States of Grace by Mandy Miller (top 100 books of all time checklist .TXT) 📕

Hightower shrugs. “Maybe. But there will be others.”

“Many others. That’s the nice thing about working for the Man. Endless inventory.”

Waiting for the elevator, I spot Britt and Gretchen in a corner, seemingly deep in conversation. I wonder what the mother of a murder victim and the chief prosecutor might have to talk about.

Chapter 31

Weekends before criminal trials are all feel alike. Regardless of the case, the surreal sense that someone’s life is in your hands is humbling. That a jury of human beings will be charged with determining the fate of another, that their judgment will suffice to condemn or convict, is more than a little unsettling.

The phone vibrates.

“Grace Locke, speaking,” I say, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder.

“Locke, Hightower here.”

“You got that statement for me?”

To say the silence on the line is deafening would be an understatement. Likely only a second or two passes, but it feels like forever.

“Grace, Detective Sorenson took the statement, but—”

“But what?” I spring up and pace around like a rat in a maze, Miranda on my heels.

“You said your witness, Harper, would say he was with Ms. Slim in the St. Paul’s parking lot the morning Brandon Sinclair was murdered, but…” He draws in a sharp breath. “But the kid said he wasn’t.”

“What do you mean he wasn’t? Spit it out!”

“Joe Harper said he was in the library before first period. Not in the parking lot with the defendant.”

I grab the edge of the desk to keep from crumbling into a heap. “Wait. He told me he was with Zoe!”

Another long pause. “I’m sorry, he said he never told you any such thing. I’m sending over a copy of his sworn statement now, but I wanted to give you a heads-up.”

It’s probably all in my mind, but I swear I can hear him smiling.

“Are you still there?”

“Still here.”

“Look, I haven’t mentioned it before, because the case against your client is strong, but maybe you would consider—”

“No! I won’t consider a plea.”

Hightower clears his throat. “I don’t think I need to remind you, she’s only eighteen. She’d be out in—”

“No! No deal.”

***

“Wait here,” I say, as Vinnie rolls to a stop in front of St. Paul’s football complex, an über-modern stadium constructed of glass and steel worthy of any Division I college team. Friday Night Lights may conjure up images of dusty West Texas where there are only two things in abundance—oil and football fanatics. But Florida and football are as synonymous as Florida and orange juice, more professional players produced from its high schools and universities than any other state in the Union. And since Joe’s the star quarterback there’s only one place he’ll be on a fall Friday night—on the field. Although he won’t be expecting the post-game interview I’ve come for.

“You’re no fun. You said I was your investigator.”

Were my nerves not jangled, I might make a joke in response. But, the only thing on my mind is the deadly serious business of finding out why Joe Harper changed his damn story. Either he lied in the sworn statement he gave to Sonny, which is a crime. Or he lied to me at the funeral, which means Zoe also lied to me.

“Touchdown, St. Paul’s!” the announcer roars as I walk toward the locker room exit at the side of the stadium, where a few groupie girls are assembled, waiting for their gladiators to emerge.

“How long ’til the game’s over?” I ask a diminutive brunette in jeans so form-fitting her panty line is visible like a tourniquet.

She pulls a boulder-sized wad of pink bubble gum from her mouth with thumb and forefinger. “Only a few minutes. It’s the fourth quarter.”

I park myself against the wall outside the locker room to grab Joe before his attention gets diverted by the bevy of beauties. The girls peck at their phone screens and giggle, whispering in each other’s ears confidences which surely relate to boys. I’m envious I was never like them—pretty and popular and totally in the moment. My mind was always two steps ahead. On college, then law school. On war. On the future where I’d be married and happy and rich. On where my next drink would come from. Never on the frivolous joy of the here and now.

Joe emerges twenty minutes later, gear bag slung over his shoulder.

I lever myself off the wall. “Joe!”

He keeps moving.

I grab his arm. “Why’d you do it?”

“Let go of me!”

“Why’d you lie, Joe?”

“I didn’t lie,” he says, making a beeline for the parking lot.

I trail him, taking two steps for his every one. “You sure did. You either lied to me at the funeral or you lied to Detective Sorenson today. You do know lying to the police is a felony, don’t you? And lying to me. That may not be a felony, but it could have fatal consequences—like the execution of the wrong person, a girl who thought you were her friend. But you weren’t really, were you?”

He casts a furtive glance around the parking lot, and pulls me into a shadowy spot, out of reach of the beams from the lights lining the periphery of the parking lot.

“You seem nervous.”

“Yeah, well, so what?”

“Why would a big strong kid like you be nervous? Maybe you’ve got something to hide?”

He pushes me aside. “I never should have talked to you. Go away and leave me alone.”

“I’ll ask again—Why are you nervous?”

He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, making him look more child than man.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

He swallows hard several times as if he can’t catch his breath, his Adam’s apple rising and falling like the weight on a high striker at a carnival.

“I can’t talk to you.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t risk it,” he says, striding away.

“Risk what? Seems to me as if you’re not the one with a lot to lose, like Zoe.”

I run after him and block his way. “Look Joe, I don’t have the time for this. You need to tell me what’s