Work for Hire (36 page)

Everything—if anyone thought about it—indicated that Child Protective Services was probably just what Gemma did need.

“A
RE YOU FAMILY
?”

I stood in the ICU’s waiting area grinding my teeth. “No,” I bit out to the guard in charge of visitors, “but until the family arrives, I’m their surrogate, and am authorized to see the patient on their behalf.”

That last bit was total bullshit, but the guard didn’t need to know that. Actually, come to think of it, I should’ve just said I was a distant cousin. What would he do, check?

“Family only,” the guard announced.

“Fine,” I seethed. “Then you can go tell the patient in area two—you know, the attempted suicide—that there is someone who really wants to see her, but you won’t let her in.”

The guard considered my face closely. “Five minutes,” he said, and moved out of my way.

I approached Gemma’s cot a bit tentatively, for Gemma appeared just as pale and sick as she had in the ambulance. The doctor I’d hunted down before the visit said her stomach was clear of toxins, but she would have to be monitored over the next couple of days for potential life-threatening liver damage. Apparently, Tylenol and alcohol really didn’t mix.

“Gemma?” I asked as I sat on the edge of Gemma’s bed and touched her hand.

An IV needle was taped to the translucent skin. Blood had congealed around the needle’s tip. The beep of a distant heart monitor punctuated the hush in the ICU. A low buzz of conversation from the other beds hummed in the background. I could smell Lysol and Clorox masking the stench of medicine and human waste. God, I hated hospitals.

Gemma looked at me.

“How are you feeling?” I whispered and tried for a smile; it came out wan.

“Okay, I guess.” Gemma’s voice was scratchy, probably from the tube in her throat that had since been removed.

“Good.” I could think of nothing else to say. Actually, no, that wasn’t true. There was plenty to say, ask—
What were you thinking? Why would you do this?
—but I found I couldn’t phrase things without the risk of upsetting Gemma, so I bowed my head and remained quiet.

“I’m so sorry, Tekla,” Gemma broke the silence.

“What happened?” I finally whispered. I squeezed Gemma’s fingers, not so hard as to pain her, but strong enough so that she would know I hadn’t judged her.

“I messed up.” Gemma squeezed my hand back. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “
Maman
still won’t talk to me. She left for a shoot, and won’t even pick up my calls. I really wanted to tell her I was sorry, that I didn’t mean to mess up her things, but … ” Gemma stopped and shrugged, and swiped with her other hand at the tears. “Daddy left too, for some business thing. And then Xander got in trouble at school, and he wasn’t home either, and I got really lonely. I kept on thinking about
Maman
, and then the pills were just there, so I took them. But then I started feeling really sick, and I got scared, and I remembered about your dorm, and I really didn’t want to be home alone.” Her voice hitched. “So I just ran. But I guess I wasn’t thinking right … I’m really sorry.” A series of silent sobs made her body jerk.

“Shh.” I patted her hand again, feeling in no way equipped to handle her. “It’s okay,” I lied. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

Suddenly, I could read the question—the “was
she
here?”—on Gemma’s hopeful face.

“I’m trying to locate your mom and dad now,” I answered her unspoken question, and I plastered a smile on. “I’m sure they’ll both be here as soon as they hear what happened.”

Gemma’s face collapsed, the hope gone as quickly as it had appeared.

“Don’t bother,” she moaned out, staring past me. “She won’t come. They’ll just send someone to take me home. Whatever. I don’t care.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I denied. No parent, not even a Lamont, would be that cold, that uncaring. “You’ll see; I’ll call them again right away. I promise.”

But Gemma was done listening, and when the guard broadcast the end of visiting hours, she hardly acknowledged my departure.

I headed for the hospital’s main lobby, to make the calls.

But as soon as I entered the open hall, my phone beeped. A message.

I rushed to dial voicemail. It had to be either Stephen or Monique. Who else would be calling me at—I glanced up at the lobby’s oversized clock—two in the morning? I probably missed the call because of the poor signal reception in the ICU.

But finally …

Finally
, one of them—or maybe even both—had actually listened to my messages.

“Yo, Tekla.”

I sank down in an oversized visitor’s chair. It was Xander.

“We’re in deep shit,” he whispered like an informant passing on an illicit tidbit to his handler. “I did what you said—you know, told Mr. Dandridge, and the shit hit the fan. Mr. Dandridge told the headmaster that I violated the school’s honor code by plagiarizing someone else’s work, and I got suspended. They called Dad, and he’s flying in for a special meeting on Monday. I think they might want to expel me. Dad is
really
mad. I think he wants to see you, you know, after, but he’s so mad he won’t talk to me. So, like, heads up, okay? I think that’s it. I guess, like, you tried calling me before? Sorry for calling back so late. I’m hanging with my buds. They’re cheering me up. So, like, bye.”

No mention of Gemma.

Clearly, he hadn’t listened to my messages, or read the voluminous texts I finally sent off in desperation. Who wouldn’t read
all
their texts, right? But I was getting the feeling that no matter how many times I called, how many messages I left behind, how often I texted, no Lamont ever would. Why should they? The Lamonts had no reason to suspect Gemma was with me. And I wasn’t high enough in their pecking order for them to bother picking up my private, late night, unsolicited phone calls or messages.

Which explained their silence. Because no matter how angry Monique was, or how much Stephen preferred his son to his daughter, even I didn’t believe the Lamonts would abandon Gemma in Bellevue.

But where did that leave me?

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back as a wave of exhaustion crashed through my body.

Here. It left me here, in the hospital, alone, in the middle of the night, on the brink of possibly the biggest break in my legal career, stuck.

And now there was trouble with Xander.

Suspended. Maybe even expelled.

I forced my eyes open. A fluorescent light hung over my head. A cockroach lay unmoving, trapped within. I stared at it, and the bulb, for so long the brightness pained my eyes, and I was almost glad for the discomfort.

I could still feel.

Yet I couldn’t make myself care about the situation with Xander.

Expelled. On Monday. Oh, well. In the scheme of events—Gemma’s attempted suicide, my argument that I would likely bomb—the possibility just didn’t sound as bad. There were other schools, and with the Lamont money behind him, he would always be okay.

And Monday was years away.

I pushed myself upright in the seat, the phone still in my hand. It had become a deadweight pulling my tired body down, instead of the lifeline it should have been.

Who to call?

I flipped the phone from hand to hand, thinking, when a name, like a godsend, finally materialized.

Mrs. Jacobs.

Of course
. Technically,
she
was my employer, not the Lamonts. They were her clients, her bread and butter. It was her job to intervene. So what that I would have to call and wake her in the middle of the night? Inconvenient calls were part of her business operation.

I rushed through my contact list, searching for her number. How had I not thought of her sooner? True, she hadn’t been really helpful in the past—okay, she hadn’t been helpful at all—but this was an honest-to-goodness life-and-death emergency a client was facing. And the Lamonts would definitely pick up a phone call from her. Mrs. Jacobs was high in everyone’s pecking order.

The phone rang. I counted the rings until salvation.

The phone finally connected.

“Hello. You have reached Patricia Jacobs at Elite Educational Services. I am out of the country and will be unreachable for the remainder of the weekend. Please call back Monday.”

Click.

Her phone disconnected. Automatically.

My eyes filled with tears of frustration, and anger.

Gone for the
weekend
! With no emergency number left behind, no e-mail where she could be reached? What was this, the ‘90s? What kind of half-ass business was this woman running anyway?
I’m gone for the weekend, so don’t bother me, thank you.

I wanted to smash the phone against the floor, watch it break into smithereens.

But I didn’t, because truth be told, Mrs. Jacobs wasn’t my last Lamont contact, and I had known it all along.

I got up and paced the lobby, nibbling a thumbnail.

There was still
him
. True, I would rather chew off my nails—no, cut off my fingers—than call him—I could just imagine what he would make of the call, and the caller—poor, desperate Tekla—but he
was
my absolute last alternative.

If
he picked up.

The way things ended between us, the possibility was far from certain.

But suddenly, Julian’s voice hummed in my ear.

“Tekla, what a pleasant surprise, you calling me in the middle of the goddamned night. Want to tell me you changed your mind? You could’ve waited until morning.”

I flinched at the voice, conflicting emotions hammering away at me.
He picked up!
One part of me wanted to cheer. Clearly, he must’ve felt more for me than I thought and, maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as bad as I believed. Why else would he take my call at two in the morning? But, then, he
did
think I was begging, so heartbroken over our fight I could do nothing but think of him. How dare he assume I would be that pathetic? Never mind that, technically, before this mess with Gemma, I had done exactly that.

What an ass.

“No, I’m not calling to tell you I changed my mind,” I snarled. “I’m calling you because I can’t get through to Monique or Stephen, and I understand you and Monique are on assignment. So if you could please pass on a message to her.” Here I paused, lest he miss the next part. “I’m with Gemma, at Bellevue Hospital. She tried to kill herself. And if someone doesn’t come here soon, I will contact Child Protective Services.”

And as the words left my mouth, I realized I would do just that.

Because Gemma wasn’t my problem. In the end, she couldn’t be.

CHAPTER 28

T
HE COURTROOM
in the United States Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit was large and distinguished, all mahogany wood, bourbon leather, heavy drapes and threadbare rugs—the way an old English gentleman’s club must have been.

It was also packed.

I peeped in on the rows of classmates, alumni, professors and—oh, God—my parents: front and center, in the first row, cameras in hand, beaming, the proud mama and papa about to witness their offspring’s greatest professional achievement.

I groaned.

If only.

Greatest professional embarrassment, more like.

Because I sure as hell wasn’t prepared.

Certainly, Julian had accomplished the seemingly impossible: He’d made calls and got through to the people I couldn’t manage. But still, it had taken hours before Vivienne the housekeeper arrived at the hospital from her sister’s in Pennsylvania to take over at Gemma’s bedside until Stephen flew in from London and Monique made her way back from L.A.

I had made it home just in time to shower, get in a suit, put on makeup to try and cover the bags underneath my eyes, and collect the few scraps of notes on my brief. I didn’t have nearly enough time to outline an argument.

So here I was, minutes from the start, hovering outside the courtroom, scared of the inevitable bloodbath.

Unless
, I thought as I scanned the hallway for Professor Johnson,
I could somehow convince the one person who could actually prevent the carnage to stop it from going on.

I mean, in light of the facts, shouldn’t I forfeit to Markus? I clearly deserved the loss and maybe, just maybe, I could spare myself a public flogging.

But Professor Johnson was nowhere in sight.

Markus was, though. He stood across from me in the hallway in a sharp navy double-breasted pinstripe suit, red tie and white dress shirt, a shark-lawyer-in-the-making. His hair was slicked back; a pair of gold cufflinks winked on his wrists. He was flipping through an impressive stack of note cards, and flanked by an adoring Lauren. Ann hung a few steps behind him, her hair coiled as tight as always, and her hands fidgeting with her glasses every few seconds.

I never wanted to be her more than I did now: to sit in the audience and watch, jealous but completely unencumbered, as someone else duked it out for the prize.

Markus looked up from his cards, saw me and smiled.

“Hey,” he said, walking over with his entourage. “How are you? I’m so nervous,” he rushed on before I had a chance to answer. “Did you see all those people? Professors. Well-connected alums. We’re talking from the mega firms here. I think I even recognized a few judges. This is big, Tekla,” Markus emphasized. He sounded about ready to burst.

I glanced over at Ann and Lauren. The air around Ann was just as explosive, though probably for a different reason. Lauren giggled, hopefully, excited for both Markus and me. She and I had never broached her feelings for Markus, but she did tell me she was dating a new guy.

Markus gushed on. “All the people who hire law students will be talking about this—about us—after today, no matter who wins. Johnson has given us the ultimate job interview, the biggest leg-up we could ever dream of.”

I blanched.

Because Markus was completely right. Professor Johnson had gone out of his way to invite everyone who was anyone in the legal hiring process to come and witness our big event. And under normal circumstances, I would have been thrilled: So many potential employers getting to see me and what I could do in the field first-hand. Law students dreamed of opportunities like this, and they almost never happened. It was like winning the lottery.