Reclaim: A Recovered Innocence Novel (3 page)

“Flare. Whatever. I’m right, though, aren’t I? What is it about this case that gets your motor running? Why is it so personal for you?”

“It’s not—”

“Ms. Garcia, don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

“I’m not.”

He glances down at the duplicate file in front of him. “She kind of looks like you. Is she family?”

“What? All Mexicans look the same to you?”

“Whoa. You don’t know me well enough to insult me.” He slams the folder closed and clasps his hands on top of it. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

I let out a sigh. I really need to learn how to be less defensive. “She does look a little bit like my cousin, Alicia.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares steadily at me.

“Carla and I share some things in our pasts. That’s all I feel comfortable telling you. It’s really none of your business.”

“I should’ve known it would be a complicated answer. You’re not exactly an uncomplicated woman.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“It means you’re interesting.” He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like
and hot as hell
as Cora comes back into the room. That smile makes a sudden, fleeting reappearance.

My stomach does a slow roll low in my belly.

“Here’s your original.” Cora hands me a folder, then another. “And your copy.” She gives a file to Nolan and keeps the fourth for herself. “I have another appointment that’s just arrived. Are you two okay in here?”

“We’re fine.” Nolan gives her the same smile he just gave me and I feel like an idiot, thinking I was special. “We’ll come up with a game plan for tomorrow and I’ll shoot you an email tomorrow night with a recap of our prison visit.”

“Sounds good.” Cora turns to me with her hand out. “It was nice meeting you, Lila. We’ll work very hard for Carla. I guarantee it.”

I shake her hand. “Nice meeting you too. I look forward to seeing what your team comes up with.” When she’s gone I turn back to Nolan to find him watching me. “What?”

“You know I’m pretty much her
team,
right?”

“Well, I do now.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed. I think we’re going to do great things together.”

The way he says it makes me think of all the
great things
we could do together. I really need to find a new pattern and stop lusting after men I can emotionally distance myself from. Men like Nolan Perry.

I lean against the low wall out in front of my apartment complex waiting for Lila to pick me up. I’m surprisingly nervous about today. It’s not a date, but apparently my body didn’t get the memo because I’m sweating buckets in the cool winter air. A line trickles down my back and I rub at the base of my spine to keep it from rolling right on down into my ass crack. This happens every time. I’m a sexy, smooth, mother-effing beast when I meet a woman I really like. Right. I’m an idiot. Once again I’m attracted to a woman I have no business getting the hots for.

But damn she’s pretty.

The longer I sat in that conference room with her the more she did it for me. By the end of the meeting she made me totally forget about my insane, going-nowhere crush on Cora. I even tried to flirt with her. But like usual my lame attempts were wasted on a woman who has absolutely no interest in me. Like zero. I may as well have been putting the moves on the chair next to me. Every time she brushed me off I liked her a little bit more.

There must be something seriously wrong with me.

She pulls up in what my dad would call a
reliable sedan.
The kind of car he gets for my mom. It doesn’t fit what I’d pictured Lila driving and yet it does. No nonsense. Dependable. Stable. That’s her. I wonder what she’d look like in my truck. She’d probably take one look at my jacked-up truck and make some comment about how I was compensating for something. I like big trucks with maxed-out rims and big, fat tires. Sitting up high above the rest of traffic with my wrist slung over the top of the steering wheel gives me an indescribable high. I bought one of my mom’s cast-off cars for surveillance to help me blend in, but it’s boring to drive.

I climb in the passenger seat and look over at Lila. She’s got tight jeans on with boots and a sweater that is doing amazing things for her tits. Damn. I hadn’t realized how stacked she was. Her long black hair is down. Double damn. It’s shiny and thick and I have to shove my hand under my thigh to keep from reaching over to touch it. She smells good too. Spicy. Sexy. Mouthwatering. I didn’t notice that yesterday. I want to lean over and nuzzle her neck just under her ear where the scent will probably be strongest.

This is going to be a long-ass car ride.

“Hey,” I say, thankful it didn’t come out as an embarrassing squeak, and praying my deodorant is doing its job.

“Hey.” She gives me a cursory once-over and I can’t tell a damn thing from her expression. “I passed a Starbucks a block or so back. That okay?”

“Sure.”

She waits until I’ve buckled my seatbelt before checking her mirror and pulling back out onto the street. I direct her to Starbucks and we place our individual orders. She gets one of those sweet coffee drinks with about twelve kinds of syrups pumped into it and sauces zigzagged up the side of the cup. It’s topped with whipped cream and sprinkles. Just looking at it makes the roof of my mouth itch. I get my usual Caffè Americano and we’re back on the road again. I point her toward the freeway and we join the scant few folks who didn’t get to sleep in on a Saturday.

Her radio’s tuned to some classical music station. Not too loud. Between that and the hum of the tires on the road I’m glad we stopped for coffee or else I’d be nodding off. I stayed up late last night poring over Carla’s case and making a list of questions I want to ask her. I secretly hope all of my work will impress Lila. Dumb, huh?

“Have you met Carla before?” I ask, needing the conversation to keep myself awake.

“No. This will be the first time. I spoke to her on the phone right after I got assigned her case, but we didn’t get into any more than the barest introductions.” There’s a pause. “She cried.”

Lila’s profile is partially obscured by her hair, but the slight tremor on the word
cried
lets me know how affected she was by that one, brief phone call. It’s clear this case has some kind of special meaning for her. If I can crack what that is I might have a shot at cracking the mystery that is Lila. World-class poker players have nothing on her. She’s stone-faced and placid as calm water. Is she really that composed or is it a well-polished façade?

“I hope we find a way to get her released. The sooner the better. She really got screwed over by the system.”

She flickers a glance my direction like something I said surprised her. “Yeah. She did.”

“I made an appointment at four o’clock today with Debbie Martin, the defense attorney’s wife. She’s still living in their house. I’m hoping she’ll let us go through his home office. There might be a duplicate copy of the work he did on Carla’s case. Or maybe some notes or something. I hope that’s okay. I wasn’t sure if you had plans…”

“You could’ve texted and asked. But no, I don’t.”

“I wasn’t sure of the protocol here.” God I sound lame. Like a giant doofus.

“If it’s about the case you can text me anytime, okay?”

I nod, which is dumb because her eyes are on the road so she can’t see me. She looks over at me again, a little longer this time. I wish she’d turn the AC on. It’s freakin’ hot in here. Every time I inhale I take in her scent, which is damn distracting. Her hands rest lightly on the wheel at ten and two just like she was probably taught in driver’s ed. She checks her mirrors at regular intervals and signals every lane change. She’s the poster child for proper driving. A rule follower to the max.

She’s short so her seat is pulled all the way forward, practically cramming her up against the wheel. Her breasts brush it every time she looks over her shoulder to make a lane change. I wonder if it’s the friction that made her nipples hard or something else. It sure as heck isn’t the temperature in here.
Is it getting hotter?
I could swear the heat just went up a couple of degrees. I rub my sweaty palms on my jeans. She notices the movement.

“Do you mind if I crack the window?” I ask.

She hits the buttons and both of our windows go down a couple of inches.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

I resist the urge to sniff myself because I know she didn’t roll hers down because she’s hot. Damn. I probably stink. We ride in silence for a while. The cool air is helping. I can’t smell her as much anymore and I finally stopped sweating like a beast. To refocus my mind I take out the list of questions I have for Carla. One of the biggest is, What was she doing when her son died? Why didn’t she notice he had the elastic cord around his neck and was slowly strangling to death?

I’m not sure how to present the question without accusation. Because there’s a big truckload of blame to lay at her feet. She was the adult in charge. She should’ve noticed
something.
At least the silence. Kids are loud. I know that from spending five minutes with my cousin’s kids at Christmas. What was she doing that she didn’t realize her kid was unusually quiet? Why did it take her so long to reach him that the paramedics couldn’t revive him either at her apartment or en route to the hospital? The emergency room doctors didn’t have any better luck. They called his death shortly after he arrived at the hospital.

Diego died in the same small, crappy apartment in the next room from where his mother supposedly was. It was too early for him to have been in bed. Why was he in that room alone with the door closed? It just doesn’t add up for me. How do I get answers to my questions without sounding like one of the cops who coerced her into confessing? And how do I do it in front of Lila? Especially given how close she seems to be to this case.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and Lila will ask them for me. Ha. I wish.

“Are those your notes on the case?”

I look up to find Lila glancing back and forth between the road and the notebook resting on my thighs. I know she’s trying to get a peek at my notes, but the thought that she’s interested in anything in and around my lap has me shifting in my seat.

“Ah, yeah,” I say.

“Tell me about them.”

“They’re questions really. That I was thinking about asking Carla.”

She makes a motion with one of her hands, taking it off the wheel momentarily, that invites me to elaborate. Here goes nothing.

“I was wondering what Carla was doing when Diego died.” There. It’s out. I wait for what comes next—censure, anger, annoyance. I just don’t know.

“I have the same question myself. Since Carla didn’t testify at trial no one asked her that.”

I relax a little in my seat. “Why was Diego in a closed room alone? It was too late for a nap and too early for bed. Not that I know much about kids, but nine o’clock in the morning seems like a strange time to put a kid down. Why didn’t she check on him until it was too late to save him?”

She nods, her lips pressed into a grim line. “Yeah. I had the same thoughts.”

“Any guesses?”

“One or two, but I’d prefer to hear it from Carla.”

I want to ask her what her guesses are, but if she were going to share she already would’ve.

She gives my notes another look. “What other questions do you have?”

“I was wondering why her kid wasn’t in school. I mean, aren’t most four-year-olds in preschool or something?”

“That’s a very privileged thing to say.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“It means that most immigrants don’t make enough to pay for preschool. They’re too busy trying to feed their kids.”

“You’re twisting my words, making me sound like a racist.”

“Which is exactly the kind of thing a racist says.”

I shift toward her in my seat.
Is she serious?
“Are you serious? Is that what you assume about me from the what? Two hours we’ve known each other?”

“No. I got it from the racist thing you just said.”

“I was in no way being a racist. Ignorant of immigrant issues, yes. But not a racist.” Now I’m getting hot for a whole
other
reason. “You’ve got a chip on your shoulder the size of Texas, you know that? Don’t project your issues onto me. You don’t know anything about me.”

“
My
issues?”

“
Your
issues. Maybe you’re the racist here.”

She jerks the wheel, changing lanes so suddenly I have to grip the door handle to keep from tipping over into her lap. We swerve across the three lanes to the shoulder where she brings the car to an abrupt stop, making my seatbelt tighten as I jerk forward then back in my seat.

“What the hell was that?” I demand.

“Where do you get off calling
me
a racist?”

“Where do
you
get off calling
me
a racist?”

She twists in her seat. Air puffs in and out between her lips as her chest rises and falls, making her breasts swell up and down. Her cheeks are red and her dark eyes narrow at me. Whoa is she hot.

“Don’t say racist things if you don’t want to be called a racist,” she grinds out.

“I’ll take my licks when I deserve them, but you’re way out of line here. I don’t know who screwed you over or how, but don’t take it out on me. It was an honest, if ignorant, question. We’re not going to get anywhere on this case if you turn on me every time I say something stupid. Because I can guarantee that I’m going to say
a lot
of stupid things by the time we’re done here.”

Her lips part in surprise. A truck honks its horn at us as it passes. Several beats go by with us glaring at each other. We’re close enough that I can smell the sweet coffee drink on her breath and see myself in her dark, reflective eyes. There’s a lot going on behind them.
What is she thinking?

I don’t have to wait long to find out.

“You’re honest.” A corner of her lip tilts up. “I like that.”

“Are we good now?”

“Good enough.” She sits back in her seat and pulls the car back onto the freeway.

I have no idea what just happened or why, but I think I passed some kind of test with her. Which is pretty dang ironic since I’ve never been very good at tests. Especially given by a woman I’m interested in.

Hmm. Okay. I’m
interested
interested in her. Weird. I’m not sure I even
like
her. Especially after what just happened. She might be slightly insane. Which is probably
why
I’m attracted to her. I’ve been known to date women who are somewhat unstable. It’s a thing with me. Which is why I haven’t dated much lately.

My last girlfriend showed up at my apartment and asked if her boyfriend could stay at my place while he visited her because she lived with her parents and they still thought she was a virgin. Yeah. That’s right. My girlfriend’s
boyfriend.
She stopped being my girlfriend the second I slammed my front door in their faces. Unbalanced. Unpredictable. Unsuitable. Unattainable. Unyielding. And all of the other
un
adjectives. The more
un-y
they are the more I seem to like them. Lila may as well be wearing a big giant
UN
on her forehead.

Man she’s pretty, though.

A short time later we pull up to the prison and park. Lila gets out of the car without a word, goes around to the trunk, and opens it. I follow her, not knowing what else to do.

“Empty your pockets and put everything inside,” she says as she powers off her phone. “We can’t take anything into the prison so we may as well leave everything here. Shut your phone off so it doesn’t ring and announce to would-be thieves that there’s something more than the spare in here.”

I do as she says, digging everything out of my pockets. I’m in the process of turning my phone off when something moves out of the corner of my eye.

“Plan on getting lucky some time today?” Lila twirls a condom between her fingers, flashing it back and forth.

I drop my phone in the trunk and snatch the condom out of her hand. “A scout is always prepared.” I drop it back into the pile with the rest of my stuff and slam the trunk closed.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“The car key is in the trunk. How are we going to get out of here?”

“Call Triple—shit! Our cellphones.”

She drops her head back and stares up at the sky. “What did I do? What could I possibly have done to deserve this?”