Confess (Sin City Salvation 1)

Ace narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “That’s not the deal, kid. Ain’t gonna happen.”

“Are you crazy?” I asked Birdie. “You know I wouldn’t let you do that. Stay out of this, B.”

“God, Gypsy.” She wiped at her tear smudged face and turned her angry blue eyes on me. “I’m not a kid, okay? I screwed up, and I should be the one to pay for it. You can’t fix everything for me all the time. Do you get that?”

“Obviously,” I snapped. “Because everything I’ve done to protect you has completely gone to shit now. How could you do this to me? After everything I’ve done to make us a home here, how could you just throw it all away?”

Regret welled in her eyes, and she looked at the floor. “I just wanted to be like you.”

Her words gutted me, and I knew she was right. This was my fault. I hadn’t shown her the way to live. I’d managed to get by with the idea that I’d done the best I could with what I’d been given, but that wasn’t an excuse. My eyes burned so deep with shame, it nearly spilled free. But I couldn’t allow that to happen.

Birdie had to know I was strong. She had to know I could handle this. I would fix it. I always did. I forced myself to hug her, and she cried harder.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, B. I should have done better. I will do better from now on.”

“It’s not your fault,” she insisted.

We broke apart, and I fixed the messy hair around her face as Ace walked to the fridge and grabbed a six-pack of beer he must have brought with him.

“Women,” he muttered.

“What are you doing?” I asked as he plopped on the couch, kicking his dirty boots up onto my Italian mahogany coffee table.

He reached for the remote and turned on the television. “Making myself at home. It’s going to be a long three days.”

I stared at him incredulously. “You think you’re staying here for the next three days?”

He flipped through the channels without regard to my frustration. “It’s either that or I take her with me as collateral until your decision is made.”

I jabbed a finger in his direction. “Over my dead body.”

He didn’t bother to look at me as he settled back into the sofa and got comfortable. “It’s your funeral then.”

I didn’t think he was serious about killing me, but then again, how could I be sure of anything? I turned to Birdie, who was obviously terrified even though she was trying to put on a brave face.

“It’s going to be okay,” I promised her.

“How?” she whispered.

I looked at Ace and forced the words out with a smile for her benefit.

“I’ll think of something. I always do.”

AFTER CLEARING SECURITY AT CLARK County Detention Center, the guard escorted me to a private room reserved for attorney-client meetings.

While I waited for my next client to be brought in, I went over my case notes and organized my thoughts. This was shaping up to be another high-profile case, and there was no doubt in my mind the media would hang my client out to dry.

Emmanuel Morales was another victim of an overzealous prosecutor and shitty detective work. The kid was only twenty. He still had his whole life ahead of him, yet the public’s already skewed perception of him would justify him rotting in a cell for the remainder of it.

The only thing they saw was the pretty face of the nineteen-year-old girl who had been murdered and the man accused in bold print beside the photos. So far, the witness accounts were contradictory at best, and the evidence was circumstantial. But it didn’t matter because a neighbor swore she saw a Hispanic man lurking around the victim’s home, and that man soon took the shape of Emmanuel Morales.

Signed, sealed, delivered.

In these situations, I was almost always portrayed as the villain. But the truth was that what the public thought of me didn’t matter. What mattered was that this was the worst week of Emmanuel’s life, and he needed an ally. Not because he was a potential criminal, but because he was human, and he deserved a fair shot at justice.

When the guard brought him into the room, he looked just as terrified as the first day I met with him. He hadn’t even made it to real prison yet, and I had serious doubts about his ability to survive in here.

“Emmanuel.” I met his gaze as he sat across the table. “How are you doing?”

He shrugged, but there was a tremor in his lip when he spoke. “I don’t know. This place is kinda crazy, ya know?”

“I know,” I told him. “But you’re here, and that’s the reality of the situation. So, I’ll tell you what we’re both going to do, all right?”