Falling Grace. Melissa Shirley

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      “What if she did? Do you know anything about it? Do you have any idea what happened to that little girl in that house?” Her voice reached a shrill that would have had a dog barking if one stood anywhere within earshot. “Someone killed her. Stabbed her over and over again. They didn’t go after anyone else in the house. Whoever did this picked the most defenseless person they could. Random intruders don’t do that, and they don’t do it with that kind of rage. Fifty something stab wounds. Someone in that house did it.” She stared at me, though the glassiness in her eyes said she saw more than my skirt and cardigan. “She was three, Grace. Three.”

      Fifty? Okay. I didn’t have all the facts yet, and I didn’t care much for learning them this way. “Rory, he came in and said his wife needed a lawyer.” I shrugged. “I’m a lawyer. You were gone, so I went.”

      “Is that how you work? You snatch up any case off the street? Maybe we can dig up a few methheads and dealers you can put back out there so they can continue poisoning kids.” She shook her head. “This isn’t the law I want to practice anymore, Grace.”

      My own anger forged a path from my stomach heading north. “Then you should have told me that before you asked me to come here, because I’m not going to sit in an office all day and write wills and lease agreements. I want to practice law that matters. I didn’t spend thousands of hours studying and working my ass off to sit behind a desk when I should be in a courtroom. I couldn’t care less if old Billy Ray gets Granddad Bobby Joe’s farmland.” I spit the last words in the worst southern accent I could muster. “I came here to work, and if you don’t want to do that, then I’ll stop unpacking and head back to Illinois. Just say the damn word.”

      She turned, silent except for the stomp of her heels, and slammed her way out the front door.

      Chapter 3

      The thing with Rory… She’d always walked out on arguments, and though she had some sort of super genius brainpower, I never understood how she planned to be an attorney if she left all her verbal wars hanging in midair. We lived for verbal wars.

      Instead of dwelling on it, I put my head down and unpacked, ignoring the rumbling in my stomach. I couldn’t decide if the intense and almost painful growling in there stemmed from hunger or the fact that I was unpacking books that would require repacking if Rory and I couldn’t work this out. I folded the last box, set it on the pile with the others, then strolled to the window.

      Rory had decorated our offices in my absence and pulled out all the stops putting together a bunch of thrift store finds into a space that proved form and function could be cohesive and attractive. The black and white color scheme flowed from the reception area into our shared office. In the reception area, black and white guest chairs provided seating for the clients we would one day have, and a crystal chandelier gave off starbursts of light. Black lacquered desks with white wingback chairs provided the focal point in our offices. She’d put some time in painting and selecting the perfect photos for the walls. Still, it felt more like the waiting room in a dress shop than a lawyer’s office.

      I made my way around a settee between the bookshelves as my stomach, once again, roared. “All right already. I’ll find a store.”

      Our office, convenient in its main street location, sat across from the police station, and in an inspired bit of humor by the town's planning commission, a donut shop. Down the street, lights glowed in the windows of the businesses that hadn’t closed up shop for the night. From my spot, I could see a dress and hat shop, an antique store, a beauty shop, pharmacy, and bookstore. Hunting for a grocery store gave me the perfect opportunity to roam around and see what the town was all about.

      I picked up the key taped to the inner side of the front door with the note “Our new home” attached and locked the office behind me before stepping onto the sidewalk. Park benches with quaint flowerpots on each end ate the space between gaslight lamps lining the bricked sidewalk. The streets, instead of concrete paving, wove an uneven path of cobblestones that turned around a curve toward my new apartment.

      Leaving my car where it sat, I walked three store spaces--an old-fashioned ice cream soda shop, a craft store, and a photographer’s studio--to the market.

      A bell jingled over my head as I stepped back in time twenty or thirty years. Definitely not of the super-store, big box variety with bright fluorescent lights and large rolling baskets, this one was comprised of short, glass front freezers and skinny aisles. Refrigerators stretched down one wall, and boxed and canned goods lined shelves through the center.

      Not blessed with any sort of culinary gifts, I passed the fresh meat section, veering instead to the frozen pizza cooler. I snatched up a small pepperoni and sausage, said a silent prayer of gratitude for the creator of such wares, then roamed until I had two arms full of food. Hunger shopping.

      A metal can of coffee escaped from my tilted pyramid of future hours in the gym and rolled down the aisle in front of me. I secured my purchases with one hand, then reached out in front of me with the other, wishing I possessed the magical power to stop the can’s forward motion with the will of my mind. Since I had no such skill, I chased the rolling Folgers until it came to a stop under the raised toe of a masculine and well-worn boot.

      My gaze started at the boot, then ventured up a long leg, across a flat stomach and wide chest to the prettiest brown--no, chocolate colored--eyes I’d ever seen. I straightened up in a motion designed by the Cosmopolitan flirts of the world to be seductive, sexy even, but instead sent the rest of my groceries into a slow-motion cascade down my body. My arms flailed in a Funniest Home Videos attempt to save any item I could snatch from impending doom, but I ended up grabbing nothing more than air.

      Heat raced along my nerve endings, probably singeing my hair as I death dropped to my knees to scoop up my purchases. He stooped next to me and gathered a bag of cookies and the package of condoms I’d picked up on a whim.

      “Ribbed for my pleasure.” My voice squeaked and my eyes closed as I tucked the small box tight against my chest. Ribbed? For my pleasure? Oh, Lord.

      “I like a girl who plans ahead.” He chuckled and took my elbow as we straightened. “You must be Grace.”

      I cocked my head to one side, then nodded. Of course. Small town. Big gossip.

      “I’ve known Rory for years, and you’re the only thing she has talked about all week.”

      Oh, the accent. Every sound curved as it fell from his lips. Perfect, kissable lips.

      Brushing a city girl case of weird stalker fear aside, I stretched my fingers out from beneath my groceries, and the pile wobbled a little to the left before coming to rest neatly against my chest. Warmth traveled its way up my arm as his hand clasped mine. He held on a few seconds longer than necessary, ending with a little squeeze at the end of the simple touch. “And…and you’re…?”

      “Blane Chandler.” In a motion so smooth I hardly realized it happened, he relieved me of my groceries, set them atop a line of boxed instant potatoes in a perfectly stable tower of junk food, then laced his fingers through mine. “Come with me.”

      “No.” I wrenched free and reached for my stuff, unimpressed by the caveman act.

      With the gentle touch of his hand on my arm, electricity tingled along my skin. “Come on. Take a chance. It’s just dinner.”

      I must have made some sign of assent, because he tugged my hand, pulling me down the aisle and out the door СКАЧАТЬ