Family Law by Gin Phillips (phonics reading books .txt) 📕

with this person who they’d just claimed shouldn’t be allowed to see their own child unsupervised or ought to have mandatory drug testing, and every time she had secretly thought that those people were unbalanced. Still, she’d constructed a speech about how every marriage had low points and high points, and she’d warned plenty of clients that a low point wasn’t the same as an ending.

She still thought people were crazy who reconciled after hiring lawyers and drawing up custody schedules and screaming threats over the phone at each other. There was a point at which you could not go backward.

But maybe at times you could. And maybe it wasn’t even backward. Maybe it was an ebb and flow, and it all came together—not an exact science—and you had to trust that it would. It didn’t fully cohere, but there was her husband, disappearing into the darkness with her parents, likely still talking of traffic and green beans, and she kept watching the spot where she had last seen him.

Matthew and Essie said good-bye, and Lucia turned toward Evan’s Datsun, which was at the far end of the lot, separated from the street only by the sidewalk and a narrow patch of grass and dandelions. Her shoes were cutting into her feet, so she paused, lifting one foot to run a finger under the edge of the strap.

A car on the street pulled alongside her, and at first she thought it was parking in one of the parallel spots. She finished adjusting her shoe and headed down the sidewalk, and the car did not stop. It followed behind her, keeping pace. She could see the headlights and front fender from the corner of her eye, and she thought of bail hearings and rifles, and she thought that maybe her father was wiser than she had given him credit for. She thought, too, that if the shooter was in the car, she would very much like to see his face.

The line of cars exiting had finally cleared out, and Evan hadn’t returned. The catering staff seemed to have vanished en masse. The car crept along next to her, still barely in her peripheral vision. There was no one else in sight. She stepped into the broad bright circle of a streetlight, and she slowed her pace, because surely the light was preferable to the shadows. Some small degree of protection. She skimmed her hand along her purse strap, acting as if she were adjusting the weight. She dipped her fingers past the open zipper, feeling the edge of her wallet. The cap of a pen. Her checkbook. She felt the curve of metal as a woman called out her name.

“Lucia Gilbert,” the voice said. “I thought that was you.”

Lucia turned, her hand still in her purse. She didn’t recognize the driver. The two-door car was in shadows, and the woman had leaned across the passenger seat to roll down the window. She was sprawled across the front seat awkwardly, and Lucia could only see long dark hair. Then the woman turned her head, and her perfect face caught the streetlights.

Bo Derek cheeks.

“Donna?” Lucia said, dropping her hand to her side.

She hadn’t seen Donna Lambert since she’d told her to find a new lawyer. It was strange that her former client would stop to say hello on a downtown street after dark. They hadn’t parted on friendly terms. But no, that was not what was happening. The look on Donna’s face was not friendly.

“Are you going to do it?” Donna asked, faint lines creased between her symmetrical eyebrows. She had one hand on the window frame. The angle of her neck looked uncomfortable.

Lucia walked to the passenger side of the car, a pointy-nosed Mazda, and, of course, this woman had a red sports car. Lucia leaned down, nearly at eye level.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“Jerry wasn’t trying to hit anyone,” Donna said. “He lost his temper—I know that, and it’s a problem, honestly. But no one got hurt, and he never came near you again. He told me that. Afterward. Not that I knew anything beforehand.”

By the time she finished speaking, Lucia had pieced it together.

“Jerry was the man you were seeing in Atlanta,” she said.

“I thought you must know.”

“No,” said Lucia. “No. I didn’t know.”

Another car drove past, the headlights blinding for a moment. Somewhere in the darkness, a woman laughed. Lucia thought of glass breaking and the taste of carpet, of Rachel’s thick hair against her palm and the empty space where Evan had been standing.

She thought of the gun in her purse.

“I don’t understand the purpose of it,” she said. “I no longer represented you. I didn’t have anything to do with you. Was that the issue? You were mad at me for refusing to keep your case? He was mad at me for saying you shouldn’t see him? Is that really what was behind him nearly killing me—nearly killing my husband and a child?”

“I had nothing to do with it,” Donna said.

Lucia bent closer, ducking her head into the car. Donna pulled back, latching on to the steering wheel.

“He wouldn’t have known my name unless you told him,” Lucia said.

“Well, yes, I mentioned you. He obviously knew the name of my lawyer.”

Lucia breathed in and out.

“Why?” she managed.

“He didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“I asked you why.” She backed up and grabbed hold of the side mirror as she saw Donna glance at the gear shift. “Oh, don’t think about leaving now. Why did you stop if you didn’t want to talk to me? He shot six bullets into my house, Donna, and I never even met the man. I never even knew his last name. I think you can suffer through explaining why.”

The shadows played over the woman’s face, and she looked like some Pre-Raphaelite painting, all hair and lips. She gave every appearance of being desperate to escape, and yet she was the one who had stopped the car. Lucia wondered what she had planned.