Falling for a Faceoff

Disclaimer: This is currently an unedited first chapter of the book and subject to change. 🙂 

CHAPTER ONE

SHELBY

Question: How many lawyers does it take to keep track of one sixteen-year-old girl?

Answer: Apparently more than one, because I’m only three months in and already suck at this whole parenting thing. Just like Mom said I would.

I stretch in my office chair until my back gives a satisfying crack, then glance at my cell phone for, oh I don’t know, only the eighty or ninety bajillionth time this evening. My irresponsible little sister still hasn’t texted me back.

Did I forget to press send? I recheck our text thread because maybe I just thought I sent it. But nope, my message remains delivered. Just like the last four times I looked.

Freaking sisters.

I should stop obsessing over Mikayla’s lack of communication and instead concentrate on replying to the forty-eight emails demanding my attention. Don’t even get me started on the will I need to draft and the trust I promised I’d revise and resubmit by tomorrow morning. It’s already seven o’clock and I’ve still got hours of work ahead of me.

Mikayla should have been home by five.

The entire firm is overworked at the moment. Last month, one of the senior partners got arrested—for taking out a hit on a client.

I wish I was kidding. The whole thing has been so patently Hollywood that it’s hard to accept it’s real life.

So yeah, now we’re all under a magnifying glass, which means everyone’s on high alert. I’m quintuple-checking everything I do, just to make sure, which means I really, really, really don’t have time for Mikayla’s nonsense. 

I swipe my phone screen, bringing it back to life. Text from me still sent. Text still unread.

My anger is boiling over into a worry I don’t know how to handle. I had no idea navigating the sudden change from sister to parent would be this hard.

If Mikayla is lounging at home right now, watching whatever teen drama she currently loves while her phone sits on silent from school, I’m going to kill her. Hyperbolically, of course. The firm can’t weather another scandal right now.

If she’s lying dead in a ditch somewhere, I’m going to feel so bad for all of these angry thoughts.

I try to focus on the dull blue glow of my computer screen instead of my increasingly circular thought spiral, but the silence is loud in my tiny office. Outside my door, the clack of keyboards from those in the cubicles sounds like an out-of-tune orchestra. Fluorescent lights shine across the commercial-grade carpet in my office, highlighting the Diet Dr. Pepper stain next to my desk from when I knocked my drink tumbler over last week.

Maybe I forgot to turn up the sound on my notifications? I press the volume button, but everything is still at one hundred percent.

“Stop, Shelby.” The words are barely louder than a whisper, but my former therapist said that verbally interrupting my thought patterns is a good coping tool. She’s either misinformed or a liar, though, because it’s not working.

I push away from my desk and jog in place, making sure I’m out of the line of sight of those in the cubicles. Sometimes physical movement helps.

Mikayla was supposed to go straight home after cheerleading practice. That was two hours ago. Bottom line? It’s my responsibility to keep tabs on her and I have no idea where she is. Maybe her best friend’s house? Or the house of her recently-ex boyfriend? I’m just now realizing I don’t know where either of them live. That’s probably information I should have asked for.

I am so out of my depth with Mikayla that it’s not even funny. Why on earth did I let her convince me, with those puppy-dog eyes and hands clasped in prayer, to let her move in? I’m doing an even worse job than Mom, the woman who accepted an overseas promotion four months ago without consulting her daughter, the high school sophomore she’d be ripping away from everything familiar.

I didn’t think it was possible to do a worse job than Mom. That’s why I agreed to let Mikayla live with me so she could finish out high school here. I’d stupidly thought she’d be so grateful I’d taken her in that she’d be super chill and easy.

There has been zero chill since she moved in with me three months ago. Zero. Chill.

I sink back into my chair, determined to focus on work. If I haven’t heard from her in the next thirty minutes, I’ll go searching.

There’s a new email in my inbox from my direct boss, Mr. McKinley. He’s one of the senior partners at the firm, and I’m beyond lucky to work under him, especially since I’m only a first-year associate. I’ve already learned a ton from The Dragon. He’s a stickler for perfection and doesn’t put up with anyone’s crap, but he’s also fair and only criticizes my work when it’s warranted.

I hope this email isn’t a criticism. My mind rolls over everything I’ve done in the past two weeks, trying to find some bow I missed tying, some crack I didn’t fill. Nothing comes to mind, but I’ve been distracted since Mikayla moved in, and all the senior partners are on edge thanks to the arrest. Hopefully this email is some innocuous request, like please grab muffins from Costco before work tomorrow.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: New assignment 

Shelby,

I was just notified that one of our VIP clients passed away four days ago. His will has very specific terms required of the heir, and I’d like you to oversee the heir’s execution of these tasks. I’ll explain more in the morning, but this will be your priority for the next six months. Our client indicated in prior meetings that his heir may be reluctant to meet the terms of the will—

My phone rings shrilly, skittering across my desk from the vibrations. I snatch it up, expecting to see Mikayla’s name, but an unknown number flashes across the screen.

The second I find her, I’m downloading one of those location tracking apps to her phone. And she’s on kitchen duty for the next decade. 

I almost decline the call. It’s probably spam, and I’m not in the mood for a telemarketer right now. But my finger hovers over the button, hesitating.

Adults in charge of minors probably aren’t supposed to ignore calls from unknown numbers. Right? Mikayla might be in trouble. What if she fell during cheerleading practice and is at the hospital with a brain bleed? This could be her doctor calling to notify me.

Fear and guilt battle for dominance, their cold tendrils squeezing out all rational thought. I am such a terrible parent. Here I’ve been mad at Mikayla when I should have been worried. Why do I always jump to the worst possible conclusions?

I accept the call before it can go to voice mail, already berating myself for not keeping a better eye on my sister.

“Hello?”

It’s probably nothing. Surely the school would have called if she got hurt in practice, and their number is in my contacts.

“Shelby?”

It’s a masculine voice, which is more than a little unexpected. Neither Mikayla or I have talked to our fathers in years—Mom sure knows how to pick ‘em—and I haven’t had a date since breaking up with my law school boyfriend. Who has time for relationships, anyway? Definitely not me.

But this voice almost sounds familiar. A memory stirs at the back of my mind, but it’s too fuzzy to place.

“This is she,” I say warily.

“It’s Rick Applewood.”

I thrum my fingers against the desk. This is so embarrassing. This man clearly knows who I am, but for the life of me, I cannot place his definitely familiar-sounding name.

I’m about to admit defeat and just ask him when it hits me.

Um, why in the actual flip is my mom’s ex-boyfriend calling me?

“Rick,” I say uneasily. “Of course. Long time, no talk.”

“Yeah, it’s been a few years.”

Rick is one of the good ones, so of course he didn’t stick around for long. Nice guys like to date nice women, and Mom’s only nice on the surface. It’s been maybe two or three years since they broke up? I was in the thick of law school so wasn’t around much when they were together. But Mikayla liked him, which made me like him, and he was always kind and respectful when we interacted.

The silence stretches between us, more uncomfortable than a pair of control-top underwear. I can’t take it anymore. “So, um, what can I do for you?”

Since passing the bar, I’ve gotten a few calls from old friends and acquaintances wanting free legal advice. Most of them don’t realize that I work in probate, wills, and trusts—I couldn’t get them out of a speeding ticket even if I wanted to, and I definitely can’t help their best friend’s cousin’s hairdresser’s son who’s been booked on drug possession charges. 

Rick sighs deeply, as though sensing my thoughts. It’s a sigh that says I do not want to talk to you. Which is a little insulting, because he’s the one who contacted me.

“Listen, Shelby. This isn’t a social call.”

“Yeah, I figured.” At least we’re finally getting to the meat and potatoes of this conversation.

Rick doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would hit up his ex-girlfriend’s daughter for a favor, but it’s not like I know him that well. What was his job? I can’t remember, but it was something noble, if memory serves. Maybe a teacher?

“I don’t know if your mom ever told you, but I’m a police officer for Draper City.”

And that’s when it hits me—the reason he called. I sink back into my chair, mind racing and hands shaking. Why else would a police officer I sort of know call me? 

I can’t believe Mom will get to say, “I told you so.”

“I’ve got your sister, Mikayla, here with me,” Rick says, confirming my worst fears. “I probably should have called your mother, but, well, Mikayla says you’re her legal guardian now, and I know you care.”

He doesn’t say it, but the unspoken end of that sentence hangs in the air. I know you care… unlike your mother. And because I love my sister, I’m the one who will have to handle this, whatever this is.

I am going to kill Mikayla. Call the homicide detectives, make a chalk outline, put up some crime tape kill her. Whatever reason she’s with Mom’s Ex the Police Officer, I know it isn’t good—and is probably my sister’s fault.

With one hand, I shut the lid of my laptop and wrestle it into my bag. “What did she do?”

The discomfort in Rick’s voice is enough to make me crawl into a hole and never reemerge. “She got caught egging someone’s house and the homeowner called us.”

My hand stills on my bag’s zipper. The homeowner called the police—for egging? It’s a stupid, obnoxious teenage prank, sure, but it’s hardly a criminal offense that necessitates law enforcement.

Of course Mikayla would target the home of the most unreasonable homeowner in the history of ever.

“Is he pressing charges?” I ask.

If he does, I am going to more than ground her. I’ll make sure she spends the next three years scrubbing toilets. Because playing lawyer for my delinquent sister? It’s beyond humiliating. Mom will never let me hear the end of it.

And of course I’ll pull the lawyer card if it’ll get her out of trouble. She needs consequences, not a criminal record.

“He’s pretty upset, but my partner is trying to talk him down,” Rick says. “Look, I know Mikayla is a good kid. She’s a minor with no priors, so of course we don’t want to arrest her. I know you can handle this at home, and that’s what we’re trying to convince the owner of.”

White-hot anger races up my spine, and I’m not sure who it’s directed toward—Mikayla, or the jerk who wants to prosecute a sixteen-year-old over a few windows splattered with egg. 

“Thank you so much for calling me instead of booking her, Rick.” I’m already walking out of my office, bag slung over one shoulder. I barely acknowledge my coworkers in their cubicles, intent on the conversation at hand. “I’m on my way. Where are you?”

“On the bench in Draper, up near the summit. Want me to text you the address?”

That and the number for a good wilderness survival camp. Maybe a doctor who can prescribe me a sedative. Right now, I’m not sure what I need. What Mikayla needs.

I swallow back the lump in my throat. Because that’s not true—I know exactly what Mikayla needs. She needs a mother. Just not ours.

“That would be great,” I say. “My office is in Traverse Mountain, so it shouldn’t take me long to get there.”

A moment later, a buzz sounds in my ear, and I verify that it’s the text.

“Got it. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I’m taking the stairs at a jog, since I don’t have the patience to wait for an elevator. “Please don’t take her to the station until I can talk to the owners.”

Maybe, once they realize I’m a lawyer, they’ll back down and let Mikayla off with a slap on the wrist.

What was she thinking? And whose house was she egging, anyway? Those kinds of antics are dumb enough on Halloween, but it’s November first. She’s way out of line.

“I’ll wait with her here,” Rick says. “See you soon.”

I shove my phone in my pocket and pick up the pace, gritting my teeth. He’ll see me soon, alright. He’ll see me, I’ll see Mikayla, and Mikayla will see nothing but a long list of chores for the rest of her life.