“Diagnostically speaking, she’s an obsessive–compulsive sociopath with homicidal tendencies.”
“And if you had to describe her personally?”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to.” He bit his lips together.
“She’s your sister-in-law.”
“I know.”
“Come on, Mason. Tell me what you think.”
“I’m not allowed to.”
“By dictate of your profession or your wife?”
“Both.” He took in a deep breath. “Just be careful, okay? Shelly has a way of being whatever you need her to be when you need her to be it. She’s like a chameleon and she can fit into any situation, anywhere, anytime. But you should never let your guard down. Never.”
“Why did you set me up, if you had all these concerns?”
“I don’t know anyone else who could handle her, honestly. She wants a real life, and she’s never been allowed to have one. She’s had privilege, she’s had heartache, and she’s suffered. She’s never had a chance for a lot of happiness. Hell, I think she’d settle for contentment. I think she might find that in a job. And I don’t know anyone else who might accept all those things that she is and just…let her be her. Maybe even like her. As a friend. Just as a friend,” he rushed to say when I began to protest. “No one else knows everything about her. You’re not going into this blind. You’re aware. And you need help. She can help. Let her give normal a shot, will you?”
I stood up and smacked my file lightly against my palm. “Thanks for looking at this. I appreciate it.”
I left without looking back.
One thing I knew for sure was that Shelly Punter could never be normal. Not in her lifetime. Not in mine. Not ever. She was too far gone. She’d seen too much, done too much, and she had too many scars. They would chafe at her for the rest of her life. Just like mine.
Chapter 8
Clark
“I want you to find my son,” the woman said as she perched on the edge of her chair, directly across from my desk. My desk was clear of papers and clutter, and that alone was distracting. But even worse than that was the lady who wanted me to find her son. He’d escaped from prison two months ago. He’d been on the run ever since.
“I’m pretty sure that the police are already looking for your son,” I reminded her.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” She gnawed on her lower lip. “My son is innocent,” she rushed to add.
That’s what they all said. They were innocent, right until the point where someone proved they weren’t.
“I need for you to find him before they do.”
“For what purpose?”
She appeared confused. “Because I love him and want to be sure he’s all right.”
Of course he wasn’t all right. He was running from the law. “What makes you think he’s innocent?”
“My son is not a killer.” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He loved that girl. He didn’t do it. He was framed.”
Of course he was. My temple began to thump, and I knew a headache would be forthcoming, a bigger one than the one that sat across from my desk. I needed some pain relief, and my bottle of anti-inflammatory was in the bathroom cabinet. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” I said absently as I got to my feet. My side still ached from last night, and today had been a royal shit show. This lady wasn’t making it any better.
“Of course,” she said quietly. She scooted back in her chair so that her arms no longer rested on my desk.
I got up and went to the bathroom, and then I stopped to splash some water on my face.