Falling Harder (25 page)

“But...how?”

“You forget,” I say slowly, “That we happen to know a very
good lawyer, these days. I think I know exactly who we can turn to to save your
sorry ass.”

Chapter Twelve

Nadia

Late to Work

I stare up at the staggering monolith that is my place of
employment with mounting dread. With all the running around I’ve had to do this
morning, I’m a full hour late to work. Some people might be able to shrug off
one lapse in punctuality, but not me. Since I started at Brewer, Roberts, and
Santos, I’ve never been a minute late to the office. Hell, most days I’m there
fifteen minutes before everyone else. And of course, the one time I am tardy
happens to be during the biggest case of my career to date.

“Perfect,” I mutter to myself, “Just perfect.”

Hurrying through the building’s lobby, I struggle with my
armload of paperwork. After poring over all the information at hand, I’ve made
some connections that might lead to some cold, hard evidence. If we could just
identify one of the higher ups in the drug ring, I really think we could bring
the whole thing tumbling down. They’d never be able to recruit another young
man or woman to do their dirty work, risking their lives in the process. I
could keep these monsters from ruining any more lives, if I just had one more
little hint.

As I step out of the elevator, I can tell that something is
up in the office. Our doe-eyed receptionist Kayleen looks frenzied and
overwhelmed. Every line on her phone is blinking insistently, and she’s talking
a mile a minute to whoever’s on the other side of the present call. When she
sees me, she lets out the smallest sigh of relief.

“Excuse me, hold for a moment please,” she tells the caller.

“Kayleen, what’s going on?” I ask, “Did someone die or
something?”

“Where have you been all morning?” she replies. This is
certainly the most touchy I’ve ever seen her.

“I was...I got lost in the case file,” I lie through my
teeth.

“The partners have been going nuts waiting for you,” she
tells me.

My stomach tightens. I silenced my cell before my dinner
date at Trace’s last night, not wanting anything to interrupt us in case things
went...the way they did. Naturally, that means that along with alarm not going
off, I also wasn’t alerted to any frantic calls from my bosses.

“Well, I’m here now,” I smile gamely, “Is there anything I
should know?”

“They caught ‘em,” Kayleen whispers excitedly.

“Who caught who?” I ask.

“The ringleaders. From the case you’re working on. They got
busted!”

I have to steady myself against the reception desk. My
fingers tremble on the cool surface. “They were arrested?” I ask, breathlessly.

“Yes!” Kayleen all but squeals, “Isn’t that amazing news?”

I’m utterly torn between excitement and disappointment. Of
course it’s wonderful that these creeps have been brought in. But all the work
I put in toward identifying them just went out the window. Of course, there’s still
plenty of work to be done, preparing the case. There’s still more that I can
do.

“It’s incredible,” I finally reply.

“Faber!” says a stern voice. I turn to see Mr. Brewer
standing impatiently before me. “Where the hell were you this morning?”

I struggle against my tongue-tied blustering. Mr. Brewer is
an incredibly handsome, very intelligent man who happens to be allergic to
bullshit. I decide to spare him the excuses and jump to the chase.

“They were busted,” I say, clutching my files to my chest.

“Yes,” he replies, letting the corners of his mouth turn up
for the briefest moment, “Come on. The others are waiting.”

Mr. Brewer marches me to my office, where Mr. Santos and Mr.
Roberts have convened. They flank my desk, and I try not to think about how they
resemble executioners all of a sudden. Of all the freaking mornings to be late.

“Ah, you’ve decided to grace us with your presence,” Mr.
Santos says, crossing his arms across his chest.

“What do we know?” I answer, choosing not to take any
guilt-bait offered up to me.

“What we know is that four of the highest ranking members of
the drug ring in question have been arrested,” Mr. Roberts says.

“What we don’t know is the full nature of the ring and what
sort of charges must be brought against these criminals,” Mr. Brewer says,
“There were already a slew of charges from the start, but I’m sure there are
countless others.”

“We need to know the full scope of this operation,” Mr.
Santos says, “So our work is far from complete.”

“We were hoping to get cracking right away this morning,”
Mr. Brewer says, “But we were held up by your absence, Ms. Faber.”

I wince at his formal address. The partners always call me
simply by my last name unless they’re annoyed with me.

“I apologize,” I say, leveling with them, “I was wrapped up
in my research.”

“And yet, it’s the arrest itself that we’re working from,
rather than the fruits of your effort,” Mr. Santos says primly.

“Perhaps we sprung this case on you too soon after the Bud
McNally affair,” Mr. Roberts suggests, “You didn’t have time to get your mind
back in the right place for work.”

“If you think this is too much for you,” Mr. Brewer says,
“We can put somebody else on the case. We won’t hold it against you, though it
might interfere with a possible promotion in the near future.”

I draw myself up, struggling to stay calm. I can’t let this
case slip through my fingers, it’s far too important.

“I assure you,” I begin, “This morning was a one-time slip
up. In all the time I’ve worked for you, nothing like this has ever happened
before, and it won’t happen again.”

“Good,” Mr. Santos says, “Because we want to keep you on
this. Of course, the Feds will take over the bulk of the case, but we think
that there are damages to be won for the victims of this crime ring.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say, “The children and young
adults dragged into this mess deserve justice, above all.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Brewer says, “But in order to provide them
with that justice, we must know who they are first.”

“I’ve been making some connections from the information we
already have,” I tell them, “Filling in the identities of everyone involved.”

“A good start,” Mr. Santos says, “I think we can keep along
that line of investigation. We need to keep our focus on discovering who has
been harmed by the actions of these people. The prosecution will untangle all
the federal charges.”

“We’ve received some help from an anonymous source,” Mr.
Brewer tells me, “Some photographic evidence that might be very useful, moving
forward.”

“Excellent!” I exclaim, “What are the photos?”

“Someone trailed the ringleader, who goes by the name of
Skidmore,” Mr. Santos says, snatching a folder off of my desk. “Here are the
images we have to work with. Our notion is that they might provide some more
information about the identities of the players involved.”

I take the folder and move to my desk. Sinking down into the
chair, I let the file fall open as the partners stand before me. The first
image is of a staggeringly tall, broad man.

“That’s him,” I say.

“That’s him,” Mr. Brewer replies.

I move onto the next shot. It’s another photo of Skidmore on
his own, moving through the city. I wonder how our anonymous photographer
managed to get so close. I turn over image after image of the man, watching as
he interacts with different people, ostensibly his associates.

Flipping over a shot of Skidmore on his own once more, my
eyes fall on the following photo and freeze there. I feel my blood freeze in my
veins as the room spins wildly around me. There’s another man in this shot of
Skidmore, a man that I could never mistake.

It’s Trace, in the shot.

I stare at the photo, bewildered. My mind scrambles to
supply me with a million different narratives that absolve Trace of his
guilt-by association. This is probably just a coincidence. Maybe they’re
neighbors. It’s not necessarily related to the case, after all. Fervidly, I
flip through one shot after another, each one featuring Trace. As I go on, my
dread is realized. The conversation captured in these photos is far from
casual.

“Faber?”

I look up sharply and see the partners eyeing me. I’d almost
forgotten they were in the room with me.

“Yes. Sorry,” I reply.

“Seems to be your refrain this morning,” Mr. Santos
grumbles.

“Do you recognize any of the men in these photos? From your
research of course,” Mr. Brewer asks.

“I...” my words fail me for a moment, before falling from my
lips, “No. No, I haven’t seen any of these people before.”

I watch as my blatant lie is swallowed by my bosses. Sated,
they move to leave to me to my work.

“Stay on this, Faber,” Mr. Roberts says, closing the door
behind him.

A rush of air leaves my lungs the moment I’m alone.
Frantically, I flip back through the photos of Trace and Skidmore. This can’t
be happening. How could this possibly be? Trace would never get mixed up with
the likes of Skidmore and his cronies. Their entire business model rests on the
backs of vulnerable children. Children like me and my foster siblings. There
has to be an explanation here, something that I’m not seeing.

I jump as my desk phone begins to ring, and scramble to pick
up the receiver.

“Yes, Kayleen?” I prompt.

“There’s a man on the line for you,” she replies, “A Mr.
O’Conner?”

I brace myself against the desk. “Yes, put him through,” I
tell her.

The line clicks, and Trace’s voice filters through the line.
“Nadia,” he begins.

“You can’t be calling me here,” I say sharply, panic
beginning to rattle me.

“You weren’t picking up your cell,” he protests. “I need to
talk to you about something.”

“What a coincidence,” I say, “I need to have a little chat
with you myself.”

“Are you angry with me?” he asks, taken aback.

“Meet me by the lake, where we parted ways last time,” I
tell him, “We can’t have this conversation over the phone.”

I slam down the receiver and gather my things, sliding the
new photos into my tote bag. Trace needs to see for himself the world trouble
he’s gotten into. I slip through the office, praying not to be intercepted by
the partners. Luckily, I make it back to reception and push the elevator call
button a dozen times.

“Where are you going?” Kayleen asks.

“Just scouting out some information,” I reply vaguely as the
elevator arrives. “Be back in a minute.”

When I finally arrive at the park, Trace is already there
waiting for me. For a long moment, I stand at a distance. I want to savor these
last moments, where this new information doesn’t hang between us. But of
course, it can’t last.

“Nadia,” he says as I approach him. The wind off the lake
tousles his hair, and I can’t help but appreciate how stunning he looks framed
against the horizon. “Is something wrong? You sounded so upset on the phone. I
hope I didn’t—”

Unable to speak, I shove the folder containing the photos
into his hands. He looks at me quizzically and peers into the packet. Upon
seeing the very first picture, his face turns to stone. Every gorgeously built
muscle in his body tenses up. Suddenly, the potential energy locked in those
muscles frightens me. I’ve only seen Trace truly angry once, the night that
Paul attacked me. But now, looking over these pictures, that anger is making
itself known once more.

“Keep going,” I say quietly.

Trace flips through the pictures, growing more agitated by
the second. I hold my breath as he finally comes across his own visage in the
collection. The anger seething within him is met suddenly with something that
looks like horror. He stares at the shot of him and Skidmore, his jaw hanging
open.

“What...” he finally manages to say, “How could...This
isn’t...”

“I’m going to need you to be a little clearer than all
that,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around my waist.

Trace staggers over to the nearest park bench and sinks down
onto the cool metal frame. I perch beside him, watching as the enormity of the
situation washes over him. At the very least, he sees what a predicament he’s
in.

“I know that this isn’t what you want to hear,” Trace
begins, his voice hoarse, “But this isn’t what it looks like.”

“Really,” I reply, “Because it looks like you in a rather
heated conversation with a known drug kingpin.”

“Kingpin’s a bit much,” Trace scoffs, “Skidmore thinks he’s
far better at running the ring than he actually is.”

I stare at Trace, baffled and gutted. “Why the fuck do you
know anything about this operation?” I demand, “Are you—?”

“No, of course not,” he says hurriedly, reaching for my
hands. I pull them away from his grasp, unable to submit to his touch. “Nadia,”
he goes on, “I know Skidmore, but hardly in the present tense. Those photos?
That was the first time I’d seen him since I was eighteen.”

“Why did you know him at eighteen, then?” I press, blinking
back tears.

“I...” Trace flounders, “When Garrick and I got out of
juvie, we didn’t have a lot of options...”

“Oh my god,” I breathe, “You were...recruited by him?”

“Just for a year or so,” Trace goes on, “After that, we
figured out it wasn’t worth the money, good as it was. We watched far too many
mules get killed to stay in that game. Skidmore was a low-level player back
then. But...Why the fuck are we even talking about this? What does Skidmore
have to do with you?”

“It’s the case I’m working on,” I tell him.

“Christ,” he breathes, leaning back against the bench,
“Jesus H. Christ.”

“Trace, we’re trying to get reparations for the kids who
were taken advantage of in all this,” I say, “And you’re one of them.”

“I don’t want any reparations,” he tells me, “I don’t want
anything—”

“I was so worried,” I tell him, relieved tears clouding my
eyes, “I was so worried you were mixed up in all this again. We’ll have to
prove that you’re not, of course. But you haven’t—”