Hostile Witness

Chapter 2: Cross-Examination

Day 44, Part 1

By nine the next morning, the Winslow divorce had a hashtag.

Ines pushed through the courthouse doors into a wall of cameras and noise. Someone shouted her name. Someone else shouted Voss. She kept walking, chin high, until a hand closed around her elbow and a low voice said into her ear:

"Smile. You're on the steps."

She didn't have to look. She knew that hand.

“Let go of me, Counselor."

"In a moment." Lucian turned to the cameras with his easiest smile, the one that made juries trust him. "Mrs. Winslow built an extraordinary company. We simply believe she should be remembered for what she contributed, not what she's now demanding."

A reporter leaned in. "Ms. Calloway, your response?"

Ines took one step toward the microphones and, quietly enough that only Lucian could hear, murmured, "You're standing on my shoe."

He moved. She didn't smile.

"Mr. Voss is right about one thing," she told the cameras. "Mrs. Winslow built a company. She also built the marriage that financed it. We'll let the court decide which of them was worth more, and we'll bring receipts."

The crowd erupted. Lucian leaned close as flashbulbs went off, and his breath brushed her ear.

"Receipts. That was good."

"I learned from the best."

"You learned from me." His hand was still at her elbow, his thumb resting on the inside of her arm, light and warm. "Don't pretend otherwise."

Her pulse jumped. She pulled free and walked into the building without looking back.

Gideon Marsh's office was on the fortieth floor, all glass and leather. The senior partner didn't look up from his screen.

"Forty-three days, Ines. The vote is at the end of them." He turned his monitor. A tabloid headline filled it: CALLOWAY V. VOSS: THE DIVORCE WAR. Below it, a photograph of the two of them on the courthouse steps, his hand at her elbow, her face turned up toward his.

"That's not what it looks like."

"It looks like a very good story." Gideon finally met her eyes. "Which is why you will win cleanly, and why you will not be seen with Voss again. Aldridge Voss is making him managing partner if he beats you. One name on the door. It won't be both of you."

One name. Ines stared at the photograph. Her own face looked like someone she hadn't met in years.

Day 44, Part 2

At nine that night the county records annex smelled of dust and old paper. Ines had the basement room to herself, one lamp, a stack of Winslow filings, and the amendment that had made a fool of her.

She read clause fourteen again. Then the notary block at the bottom.

Harold Pell, Notary Public. Commission expires 2021.

She pulled her laptop closer, typed his name into the state registry, and stopped breathing.

Harold Pell. Deceased. March 2019.

The amendment was dated June 2019.

"Three months," she whispered. "He signed it three months after he died."

"Four, actually, if you count the funeral notice."

She didn't scream. She was proud of that. She turned slowly.

Lucian stood in the doorway with his jacket over one arm, rain on his shoulders, and a folder in his hand identical to hers.

"You followed me."

"I came for the same page." He crossed the room and set the folder beside hers. "My client lied to me in front of a mediator. I don't like being lied to."

"Then you should choose better clients."

"I should." The corner of his mouth lifted. "I'd rather choose better opponents, but there's only one of you."

The room was small. His shoulder was an inch from hers. He reached for the amendment at the same moment she did, and their hands met on the page.

Neither of them moved.

"Ines," he said quietly.

"Don't."

"I haven't said anything."

"You're about to." She pulled her hand back, though it took effort. "We're enemies, Voss. That's the whole structure of this case. It's the only thing keeping me sane."

"Then we'll be enemies who happen to share a room." He stepped back, giving her air, and it was somehow worse. "Compare notes with me. Tonight. Then go back to hating me tomorrow."

She should have said no. She said, "One hour."

Day 44, Part 3

The hour became three.

They worked on opposite sides of the table, then the same side. By eleven he had loosened his tie and she had kicked off her heels, and neither of them mentioned it. He found a second notarization with the same stamp. She found a wire record with a missing signature page. When their fingers touched over a stapled folder, they both pretended the lamp had flickered.

"Odette signed something that doesn't exist," Ines said finally. "Why would she lie about signing it?"

"Because she wants us to believe the amendment is real." Lucian leaned back, rubbing his eyes. "Which means someone built a false history seven years ago."

"For a divorce that hadn't happened yet."

They looked at each other. The silence went on a heartbeat too long.

"I should go," she said.

Outside, the rain had turned to a downpour. The streets shone black and gold. Lucian opened his umbrella without asking and held it over her, and she let him, because the alternative was walking home soaked and angry.

They stood under it, close enough that her shoulder pressed his arm.

"Can I ask you something?" Her voice came out smaller than she'd intended. "Not about the case."

He went very still. "You can ask."

"Why did you leave? That night. After the library. You kissed me like..." She stopped. "And in the morning you were gone. No note. No call. I waited three weeks."

For a long moment, the only sound was rain on the umbrella.

"Ines." His voice was rough. "I didn't leave."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I'm allowed to give tonight." He turned to face her, and in the streetlight his eyes were wrecked. "I was sent."

"Sent by whom?"

"I can't..." He swallowed. "Not yet. Not until I'm sure."

"Lucian."

It was the first time she had said his name in twelve years. He closed his eyes like it hurt.

A black car pulled up at the curb. He opened the door for her and stepped back into the rain, umbrella forgotten, water running down his face.

"Tap twice if you believe me," he said.

She held the pen in her pocket, her fingers curled around it, and did nothing. But she didn't tap it either.

In her apartment an hour later, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:

Mrs. Winslow just fired her notary. Harold Pell isn't the one who signed. Ask her who did.

Beneath it, a second message, from Lucian:

Still the only one who ever argued me to a draw. Goodnight, Counselor.