Sustained (The Legal Briefs 2)

I shake my head. “Lawyer.”

“I’m Rory.”

“Rory what?”

“McQuaid.”

I look him over. White button-down shirt, beige pants—a private-school uniform. Add in the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar sneakers and J.Crew backpack and I have to ask, “Why’d you steal my wallet, Rory McQuaid?”

He kicks at the pavement. “I don’t know.”

Of course he doesn’t.

His shoulders lift. “Just to see if I could do it, I guess.”

Here’s the moment when I wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do with him now. Keeping him out of the system feels like the right move, but letting him skate scot-free doesn’t. He needs to learn stupid actions have consequences—bad ones—and he needs to know it now. If not, there’ll be worse decisions in his future, with more severe penalties than he’ll be able to pay.

I gesture with my hand toward the end of the block. “All right, let’s go.”

Rory stays right where he is. “I’m not going anywhere with you. You could be a child molester.”

I scowl. “I’m not a child molester.”

“Said every child molester ever.”

My eyebrows rise. “A pickpocket and a smartass, huh? Perfect. Must be my lucky day.” I raise my arm toward the end of the block. “I’m driving you home. I’ll tell your parents what you did, and they’ll deal with you.”

My mother used to get frequent house calls in the same vein—from teachers, guidance counselors, benevolent police officers. It never changed my attitude or my fucked-up behavior, but she always appreciated knowing what her son was really up to, even though she had to work too many hours to do anything about it.

A shadow falls over Rory’s face. “You don’t have to do that. I’m not going to steal anymore.”

“Said every thief ever.”

That gets a short, grudging laugh out of him. But he still hesitates.

“Look, kid, either I take you home and you face the music with your parents, or I bring Officer Noblecky back over here. It’s your call.”

He kicks at the sidewalk again and curses under his breath. Then he hoists his backpack higher on his shoulder and meets my eyes. “Where’s your car?”

• • •

When we get to my Mustang, Rory climbs into the backseat and buckles his seat belt without being told. He gives me his address—only about ten miles outside the city—and we head out.

“Is your name really Becker?” he asks after a few minutes.

I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Yeah—Jake Becker.” Then I ask a question of my own. “How old are you, kid?”

“I’ll be ten in five months.”

I nod slowly. “Also known as nine.”

He smirks. “And you called me a smartass.”

Otherwise, he’s quiet during the drive, staring out the window. But after we turn off Rock Creek Parkway, when huge, ancient oak trees line the road and the street names turn to Whitehaven, Foxboro, and Hampshire, and the driveways become gated and long, Rory turns even more sullen. It comes off him in brooding, hostile waves, in the clench of his hand and the tensing of his shoulders.

“They’re not gonna come down too hard on you, are they?”

I mean his parents. Just because he seems to be well-fed, clean, and injury free doesn’t mean it’s impossible that something more sinister might be waiting for him at home.

“No,” he answers without fear. “I’ll be fine.”

When I pull up to Rory’s address, the wrought-iron gate opens automatically. The extensive driveway is flanked by lampposts and cherry trees and curves around into a horseshoe. The house is a majestic brick Georgian, completely restored with black shutters and detailed white moldings around its fourteen windows. There’s a three-car attached garage, a large front courtyard surrounded by a natural-stone wall, and bright green shrubbery.

I kill the engine and stare at the house, thinking he might be trying to pull one over on me. “You live here?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you, like, the gardener’s kid?”

Rory frowns with confusion. “No. It’s my parents’ house.” Then, softer, under his breath, “Was . . .”

He doesn’t elaborate but instead hops out of the car, backpack in tow. I take long strides to catch up and we stand before the massive oak door. I put my hand on the back of his neck, just to be ready in case he makes a run for it. Then I ring the doorbell.

A protracted string of yappy barks ensues immediately after. There’s a shuffling from inside, then the door swings open.

And the air rushes out of my lungs.

She’s five five, maybe five six, with long, toned legs in snug black leggings. The outline of a trim waist teases beneath the cotton blouse, with buttons at the top that strain to encase full, firm, perfect breasts. Her neck is elegant, creamy pale, and her face—Jesus—it puts the Victoria’s Secret Angels to shame. A stubborn chin; high cheekbones; plump, ripe, gloss-free lips; an impish nose; and two ice-blue eyes that sparkle like fucking diamonds on a sunny winter day. Multifaceted auburn hair is piled high on her head, with a few escaping strands around her face. Dark-rimmed, square glasses frame those striking eyes, giving a sexy-academic, sultry-librarian kind of impression.

I try to swallow, but my mouth just went dry.

“Rory,” she breathes with relief, focusing on the boy beside me. And then she’s pissed. “Where have you been? You were supposed to be home hours ago! And why isn’t your phone on?”

The kid pulls out of my grasp, walks across the black-and-white-tiled foyer, and marches straight up the stairs, not even looking at her.

“Rory! Hey!” she calls after him. Futilely.

Her knuckles turn white where they grip the door frame, then she turns to me. “Hello?”

It’s more of a question than a greeting.

“Hi,” I respond, just staring. Enjoying the view.

Fuck, I’m horny.

Then I shake my head, snapping out of the idiot stupor of being denied sex for too long.

I start again, extending my hand. “Hi. I’m Jake Becker. I’m an attorney.” It’s always good to volunteer this fact because—as with police officers—there’s an instant trust that’s afforded to those of us in legal professions, even if it’s not always deserved.

“Chelsea McQuaid.” My hand encapsulates her small one as she shakes it with a warm, firm grip.

“I drove Rory home.”

Her head tilts and her lips purse with suspicious curiosity. “Really?”

“I need to speak with you about your son, Mrs. McQuaid,” I tell her, going with the most logical connection between her and the would-be thief.

Her eyes examine me and I can see the judging wheels turning. Debating whether to, in this day and age, let an imposing, unknown man into her house. I have no doubt that my expensive suit and dark good looks help tip the scales in my favor.

“All right.” She steps back. “Please come in, Mr. Becker.”

I step over the threshold. “Jake, please.” She closes the door behind me, reaching up to engage a child safety lock at the top. Then a tiny blur of long caramel-and-chocolate fur surges out from behind her and pounces on my shoes, sniffing and barking, sticking out its chest and snarling.

A clear case of small-dog syndrome if I ever saw one.

“It, stop it!” Chelsea scolds.

The corner of my mouth quirks. “Your dog’s name is It?”

“Yeah.” She smiles. And it’s fucking stunning. “Cousin It. Like The Addams Family?”

It gets more riled, looking like a mop gone insane.

I meet her eyes. “About your son—”

“Nephew, actually. I’m Rory’s aunt.”

My ears perk up. Because by the look of her naked hand, there’s a good chance she’s Rory’s single aunt.

Best news I’ve heard all damn day.

A baby’s wail comes from another room, piercing and demanding. Chelsea

turns her head. “Could you come with me? I have to . . .”

She’s already walking and I’m right behind her.

We pass by the arched entryways of a library and a conservatory with a grand piano, then go into a spacious den with a huge fireplace and cathedral ceiling. The furnishings are tasteful and clean but in earth tones, warm. Dozens of framed photographs of children cover every wall. Chelsea pushes through a door into the kitchen, where the crying gets louder.

The kitchen is about the size of my whole apartment. It has hardwood floors, mahogany cabinets, and a granite-countered center island with a second sink, and it’s chock-full of stainless-steel appliances. A round kitchen table for eight fits in an alcove backed by French doors that open out to a stone patio and garden, with a cobblestone path that leads to an inground pool farther back.

An infant seat sits inside a mesh portable crib beside the island with a vocal, unhappy passenger. “Here ya go, sweetie,” Chelsea coos, bending over to pick up the pacifier that’s fallen to the baby’s stomach and plugging it back into his mouth.

At least I think it’s a him—it’s wearing dark blue pants and a shirt with boats on it, so, yeah, it’s male. She caresses his blond, peach-fuzzy head and the crying is replaced with satisfied sucking.

An immense silver pot bubbles on the stove and the air smells of heat and broth.