it.'
His arm curls around my waist pressing into my lower back and I allow my fingers to drift down to the star-shaped scar on his cheek.
"And now Rick's back in the picture, huh?" he asks, his voice quieter. "I still can't believe you called that cold son-of-a-bitch. I would've gotten you out in a split second. Don't need no fancy law degree to do that, I could've come and take care of things."
Shane Walsh doesn't need anything to "take care of things." He's a golden boy in this city and has enough sway to bend us common folk to do his will.
As for Rick, I've let him back into my life because I was desperate. What other choice did I have? Other than my father, a divorce attorney who lives up in New York city, Andrea Harrison, a friend from aerobics class, is the only other lawyer in town that I know. However, she's one of those 'Suits' type of lawyers—exclusively corporate. Which left me with no one else but Rick.
Don't get me wrong, I am glad he showed up. I needed him and he did great.
But then again, he caught me completely by surprise to be honest, when his firm grip on my elbows drew me with such ease into his arms. The familiarity of his embrace, the familiarity of his smell, sent a zing of panic through my lungs.
But how?
How was it possible for a person to smell exactly the same after so many years? More to the point, how could the same said smell still have an effect on me?
No. No that's just...what do you call it?
'Odor prompted memories.'
Yeah. Just a memory. Nothing more. We don't talk, or know each other like we used to before.
Still I gotta confess, he did look fine in that suit though...
"Michonne, are you hearing me?"
Shane's insistent tone cuts through my babbling thoughts.
"It's not so simple," I answer taking in a deep breath. "Had a bit of a complication."
"For a break-in?" His eyebrows rose in disbelief.
Not wanting to get into the details, I give my head a little shake.
Nonetheless, in his typical fashion, my ex could never just Let. It. Go. He asks, "Since when do you need an attorney to file a report for burglary?"
"I never said it was a burglary. Nothing was taken. Your box of baseball caps, your 'I heart green eggs and ham' coffee mug were untouched," I smirk, making light of the conversation.
His turn of expression, however, reminds me of a puzzled three old when they're trying to understand the concept of, No ice-cream before breakfast because Mommy said so. The peck I place on his nose to appease him is automatic.
"My caps ain't important." He smiles, brushes his lips against mine for a tender moment. "Stop trying to change the subject. Woman I wanna know what the hell are you doing calling Rick Grimes? I thought you said he's a, and I quote, 'Self-absorbed asshole.' Now all of a sudden he's not? Now he's your knight in shining armor?"
'Knight in shining armor? Seriously?'
Here's the thing. Not only is Shane Sebastian Walsh a stubborn drama queen. He's also a possessive, suspicious, narcissist of a drama queen. These questions about Rick have very little to do with me, and he and I both know it. Back in high school, Shane, Mr. Star football player, didn't necessarily run in the same circles as Rick and I, but the population at the private Cressida Educational Institute we all attended here in Mueller Parkway, was small enough for everyone to be aware of everyone.
The day Rick Grimes transferred from a prep school over in Buckhead, to our humble campus in Trinity Hills…well, he instantly became Mr. Popular. A new member of the track team, he had this magnetic charm that made it all too easy for any and everybody to naturally want to be in his presence. The way he showed genuine interest made you believe that he was open-minded and accepting no matter your background or your circumstances. Naturally, Shane viewed the new kid as a threat to his spotlight.
However, only those of us who'd spent a ridiculously amount of time with Rick, as I shamefully did, would discover that behind that breezy façade of tolerance, existed a guy who was in reality quite critical, somewhat high-minded and closed off to others. His 'people,' those whom he deemed to be truly worthy of his trust, compiled into a short list.
A very short list.
And guess who felt privileged to be included? Guess who opened her teenage heart and bared her lonely soul to Rick Grimes in exchange for his secrets?
God I was so damn young. And dumb. And appallingly naïve. The perfect recipe to be taken advantaged of.
Knight in shining armor? Shane has no idea what he's talking about. The tightness of his arm around my body suddenly makes it difficult to breathe. "You know what?" I respond, unhinging myself from his vice-like clutch, "Forget it. I shouldn't have come. I'm sorry." Within the next second, I am back on my feet heading out the door.
But my ex-fiancé isn't giving up. Shane pursues me. He grabs my wrist before I reach the stair landing, tugs me close and claims my mouth with his own. I turn away.
"Wait," he says, "I miss you." His fingers dig into my flesh. "I miss us."
"I know." It's hard to meet his eyes. "But nothing's changed. Not for me."
"Oh, come on! Come on now, that's the furthest thing from the truth and you know it! Tell me, why are you really here, Michonne?"
I choose to hold my tongue. He's not someone who can, or wants to be reasoned with.
"No?" Incensed by my silence, he shoves me against the railing. The wood jabs into my spine and I gasp. "Okay, then I'll tell you why. It's because you know that you need me. That your place is here with me, in my house, as my wife. Now stop playing stupid, or else—"
"Or else what Shane?" I wrench my arm away.
"Or else," he says, "you'll go back to being nothing. Nothing but an empty shell without me."
And there it is, the torpedo I dodged by not marrying this man. I have to admit he hid it well—the true depth of his arrogance behind his mantra of being a good man means taking care of your woman. No. Shane believes being a good man means having control over your woman. Don't know why it took me so long to realize how wrong I was thinking that this conceited idiot was my second chance at love. This isn't love. It never was.
Then why? Why am I here, again?
'You got to play pretend for awhile Michonne.'
Yeah, I sure as hell did. I played alright. With fire. And now, play time's over.
Without saying another word, I storm down the winding stairwell, swiped up my bag, all the while absorbing the degrading curses Shane is hurling at me. I let each and every word sink in. Deep into my psyche. In the future, these vicious insults will serve as a searing reminder. Hustling out to the curb, I simultaneously dial for a cab whilst making a hundred promises to myself to never return to that house. No matter what my circumstances are, or how bad my crisis is.
Not even if my life depended upon it.
RICK
After I dropped Michonne off up in Mueller Parkway yesterday, I spent the remaining hours with my mother and my boy having lunch, baking apple pies and playing a few rounds shooting darts. Following my famous carbonara dinner, we capped off the night in the living room re-watching Psycho, one of Mom's favorite movies back from her younger days. Yet, with every minute that ticked by as I basked in the company of my family, my mind lingered on Michonne.
I have so many more questions about her. About her case. If Simon Hawker persists with this obstruction of justice BS, I have to be ready to shut him down, to protect her come what may.
This morning I came into my office over an hour early before seven-thirty wanting to get the most out of the quiet solitude. Around forty minutes later, as I stepped out into the lobby to brew a fresh pot of coffee Abraham comes hustling in. Briefcase wielded in one hand, breakfast sandwiches (probably a toasted bagel with egg and bacon) in the other. His black suit jacket tossed across his forearm he nods a quick Good morning as he makes a beeline towards his office space right across from mine.
After flicking on his lights, his massive frame fills up the doorway. "Hey now," he says, watching me, "Ain't that a 'No fly' zone? Thought you're not allowed to touch Tara's Farberware percolator?"
I shrug. "She'll get over it."
"Living life on the edge, huh?"He chuckles, tosses me one of the sandwich bags.
I smile appreciatively. "Thank you."
"No problem. You catching up on your workload?" he asks.
"I uh, got a new client over the holiday. Thought I'd come in early, get a head start."
"Oh yeah? What's the story?"
"Remember that murder last week, on my side of town?" I dump four hefty scoops of roasted beans into the top chamber.
"Sure," he says, "Thought it was a domestic thing? That's the word round the courthouse and also the media. You know that."
"Yeah well, it's undecided at this point." Whenever a crime involves a minority female being attacked by a minority male, that's usually the first assumptions: 'A domestic thing.'
My research into Annabella Espinosa thus far revealed that she was a twenty-three year old entrepreneur who owned a Beauty salon on Trenton road, Upper East Hillside. She had a three year old daughter, Josanne, and they both lived two minutes away from her shop on St. Michael's Drive with her mother, Mrs. Clara Josephine Espinosa, a fifty-four year old widow. No boyfriend or husband of the deceased was ever mentioned.
As for any criminal records, Annabella got arrested once for shoplifting when she was thirteen. Other than community service, as a minor that was the extent of her punishment.
Abraham gives me an expectant look, waiting for me to say more. So, I give him the 411 on Michonne and her situation.
"The gist is," I say, after having run through the facts, "instead of focusing on the guy who broke into her house, they think she's not being as forthcoming as she should be, and I still have no idea why."
"Gotcha. So, it's a simple case then? Protecting your client's rights?"
"Well I hope so. I have to sit with her again, maybe dig a little deeper."
He draws in a deep breath and presses out his mustache. Abe doesn't trust in 'I hope so's' and 'Maybe's.' But I don't have anything else to offer that's more concrete.
"Alright then," he says after awhile, "Anyways, I can't hang back here too long, heading over to Criminal court. Think I could negotiate a last minute judgement of acquittal for my client."
I plug on the machine. "You talking about Martinez?"
"No, he's my pretrial motion at one o' clock. No, this is Rovia, remember? Long hair, long beard? Got this Jesus Superstar cosplay thing going on?"
"Ooh yeah. Right. I remember. Best you watch your back, I don't trust that guy."
"Me neither. But you know everyone lies. Even this um, witness of yours." Abraham sticks his hands in his pockets and holds my gaze for a few seconds before he continues. "Don't take this the wrong way brother. You two may have been high school buddies or what not once before, but people change. Don't be so quick to assume you can fully trust her."
But I do, though. I completely trust her. Hard for me not to. From Abraham's standpoint I understand his skepticism, but he doesn't know Michonne Moretti like I do. She's not a deceitful person. Not by nature. Only if circumstances were considered to be absolutely dire would she bend her principles. And even then…
I have a surplus of reasons to vouch for her integrity.
Once, when Michonne was seventeen years old she'd gotten into a bloody fight at school with Hannah Castell, a peacock cheerleader who joked about Michonne's hair trying to humiliate her. Despite not being in the wrong, Michonne still got a 3-day suspension. Her mother, tied up at work, couldn't be reached via her phone so Michonne got sent home with a letter. At that point in her life,her Dad already had his own life in the Big apple, and the responsibilities that came with raising three girls fell squarely on her mother's shoulders.
Mrs. Beverly Moretti was not an intimidating tyrant, but Michonne had a gut wrenching fear of disappointing her overworked, single parent.
I'd skipped out of class that day to stay with Michonne for support and made the suggestion that maybe it would be better to simply hide the principal's note. This incident would've only caused her mother more stress than it warranted.
"Fake sick for the next few days," I'd said. "Your Mom's got her hands so full she'd never know."
But Michonne, she wouldn't hear it. She was scared, but she wouldn't make things worse by being dishonest. It was better to face the consequences.
Abraham approaches me and clasps his meaty hands onto my shoulders. "Listen Grimes, you're one of the best lawyers I've ever had to work with. Don't tell Maggie I said that."
I chuckle. "She gets the job done."
"Hey, of course, we can't keep the firm open without her. But you, my friend, are special. Your brain works in mysterious ways. You're tenacious, you don't back down, you've got heart and you're brilliant. I've learned not to second guess you. You believe in this client's integrity? Then that's that. Just get your proof to back her up, and get it fast. You know how it goes with eyewitness testimonies."
I nod. Abe and I have developed an understanding between us and I basically depend on him like a brother. That's the environment he's cultivated with all of his employees. It's a rarity in my line of work. So although I don't make a substantial amount of money, like I used to at my last job as a partner in Virginia, I count my lucky stars to have landed a desk as an associate in Abraham's practice.
With a steaming mug in my hand, I get Daryl on the phone as soon as I get back to my chair. If I'm going to get both the footage from Dee's pharmacy and the information I need from the cops ASAP, Dixon's people skills are a must.
He tells me to sit tight, give him an hour or two to see what he could scrounge up.
While I wait, I do some more digging of my own. And that's when something of interest pops up.
A second later, I'm making another phone call.
After four rings I get a response:
"Hello."
"Michonne? It's me, Rick. I need to talk to you, gotta clarify some things. Where are you?"
"Checking in to a hotel."
"A hotel? Why?"
"Shane's was only for a day. He asks too many questions and I'd had enough of explaining myself."
"Questions about the break in?"
"Amongst other things…Anyways, what is it that you wanted to talk about?"
"You may not have known the victim, but what about her older sister? Rosita Espinosa? Employed by FTB Bank as a loans officer. As a matter of fact, she not only works at FTB, but she's located at the branch in Burkeside. Your branch. Was she your loans officer?"
"…Yes. Like I explained to the detectives, that's all a coincidence."
"Too much of a coincidence Michonne. You should've told me that the detectives already made this link between you two. It took me one damned hour to find this. You met with Miss Rosita that day?"
"To pick up my non-indebtedness letter, right."
"And soon after her sister just happened to be dying in your arms?"
"Wrong place, wrong time Counselor. Listen, I have to go, I-I'm sorry. Please, we can talk more about this later."
"You damn right we'll talk more later. I can't help you if you're not telling me the whole story. I'm on your side. So here's the deal, this here, this little omission is strike one. Got it?"
"Yeah, sure, got it."
"Good. I have to go back to the precinct. Text me the info on where you're staying and I'll come over after."
€''''''''''''€
Hours later, in a dark back room, Daryl and I, together with Dee's pharmacy's rent-a-cop, huddle over a shoddy TV screen straight from the sixties, our three pairs of eyes glued to the grainy footage waiting to catch something from the day in question last week. The first part is as Michonne described. The two women pass each other, then as soon as the victim is out of the shot something happens to catch Michonne's attention. A minute after Daryl asks the security officer to pause the video.
"You see something?" I stare at Michonne kneeling next to Miss Espinosa who is only visible from the shoulders up.
Daryl narrows his eyes. "Yeah, notice anything? Looks like a three way conversation to me."
"She did say that she warned the attacker about having called the police."
"Alright…"
We watch for another minute before Daryl pauses again. This time the frame freezes as Michonne repositions herself to other side of the victim. Her back now facing the camera.
"Pull that back a bit for me," Daryl orders. "Now play."
We re-watch the same three minutes again and again. I don't speak about my client's version of the events so as to not influence Daryl's opinion.
"Okay," he says finally, after about twenty minutes analyzing the images, "First things first, I'm no certified reader of lips, but there's more she's saying to this man. If she tried to scare him off by saying she called the police, it didn't work, not at first. Notice how she starts shaking her head at him?" Daryl points at the screen. "Seems like he's lingering. Now we can't really assume much about what we're seeing, but our department's finest might be latching onto this as though it's something substantial."
"Crazy."
"I know. Tell me about it. But Simon's a real piece of work. However," He fast-forwards the recording then hits pause again. "Right here… Look. She's got her phone in one hand then leans over the victim and places her ear to her lips. Makes sense the woman is bleeding out could hardly speak but—"
"But she's speaking."
"And your client's responding. See how she then moves over her, and her other hand then slips into her jacket pocket. It's a slight movement but it's there. The police couldn't honestly think this woman had anything to do with the murder, but they think there's more and I could possibly see why. I mean, you said her home also got jacked, right?"
"Right." Which is the real issue I have to figure out. How the hell did this guy even find out where Michonne lives in the first place?
"Seems to me someone in the department screwed up on that." Dixon must've read my mind.
Satisfied that there was nothing else to see, we make our way back to my car. I mull over my own interpretation of what I saw, trying to sync it with Daryl's assumption and Michonne's report.
"But what's in the video," Daryl adds, opening the passenger door, "it's subjective. It ain't shit to stand on. That's why they didn't bring Miss Moretti back in for questioning. Not until that damned gang sign in her bedroom wall."
We jump in our seats and I switch on the ignition. "Yeah I know." After the time period of the first forty-eight hours of a murder, all leads, forensic evidence, DNA specimens grow cold, and the chances of finding a suspect drop drastically. The detectives become a bit desperate. Michonne is both a law abiding citizen and a lifelong resident of Trinity hills with absolutely no priors of any kind. What, suddenly she's up to something nefarious?
"She's not gonna say anything more than she already has," I say. "She sat with their sketch artist, as is procedure, they dusted her house for fingerprints, soon they'll get a DNA match to identify who this guy is."
Daryl pulls out a pack of gum and hands me a stick. "DNA could take up to two weeks to run through the database, Rick. You know that. And still, they may not get any hits. A gang banger here in the Hills? Highly unlikely we'll find out who this guy is soon. The Lieutenant will have to ask Atlanta PD for assistance, which of course means it's gonna take a hell of a lot longer."
Which also means the longer Michonne's life is possibly in danger.
MICHONNE
I sink myself into the brown leather armchair in the corner of my elegant room in the Dupont Hotel. Gingerly I poke at the dinner I had ordered with a glass of wine from the hotel's restaurant, both famished and exhausted by the upheaval in my existence. To my left, my cell phone vibrates on the bed next to my luggage. Without looking, I know who it is, so I leave the call unanswered. It's the fifth time I've allowed Shane's calls to be go through to voicemail.
Earlier, when I'd returned home I stood motionless in the living room for a full minute. Seat cushions stripped and piled onto the floor; my coffee table, the center piece, both broken and overturned; vases shattered to pieces; my oil painting of New York City's skyline torn off the wall. The shock of seeing my house in such a ravaged state slammed into me, leaving me breathless. Just as it did yesterday the first time. Tears pricked at my eyes. I didn't want to touch anything, yet I wanted to fix everything.
On the other hand, it wouldn't be wise or safe for me to stay there. So, with a heavy heart I stuffed my clothes and personal items into a duffel bag, jumped into my car, and headed to the hotel closest to the town's border, just in case.
On the drive over here, I realized how beautiful the day was. Bright clear blue skies, not a grey cloud in sight. And temperatures surprisingly on the warmer side. Similarly, the weather had been the same on that fateful day last week.
When I had taken my lunch break early, my intentions were to step out for a quick run to conduct my private errand. Jerry, my only library assistant, had called in sick which meant I needed to lock up the facilities until I'd finished handle my business.
However, once outside the confines of the school compound, an unexpected sense of appreciation came over me and I no longer felt the need to hurry.
"Sorry to bother you, Sir." With caution and one of my brightest, most non-intimidating smiles, I stopped the stranger that happened to be plowing towards me down the sidewalk of 3rd Avenue in Burkeside. The features of the man's long face pinched together as though I had somehow, unbeknownst to him, materialized magically out of thin air.
'All this ebony goodness took awhile to put together darling. Pay attention.'
"Yes?" he said, "Do you need something?"
I pointed up at the lollipop plant we both stood underneath. "This tree," I said, "do you know what type it is?"
Tilting his head he peered up and down the pavement, bewildered. There were a dozen others all identical planted in the concrete.
"What type?" He shrugged. "Beats me honey. How in the hell should I know?" His eyes scanned my body. His sharp mouth cracked into a smile. He asked, "Anything else I could help you with?"
The clueless response made me laugh out loud.
'In your dreams old man.'
My legs then promptly resumed their journey.
I was sure that if I'd asked fifty persons, all born and bred in this city, like me, that question concerning the tree that day, not one would've provided a satisfactory answer. Listen, I'm just being honest. The gorgeous multiple-trunk trees, about 15 feet high (Don't know was just taking a guess there), draped in imperial purple flowers, have been rooted here on this avenue for well over two decades. And I did not have an inkling as to this particular plant's species.
But I loved it.
I had driven along that road a thousand times plus, admiring the brilliance and richness of those deep purple blossoms and I thought it was about time I at least acquired some basic knowledge about them. Say for instance, it's name.
Now, I don't do that often, but every once in awhile I like to stop, open my eyes, and drink in the essence of my hometown here in sweet Trinity Hills, Georgia.
It's important.
Like re-connecting with an old friend.
It's keeps you grounded.
It's keeps me grounded.
Reminds me of my true self.
My ex-husband, Ezekiel, used to balk, calling me "weird" and "rather unusual" when in the spur of the moment I'd get like that—sentimental. And he was right…he is right. I am weird. But I can't help it. I don't want to help it. Stepping back to appreciate what little beauty surrounds me, makes me happy.
There's not much left of anything pure that brings me joy these days.
The design of this town, the style, the artistic sights, the historic parks and yes, the specimen of our trees, together with the effervescent people that make up my increasingly multicultural city, have more or less remained the same for the past thirty something years. This sameness of course might be dull to others, but to me, it's more of a comfort. The wonderful familiarity of home.
Oh, but don't get me wrong, we're not exactly stuck in a time capsule either.
In between the late nineteenth century iconic stone buildings, quite a few modern styled structures have sprung up. Especially in the central and downtown areas.
We've also, within the past few years, established our own Heritage museum, the pride of the city, as well as a brand new fully equipped music centre. Not to mention, branches of Cox Automotive, and Cisco systems also moved into our humble town. Our Mayor Walsh welcomed them both (and their money) with arms wide open and that cheesy politician grin.
I should give him a call.
Such a sweet man.
Things didn't work out between me and his son, but the Mayor and I had our own thing going on. No hard feelings...I hope he understands.
Anyways, like any other place, Trinity Hills is also far from perfect.
Far, far from perfect.
The streets are dusty.
The heat could be stifling (it's April for God sakes and the temperature is already pushing 90).
And the smells are god-awful. Each one like a swift kick to my throat.
Yet, there I was, a week ago. Glad to have opted to take public transportation. And why not? It was such a beautiful day that day. The city was vibrant and buzzing with life.
Little did I know that in less than ten minutes, my own life was about to be dropkicked off its axis. Derailed and damaged, once again.
"Michonne." A man's voice intrudes my thoughts. Setting my tray down, I took a swallow of wine before getting up to peer through the hole of my hotel room door.
"Hey," I knot the belt of my robe as I allowed Rick to enter my temporary abode.
"Hey," he says, "How are you doing?"
"I'm okay."
"Good…" Pausing, he pivots left then right studying my suite. "Look, I need to apologize about earlier. If I came across as harsh on the phone, I'm sorry. You know I don't doubt you, right?"
"Right. You were just doing your job. It's what I'm paying you for. Which we still have to discuss, by the way."
"Michonne, we don't," he insists. "I owe you. Think we both know that."
I step back and cock my head to the side. "Rick, you can't actually be serious?"
But he is. His resolve is dead set in his eyes. For me, however, what transpired between us in the past must stay there—in the past. Barricaded inside the dark, lifeless cave of our history. If I'm to rely on him now, I need to trust that any residual dormant emotions—both his and mine— won't reawaken to screw up our business arrangement. Rick and I should be on the same page, because God help me, but I can't take any more messiness in my life.
I don't, however, whisper any of this to him. I keep my mouth shut. Besides, he's already moved on towards my meal perched on the table by the patio window. Picking up my fork, he stabs at my noodles. Rude.
"What happened with Shane?" His tone switched. And his stance becomes overly casual. "Everything went okay with him?"
Okay, we are definitely not on the same page. "What do you mean?"
He shrugged nonchalantly. "You said he was asking questions. I hope you didn't say anything he might be forced to repeat in court."
'Oh! Thank god.' "No. I didn't. We talked about…other things." I removed my plate from his reach and sat on the edge of the bed.
After apologizing again, this time for staying late with another client, Rick assures me that I wouldn't need to worry about the cops and their shitty suspicions. He says they're incompetent. They have nothing on me. Been watching too much CSI or some shit and that Lieutenant Jadis Sinclair is seeing things because like detective Hawker, she's just as bat-shit crazy. Rick says 'shit' a lot. He never swore this much before. Not sure why, but I think I like it. Kind of amusing this 'I know what I'm about. They better not mess with me.' tough bravado.
"I watched that footage about fifty times," he says, peeling off his black suit jacket before hanging it over the backrest of the armchair. "There's nothing there. At least nothing concrete to use against you. If they come at you again, we'll sue the whole damn city. They don't know, but I'm good with that." A smirk dangled on the corner of his lips.
His overconfidence is surprisingly comforting.
"Hey," He suddenly comes and sits next to me. "Why did you—why did you come here? Why not go to your mother's?"
"No. My whole family's in that house. I couldn't take that chance. If this…guy found out where I live, then…" I couldn't finish my thought. A cold –blooded killer having access to my loved ones? Instantly, the idea fills me with nauseating anxiety.
Rick quickly appraised me. To my surprise my stomach clenched. "Is there anything else I should know about?"
His soft blue eyes stare down at mine. They were darkening as the space between his brows pinched with a knowing look. I see his mouth open, then close. He waits for me instead.
This is it. This is the moment I'd been dreading ever since I saw Rick show up at the police station less than forty-eight hours ago. The moment for complete honesty. I get up and place my untouched food back onto the table.
"It's okay," he reassures me. "Remember, I'm on your side."
"I know." My fingers swipe up the glass of Merlot bringing it to my lips for a generous sip. I savor the burn.
"Did you have anything to do with Annabella's murder?"
I turn to face him clutching my robe to my neck and I shake my head. "No."
"Do you know who attacked her?"
"No."
"Do you at least have an idea why she was killed?"
God, the way Rick is looking at me makes my insides quiver, and not in a good way either. I jerk my eyes away. "Yes."
My heartbeat starts thundering in my ears. I set the glass back down, and retrieve an envelope from in between the pages of a novel sitting on the side table, holding it out to him. I watch as his eyes widen in shock when he notices the packet's smeared with blood. In an instant, he is on his feet. He grabs my wrists and twists my arms over.
"Whose blood is this Michonne?" His fingers then scamper up to my neck and my face. I pull away. He's not thinking straight.
"No, I'm okay. The blood's not mine." I empty the contents of the envelope onto the bed behind him. "And neither is this. They're both hers—Annabella's."
Shuffling back a step or two, his arm shoots towards the revealed item. "Are you—Is this for real? What am I looking at?"
"It's a key."
"Yes," he huffs, "I can see that. Give me details."
"It's a safe-deposit key. I got it from her. After he left she told me to check her pants pocket. I did, pulled this out and she said, "Hide it for Josy." Her daughter."
He keeps looking down at the gold key. He avoids looking up at my face. I could see the line of his jaw hardening, and I brace myself for what's coming next.
"You know, I don't recall you being so deceitful," he says after a long moment of silence. "I guess I was wrong. You really have changed."
"I wasn't trying to be deceitful. I was just trying to think things through. Didn't want to get ahead of myself. Annabella Espinosa was so young, and she died so violently. Yet her last thoughts were of her child. And I…"
'I thought about my child…what were his last thoughts while he was dying?'
"Rick, I don't know why I hid it. At the moment I was in shock. Taking the key was a reflex action, but, yes, keeping it was a choice. I watched a woman die. I want to give her a little peace."
His eyes trailed up to meet mine. "Her or yourself?"
I nod. "Both. Annabella's death cannot be for nothing. I won't let it be."
"Jesus Michonne. This is possible evidence."
I shrug. "To be honest I didn't think this is what that man wanted from her. I just hadn't gotten the chance to deliver it to the little girl's grandmother. But then his tattoo appeared marked in my house, and so now it looks like I've gotta start watching my back because somehow he knows I have this. I need to find out what this opens, and I don't think I can figure it out by myself. I really need somebody to help me. So...are you?"
"Am I what?"
"Are you gonna be that somebody? If not…I'll find someone else, or—"
"Or what? You gonna solve this solo? Who do you think you are? Think I wanna see you get killed?"
"Then let's quit wasting time arguing Counselor."
At this point my cool-headed lawyer starts pacing. "You know this is dangerous, right?"
"We don't know what this is."
"For the love of God Michonne! Have you lost your mind?" Both hands rake through the sides of his hair as he stops to glare at me. "Okay, okay…If I keep your secret, help you find out about this key, then you're coming home with me."
I wince at his suggestion. "Wait. What? Why?"
"I can keep you safe."
"Right. Because you're a secret CIA agent."
"No, smart ass, because if there's a mole in the police department leaking your information then it's only a matter of time before this killer finds you. I'm sure you used your credit card to book this room. That's not hard to track."
He has a good point. Nevertheless…"I could stay at another hotel. Use cash"
"For how long? Doesn't make sense to blow through your savings account. You'll just stay with me. No one is gonna look for you there." He pulls my duffel bag and zips it open. Looking around, he starts packing up what little belongings I have laid out. "Get dressed."
My throat runs dry. Me, staying at Rick's house? "There must be some other way?" I protest.
He stuffs my toothbrush case, my makeup pouch, and my copy of 'Sometimes I Lie' into the front compartment. "No. There isn't."
The truth is I am afraid. As I should be. Still, this is not such a great idea. I tug on my bag, try to get him to stop, and we struggle a bit for my luggage. My grip loosens just as he yanks the straps from my hands and Rick stumbles before hitting his knee against the side table. I watch him clutch his leg in agony. He drops to the bed and guilt propels me to assist him. After rifling through my bag I find my bottle of Alleve. I open it, hand it to him before dashing off to the bathroom to refill my wine glass with water. He thanks me when I return and pours out a handful of the pills into the cradle of his of palm.
"Wait you're only supposed to take two of that," I warn him.
He ignores me. Rick swallows them all.
I will my eyes not to grow large as I gape at the ease with which his head swung back. The blue green veins popping out the side of his neck.
He squints at my reaction and shrugs his shoulders. "What?" recapping the bottle, Rick sets it down. "Like Flintstones. Kids'stuff."
The silence thereafter was… awkward. For lack of a better word. We stare at each other having a whole different conversation with the back of our eyes.
I reach for my bag and find a jeans and a sweatshirt. "I guess I was wrong too. You haven't changed at all."
