Praise for
MARTA PERRY

“Leah’s Choice, by Marta Perry, is a knowing and careful look into Amish culture and faith. A truly enjoyable reading experience.”

—Angela Hunt, New York Times bestselling author of Let Darkness Come

“Leah’s Choice takes us into the heart of Amish country and the Pennsylvania Dutch and shows us the struggles of the Amish community as the outside world continues to clash with the Plain ways. This is a story of grace and servitude as well as a story of difficult choices and heartbreaking realities. It touched my heart. I think the world of Amish fiction has found a new champion.”

—Lenora Worth, author of Code of Honor

“Marta Perry delivers a strong story of tension, fear and trepidation. Season of Secrets (4.5 stars) is an excellent mystery that’s certain to keep you in constant suspense. While love is a powerful entity in this story, danger is never too far behind.”

—RT Book Reviews, Top Pick

“In this beautifully told tale, Marta Perry writes with the gentle cadence and rich detail of someone who understands the Amish well. Leah’s Choice kept me reading long into the night.”

—Linda Goodnight, author of Finding Her Way Home

Marta Perry
Murder in Plain Sight

This story is dedicated to William and Carolyn Baillie, with thanks for your support. And, as always, to Brian, with much love.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to express my gratitude to all of those whose expertise, patience and generosity helped me in the writing of this book: to Erik Wesner, whose Amish America blog is enormously helpful; to Donald Kraybill and John Hostetler, whose books are the definitive works on Amish life; to my daughter-in-law, Karen Johnson, for legal advice; and to my family, for giving me a rich heritage on which to draw.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for choosing to read the first book in my new Amish suspense series set in the Pennsylvania Dutch country, which I know and love. I enjoy writing about the unique traditions of my native Pennsylvania, especially since I’m able to draw on my own Pennsylvania Dutch background.

The difficulties the Plain People face in dealing with the outside world’s legal institutions aren’t readily understood by our litigious society. It would be hard to find more law-abiding people than the Amish, but they do not easily turn to the law when things go wrong, perhaps because of their history of persecution by the law in Europe. They fled to Pennsylvania to escape that, forming communities that rarely have anything to do with the legal system. They don’t sue each other and are reluctant to seek legal help even when accused. It’s something that I’ve seen close-up from time to time in my area, and that experience, when outsiders had to step in to form a defense, has inspired this story.

I hope you’ll let me know how you feel about my book, and I’d love to send you a signed bookmark or my brochure of Pennsylvania Dutch recipes. You can write to me at HQN Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279, email me at marta@martaperry.com, or visit me on the web at www.martaperry.com.

Blessings,

Marta

The course of the righteous is like morning light, growing brighter until it is broad day; but the ways of the wicked are like darkness at night, and they do not know what has been their downfall.

—Proverbs 4:18–19

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

PROLOGUE

Amish Youth Arrested in Murder

SPRINGVILLE, PA—The body of a local woman was discovered early Sunday morning in a remote barn in rural Lancaster County. The woman, whom police say had apparently been beaten to death, has been identified as Cherry Wilson, 24, of Springville. Police have detained a young man who was found at the scene. Thomas Esch, 19, of Spring Township, son of a local Amish family, is being questioned in connection with the death. Police declined to say what the motive might have been in the grisly crime.

In what appears to be a related incident, an unidentified older woman was warned away from the suspect by police. She apparently attempted to interfere when the suspect was being taken into police headquarters. No further information about this incident was released by the police spokesperson.

CHAPTER ONE

A SUMMONS TO THE OFFICE of Dwight Henderson, senior partner in the Philadelphia law firm of Henderson, Dawes and Henderson, seldom resulted in good news for a junior associate, but Jessica Langdon didn’t intend to let her apprehension show. Assuming her most professional expression, she straightened her suit jacket with icy fingers then tapped lightly and opened the door.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Henderson?”

Henderson frowned across the expanse of a massive mahogany desk, balancing a gold fountain pen between his forefingers. He let the engraved pen drop to the desktop and nodded to the chair across from him.

The penalty box. That was how she’d thought of that seat recently. She sat, smoothing her skirt down over her knees.

Center City’s skyline, seen through a wide window, made an impressive backdrop, not that Henderson needed any help to impress. Over sixty, he had a heavily lined face that no expensive facial treatments could make resemble anything but a bulldog’s, a shining bald dome that reflected the light from the window, and a pair of remote, piercing dark eyes. Whatever his appearance said, he was a highly successful attorney whose clients could afford, and got, the best.

Jessica waited out the frowning silence that had such a demoralizing effect on reluctant witnesses on the few occasions when Henderson Senior deigned to appear in court himself. Henderson had summoned her. It was for him to speak first.

“Your time here has not been particularly successful, has it, Ms. Langdon?”

That didn’t seem to require an answer. Her heart sank. This was it, then. Termination. She tried not to think of her father’s reaction. A superior-court judge tended to expect better of his only child.

“After the business with the Clements boy…”

The Clements boy, as Henderson called him, was the sixteen-year-old scion of one of the firm’s wealthiest clients, currently embarked on an escalating pattern of vandalism and violence. Her comment that perhaps he should for once have to face the consequences of his actions had not been well received.

“…to say nothing of your failure in the Altmiller matter…”

She had to bite her tongue at that. Dwight Henderson Junior had dropped the ball in that situation, but it had been made abundantly clear that her duty was to accept the blame and say nothing. Dwight Henderson’s son could not possibly have mishandled a case. Junior associates fell on their swords.

“…only my respect for your father has allowed…”

Her father, Theodore Belmont Langdon, superior-court judge and law-school crony of Dwight Senior. His influence had secured this position for her, but it was apparently not enough to ensure that she stayed.

Henderson cleared his throat. “However, a case has come up which you’ve been requested to handle.” He shoved a file folder across the desk.

She was so astonished that his words took a moment to sink in. She picked up the folder by its edges. Some response seemed called for. “Yes, sir?”

“You’ll have to drive to Lancaster County immediately to deal with the matter. The Morgan family has decided to fund the defense for this unfortunate young man. Take your lead from them as to how to handle the case. It shouldn’t involve anything more complicated than negotiating a plea bargain.”

“May I ask—”

“That’s all, Ms. Langdon. Satisfy the Morgan family, and perhaps…”

He let that trail off, but she got the message. Perhaps we won’t be letting you go.

She’d like a little more information, but his peremptory gesture sent her to the door. She escaped, clutching the file to her chest. She’d have to trust that its contents could salvage the remnants of her career.

FACE IT—SHE WAS LOST. Jessica glared at the GPS system that was supposed to get her wherever she needed to go. It worked fine in Philadelphia, or out on the interstate. But once she’d gotten entangled in a network of narrow roads that wound past neat farms and through patches of woods, the system seemed to get as lost as she was. At the moment, it was blinking, its automated voice informing her that it was recalculating the route. Unfortunately, it had been doing so for the past ten minutes.

She slowed the car, pulling off onto the graveled verge, and reached for a map. Since she didn’t know where she was, it seemed unlikely that the map would help her much. The last road sign she’d seen had marked an even narrower road than this one, called Creek Road. No Creek Road appeared on the map. It was undoubtedly one of the many thin, unnamed lines that wound through Lancaster County, presumably connecting the apparently endless patchwork of dairy farms.

Propping the map against the steering wheel, she tried to find the spot at which she’d gotten off the main road. Following her prospective employer’s directions so far had resulted in nothing but trouble. She could only hope that wasn’t a portent of things to come.

A noise behind her brought her head up. If she could flag down a car and ask for directions—

But it wasn’t a car. A gray-and-black buggy came into view over the gentle rise of the road behind her, seeming to fit into the pastoral surroundings far better than her year-old hatchback. The horse’s hooves clopped rhythmically on the blacktop, slowing as the animal approached.

The faintest apprehension brushed her nape, and she shook it away. She was surely far safer here than on some of the city’s streets, strange though the equipage looked to her.

The buggy came to a halt next to her. She had to open her window and crane her neck to look up at the person who leaned down toward her.

The young woman’s face was framed by a black bonnet, oddly anachronistic. Her long-sleeved, dark green dress had a matching apron. Jessica had to remind herself that she’d been driving through Center City Philadelphia only a couple of hours ago. Beyond the woman, the man who held the buggy lines had the sort of haircut achieved by cutting around a bowl on the head, topped by a straw hat. Well, maybe their dress wasn’t that much stranger than that of the Goth couple she’d spotted yesterday, the woman wearing a studded leather dog collar around her neck.

“You are lost, ja?” The woman gave her a tentative smile. “Can we help?”

Her English was accented, almost singsong in quality, but understandable enough.

“Yes, thank you.” Did she sound relieved or desperate? “I’m not sure where I am. I’m trying to find an address off Dale Road near Springville.”

“Ach, you are not so very far wrong at all.” Her face broke into a smile. “I am Anna Mast, and this is my brother, Aaron. We are chust coming home from delivering eggs in Springville.”

“It’s not far, then?” Surely it couldn’t be, if these two had come from there in a buggy. “Can you give me directions?”

The brother leaned over, squishing his sister against the side of the seat. “Directions depend on how far along the road you are going already. Who are you going to see?”

Her ear must be adjusting to the dialect, because she could understand him even though his English was more heavily accented than his sister’s. She hesitated. Normally she wouldn’t give out information like that to a stranger, but these were not normal circumstances. If she didn’t want to spend what was left of the afternoon wandering these lanes, she’d better not alienate the only help that was offered.

“I have an appointment with Mrs. Geneva Morgan. Her address—”

“Ach, everyone knows the Morgans.” His face split in a grin, blue eyes crinkling. “Anyone would help a friend of Mrs. Morgan.”

His sister was nodding agreement. Evidently Mrs. Morgan was well-known in the area.

“You chust go down the road past the Stoltzfus farm—”

“She won’t know which is the Stoltzfus farm,” his sister said, elbowing him. “Go about a mile and you’ll see a big red barn on the left-hand side of the road. Turn right there—it’s the first paved road you come to. Follow that for about five miles, and it will take you to Dale Road. Then go left, and you’ll see the Morgans’ mailbox only a little piece down the road.”

“Right at the first paved road, go five miles, left on Dale Road,” she repeated.

“Ja, that’s it.” Anna beamed down at her.

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate your help.”

“It makes no trouble.” Aaron gestured her to go ahead of them, sitting back on the seat again.

“Well…goodbye.” It seemed an oddly abrupt way of ending a conversation, but what did she know about Amish ways?

She pulled back onto the road, lifting her hand in a wave, and watched the buggy recede in her rearview mirror. She’d just met her first Amish people. She could only hope that the boy she was supposed to defend was as cooperative as that pair.

LAST CHANCE. THE WORDS echoed in the back of Jessica’s mind as she got out of the car, squared her shoulders and headed for the door of a sprawling Pennsylvania farmhouse. The drive into the pastoral reaches of Lancaster County had taken longer than she’d expected even before she’d gotten lost, and she’d delayed leaving the city in an attempt to obtain a few more facts.

A futile attempt, as it turned out. The file had contained little to prepare her. It contained only the baldest listing of the defendant and the name and address of the woman who’d retained her. The Philadelphia paper hadn’t had much more.

She raised her hand to knock, but the door jerked open before her fist reached it. The introductory speech she’d so carefully prepared during the long drive vanished from her mind. The person who stood there could not be the woman who’d sent for her.

Tall, male, glowering. Definitely not someone named Geneva. The khakis and open-necked shirt said casual, but the square jaw and the fierce glint in the man’s golden-brown eyes said, “Keep out.” As if to reinforce the message, he braced one hand against the door frame, effectively stopping her from entering.

She’d faced worse in the courtroom, she reminded herself. “Good afternoon. I’m Jessica Langdon. I have an appointment with Geneva Morgan.”

He gave a short nod. “Blake Morgan. Geneva is my mother.”

Still he didn’t move, and his gaze was as frosty as if she’d just crawled out from a crack in the stone wall that surrounded the nearby flower bed overflowing with tulips and roses.

“Is Mrs. Morgan in?” She kept her tone polite but put a sliver of ice in it.

“Not at the moment.” Level brows drew together forbiddingly. “I’m sorry to tell you this after you’ve driven out from Philadelphia, but the family has decided we don’t require your services.”

The words hit her like a slap in the face. Was that a polite way of saying they didn’t think her competent? Mrs. Morgan wouldn’t have hired her in the first place if she thought that.

“There must be some misunderstanding. I spoke briefly to Mrs. Morgan just before I left the city, and I gave her my cell-phone number. Surely she would have called if she didn’t want me to come.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“Do you mind if we discuss this someplace other than the porch?”

He took a step back, with an air of giving ground reluctantly. “I suppose you can come in.”

But not for long, his body language said.

Jessica stepped into a center hallway, cool and shady after the June sunshine outside. Yellow roses spilled from a milk-glass pitcher on a marble-topped table, and a bentwood coatrack was topped with a wide-brimmed straw hat. Morgan gestured toward an archway to the right, and she walked through it.

In the moment before she faced the man again she had a quick impression of Oriental carpets against wide-planked wooden floors and ivory curtains pulled back from many-paned windows. The furniture was a mix of periods, comfortable and well-used but holding its beauty.

She faced Morgan, tilting her chin. He must top six feet, and his height gave him an unfair advantage. That, and the fact that he was on his home turf. Still, she was the professional, called in when things went wrong.

“Mrs. Morgan retained me to defend a client named Thomas Esch on a charge of murder. She asked me to come immediately, which I did. If you have decided on another attorney—” She let the thought hang. He owed her an explanation, and he must know it.

“It’s not a question of that,” he said quickly. “Not at all. We’ve simply decided that it’s wrong for us to be involved in the case. Naturally we expect to be billed for your time and trouble. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

It was an invitation to go. She didn’t take it. Blake Morgan had that air of command down to an art. He was the type you had to stand up to at the start or always be steamrolled, not that she expected to have enough of a relationship with him to care.

When she didn’t move, a glint of anger showed in his face. “I’ll have to ask you to leave now, Ms. Langdon.”

Fight back? Or roll quietly away and say goodbye to what was left of her career? Not much of a choice.

“I was retained by Geneva Morgan. If she no longer requires my services, I’ll have to hear it from her.”

His jaw hardened until it resembled one of the rocks in the stone fireplace that dominated one wall of the living room. “Thomas Esch is accused of a brutal murder. I don’t want my mother involved, even in the background, in such a thing.”

“Are you saying you speak for her?”

“Yes.” He bit off the word.

“Do you have a power of attorney to do so?”

His teeth seemed to grind together, and he leaned toward her. She’d scored, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what he’d say next.

Quick, light footsteps crossed the hall behind them. “Trey, my dear, there you are. You must have gotten the message wrong, dear, and that’s so unlike you.”

Jessica watched, fascinated, as the woman trotted across to Blake and patted his cheek. She had to reach up, very far up. If this was his mother, he clearly didn’t take after her.

“You must write things down,” the woman scolded gently, as if he were about six.

She spun, swooping toward Jessica and holding out both hands. Bright green eyes sparkled, and the full sleeves of the filmy tunic she wore fluttered. Silvery curls bouncing, she moved with the quick light step of a girl, although she had to be in her sixties.

“You’re Jessica Langdon, of course.” The woman caught Jessica’s hands in a warm, surprisingly strong grasp. “My dear, I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you. You’re the person I’ve been praying for.” Tears glistened suddenly in the green eyes. “You are just the person to defend Thomas in this terrible matter.”

That answered the question of whether Blake Morgan had really spoken for his mother. Jessica glanced at him over Mrs. Morgan’s shoulder. He had made one effort to get rid of the attorney his mother had hired, and Jessica suspected it wouldn’t be the last. At the moment, his glare seared.

She stared back, unmoved. She had more to lose in this situation than he did, and she was in this to stay.

CHAPTER TWO

TREY WAS FLOODED BY his usual mixture of frustration, affection and bemusement at his mother’s return. He’d been confident he’d deflected her attention long enough so he could send this Philadelphia lawyer packing. If he’d been able to get the woman’s name and cell number, he’d have headed her off before she’d ever reached here.

But Geneva Morgan, despite acting as if she had the attention span of a butterfly, inevitably disconcerted him by fixing on the one thing he wanted her to ignore. She’d been doing that since his first attempt to deceive her, having to do with a homemade slingshot and a broken window when he was six, and he shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d done it again today.

But today’s problem was considerably more serious than a broken window, and he didn’t want his mother to get hurt trying to defend someone the whole county thought was guilty of an ugly crime.

The Langdon woman stared at him, suspicion darkening blue eyes that had so much green in them they were almost turquoise. “I thought your name was Blake.”

His mother’s irrepressible laugh gurgled. “Blake Winston Morgan the Third, to be exact. Isn’t that a pompous name to hang on a helpless little baby?”

“Mom…” Business, Mom. This is business, remember?

“So I took one look at the pink cheeks and that fuzz of blond hair, and I decided to call him Trey. For three, you know.”

“I’m sure Ms. Langdon figured that out,” he said drily.

“It’s not my concern.” To his surprise, Jessica Langdon looked faintly embarrassed. “I just…” She paused, evading his gaze. “Perhaps we could clarify whether Mrs. Morgan wants me to continue with the case or not.”

“Of course I do.” His mother shot him a reproachful look. “Trey, we’ve been through this already. That poor boy couldn’t possibly have done what they say, and if no one else will stand up for him, I will. I spoke with his mother, and she agreed to let me handle getting a lawyer.”

“If I’m going to represent the young man, it would be helpful to know a bit more about the circumstances.” Ms. Langdon looked at his mother, probably figuring she wasn’t going to get anything out of him.

“Yes, of course. Do come and sit down. I don’t know why we’re standing here.” His mother led her to a seat on the Queen Anne chair and then perched on the arm of the sofa opposite, head tipped to one side, as if waiting for questions.

The Langdon woman opened her briefcase, took out a yellow legal pad and prepared to take notes. Trey couldn’t help it—his lips twitched at the image of the two of them, despite the seriousness of the situation. Mom, still seemingly caught in the ’60s of her youth, wore her usual filmy Indian-inspired tunic over a pair of jeans that were frayed at the knees. Her face was bare of makeup, and a favorite pair of turquoise-and-silver earrings dangled from her ears.

His gaze lingered on Jessica Langdon. The carefully tailored, lightweight gray suit, cream silk shirt and ridiculously high heels might be suitable for the woman’s usual round of clients, but not for an excursion deep into the country, where a pair of khakis and a button-down shirt were practically considered formal wear. She had auburn hair, worn in a shining, chin-length style, a heart-shaped face, skin so fair she probably didn’t dare go out in the sun and deep blue eyes. Not quite beautiful, but striking enough that any man would notice—any man who liked the cool, sophisticated type, anyway.

“…so you see, he couldn’t possibly do anything like that,” Mom was saying, leaning toward Jessica with the look of an earnest child. “Why, Thomas helped me plant all those roses along the back fence, and he even brought a load of chicken manure to use on the rhubarb bed. Besides, he’s Amish, and the Amish simply don’t commit violent acts. A more law-abiding people you’d never want to meet, and—”

“But about the crime.” The lawyer sounded a little desperate, and he noticed that she hadn’t written anything on her yellow pad. “I need to know—”

“Thomas Esch is accused of the beating death of a young woman named Cherry Wilson,” he said bluntly. He might consider that Thomas was guilty as sin, but the boy deserved a defense attorney whose mind wasn’t muddled by roses and rhubarb. “Thomas was found near her body, unconscious, in a remote barn where they’d apparently been partying. The hammer that was used to kill her was in his hand.”

“Trey, dear, you don’t need to be so graphic.” His mother’s face crinkled in distress. “I’m sure Thomas didn’t—”

Impelled by the probably futile need to protect her, he crossed the room, bending over to take his mother’s hands. “I know you don’t want to believe it, Mom. But you have to face the truth. He’s guilty, and if you become involved in trying to get him off, your friends and neighbors won’t thank you. Please, just drop this.”

His fingers tightened on hers, and he felt the wedding ring she’d never removed since the day his father put it on her finger forty years ago. A spasm of pain shot through him. Dad ought to be here now. He’d always protected her.

It had been over a year, and Trey still hadn’t stopped wanting to talk things over with his father. Maybe he never would.

“I can’t forget about doing what’s right just because the neighbors might disapprove,” his mother said, with that odd little dignity that could crop up now and then when she felt strongly about something.

“This isn’t a matter of belief,” he said, sure it was useless and hating that they were having this conversation under Jessica Langdon’s cool, critical eyes. “It’s a matter of facts. Evidence.”

Mom freed her hand so that she could pat his cheek. “Dear Trey. You’re just like your father. Always acting on reason, never on instinct.”

He stiffened. “Dad had very good judgment.” And acting on reason wasn’t a fault.

“I’m not criticizing him, Trey. I’m just saying that sometimes you have to listen to your heart, not your head.”

He straightened, trying not to give an exasperated sigh. Arguing with his mother was like…like boxing with a bumblebee, and about as effective.

The Langdon woman slid the cap back on her pen, apparently giving up on getting any useful information out of them. Three small lines appeared between her eyebrows.

“I really need to talk to the client before I make any recommendations. But if the physical evidence is very strong, we may need to think about a plea bargain. Will the district attorney…”

“Oh, no,” his mother said. “You mustn’t do that. Why, that’s what Bobby wanted to do right away when I talked to him, and I just won’t hear of any such thing.”

“Bobby?” Jessica’s frown deepened.

“Robert Stephens. He’s our financial manager,” Trey explained, his gaze fixed on his mother. “Are you telling me you talked to Bobby about this and not to me?”

“Well, I knew you wouldn’t approve.” His mother looked as guileless as a kitten. “So I just thought I’d talk to Bobby first. He’s always so accommodating, but this time I had to practically force him to do as I asked. I finally threatened to call Eva Henderson myself if he didn’t take care of it, so he did.”

Did that mean that she had gone to Bobby Stephens on other occasions, instead of turning to him? Trey’s temples began to throb. His father had expected him to take care of his mother—that was a given. But maybe it would have been helpful if he’d left behind some written instructions.

“Anyway, Bobby finally did what I wanted and hired a topflight Philadelphia lawyer to look after poor Thomas,” his mother said. She clasped Jessica’s hand suddenly, looking at her with that melting, elusive charm which had all sorts of people lining up to do as Geneva wanted. “You will handle this for us, won’t you, Jessica? I just know you’ll be brilliant.”

The woman was succumbing. He could see it in her face. Then she sat up a little straighter, clutching her legal pad as if it were a shield.

“I’d better speak to the young man before doing anything else.” She rose. “If you’ll just give me directions—”

“Of course, of course.” His mother glanced at him. “But there’s no need for directions. Trey will be delighted to take you.”

JESSICA SUCKED IN a breath, trying to think of a polite way to say she’d rather walk. But she wouldn’t need to say anything, surely. Trey Morgan had made his feelings only too clear. He wouldn’t touch this situation with a ten-foot pole.

“Mom,” he began, looking harassed.

Geneva swung on him. “Blake Winston Morgan, don’t you dare argue.”

He lifted both hands. “I’m not.” He turned to her. “If you’re ready now, we’d better get into Lancaster before the traffic gets bad.”

She doubted Lancaster traffic would bother her. “There’s no need for you to accompany me. I’m sure I can find the county jail without help.”

He took her elbow and piloted her toward the door. “Trust me, if you want to see Thomas and get back to the city today, don’t start an argument with my mother.”

She waited until they were out on the porch and presumably out of earshot before she spoke. “I know you don’t want to be involved in this—”

“If my mother’s involved, I am.” His tone was curt. He nodded toward a dark green pickup. “I’ll drive you. It’ll be easier than giving directions. You can pick up your car afterward and head back. It’s not out of your way.”

Obviously the sooner she left Lancaster County, the happier he was going to be. Still, what he said made a certain amount of sense, and maybe she could get some information about the case from him on the way. She hated going into a situation blind.

She climbed into the high seat, trying to pull her skirt down at the same time. This suit was definitely not made for riding in pickup trucks. Come to think of it, she’d never been in a pickup before in her life.

She eyed Blake as he swung easily into the seat and started the vehicle. “So, do you prefer that I call you Mr. Morgan, or Blake or Trey?”

His jaw tightened. “Trey.” He bit off the word.

“I take it you don’t agree with your mother that Thomas Esch is innocent.” She knew the answer to that, but she wanted to hear him articulate his reasons.

“I think he’s guilty as sin.”

“Why?”

The tight jaw was very much in evidence. “Do you know anything about the Amish?”

She scoured her memory. “I think I saw that movie with Harrison Ford once.”

“Great.” It was almost a snarl. “Well, to condense a lot of culture into a brief summation, Counselor, the Amish believe in living apart from the world. That means no electricity, no television, no movies or video games or all the other things kids take for granted. They don’t believe in going to the law. They settle problems with the help of the church, not the courts. They even have their own language, a Low German dialect, although the kids learn English in school.”

She thought briefly of the accented English of the young couple in the buggy. “Fascinating, but what does it have to do with the case?”

“Everything. You can’t possibly defend Thomas if you don’t understand what he comes from. Amish kids live a sheltered life, but in their late teens, they’re allowed more freedom. They’re supposed to be socializing with each other with a view to finding a mate, but plenty of them want a taste of the outside world before making the decision to be baptized into the Amish church and give it up forever. That period of running around is called rumspringa. That’s what Thomas was doing when he got involved with Cherry Wilson.”

She pondered that explanation, trying to fit it into a possible defense. “How old is Thomas?”

“Nineteen. But a young nineteen in the ways of the world.”

“And the woman—Cherry Wilson, you said?”

His lips moved in an expression of distaste. “Cherry was in her mid-twenties. Had a reputation of liking to party. She worked as a waitress at the inn in Springville. You probably passed it on your way to the house.”

She hadn’t, since she’d gotten lost instead. “What was she doing alone in a barn with a nineteen-year-old? She sounds a bit old for teen parties.”

“Rumor has it she got a kick out of partying with younger kids. I don’t know how she hooked up with Thomas.” He frowned a little, as if getting past his initial distaste to actually think about the case. “That is odd. The Esch family has a farm not far from our place. A close family, I’d say. Thomas always seemed a bit shy, but maybe that made his reaction all the worse.”

“What do you mean?” She didn’t like the idea that he was taking it for granted that her client was guilty. He seemed a reasonably intelligent man, behind the slightly tyrannical attitude of his. If he thought the boy guilty…

Well, her job was to provide the best defense she could, regardless. Since she’d taken the position with Henderson, Dawes and Henderson, she’d certainly defended clients who’d have been the better for a guilty plea. Things had been a lot clearer, in a way, when she’d been a prosecutor.

Trey’s forehead knotted, and his hands moved restlessly on the steering wheel. “Take a kid like that—inexperienced, shy—and put him in a situation where he’d been drinking with a woman who led him on. He might, I guess, get carried away, not knowing what he was doing.”

“Carried away enough to batter her with a hammer? It still seems out of character for the person your mother described.”

His frown lingered. “Maybe. It’s hard to say what happened. All we have are the facts, and they don’t look good for Thomas.”

No, they didn’t. If she ended up trying to plea-bargain the case, Geneva would be disappointed in her. She’d be disappointed in herself, for that matter, but she’d do what was best for the client.

“When did this happen?”

“They were found in the early hours of Sunday morning in a barn outside of town.” Trey negotiated the narrow streets of Lancaster with ease. “Thomas was passed out, drunk. Cherry had apparently been dead for several hours, if the rumors are true, and they usually are.”

“He’s been in custody over twenty-four hours?” Her voice rose. “Without an attorney?”

“Relax, Counselor,” he said. “A local attorney has been handling the situation, basically advising the boy to say nothing. The local man doesn’t want to continue with the case, though.”

Trey sounded as if he didn’t blame the man.

In fact, if Trey was right, the entire community was convinced of the boy’s guilt. Everyone, apparently, except Geneva Morgan.

A random thought popped into her mind. The newspaper piece she’d read—

“Your mother tried to speak with Thomas when he was being taken into the police station, didn’t she?”

She could almost hear his teeth grinding.

“Yes. She did. Except that it was when he was being taken to the county jail. The newspaper got that wrong. Fortunately they didn’t get her name, either.” He clamped his lips shut on the words.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Trey was worried about his mother. She’d give him credit for that, although she wasn’t convinced Geneva needed all that protection.

Jessica subsided, staring out the window at the fields on both sides of the road, lush and green. White farmhouses sat well back from the road, as if to protect their privacy. Here and there she spotted people working in the fields, looking like figures in a landscape painting.

“Amish,” Trey said, nodding at one farmhouse. “You can tell because no power lines go to the house.”

“No electricity.” She tried to imagine it. “What about phones?”

Trey’s shoulders moved in a shrug. “Not in the house. Often there’s a phone shanty at the edge of the field, so they can use a phone for business or in an emergency.”

This was the life her client had led. She tried to reconcile it with drunken parties and found she couldn’t.

Springville appeared—a collection of shops and a few restaurants facing the road, with residential areas spread out behind them. She took a second look at the Springville Inn, where the dead woman had worked. A visit to talk with her coworkers might be in order.

Then they were in the countryside again. Neat farms, neat houses, twin silos flanking barns, contented-looking cows grazing in fields…it was like something off a calendar.

The truck overtook a gray horse-drawn buggy. Trey passed with care, raising a hand to the driver. The bearded man nodded, face impassive, and the two towheaded children with him grinned and waved.

“They know you,” she said. She thought again of the pair in the buggy she’d met earlier. They’d known the Morgan family, too.

“I know most people in the township. Morgans have been here for a long time.”

She let that revolve in her mind. If he knew the place that well, she couldn’t ignore his sense of what the community believed about this crime.

Farmland gave way abruptly to residential areas, a few strip malls, and then they were in Lancaster proper. Trey wove his way through a maze of narrow streets easily, still wearing a slight frown. No doubt he’d like to divorce himself from this proceeding entirely.

“The county jail is in the next block,” he said at last. “Anything else you need to know before you see Thomas?”

“Just one question.” She probably shouldn’t ask this, but she was going to, because when you were swimming in a strange ocean, it helped to know who the sharks were. “Given how you feel about the case, why did you want to come with me?”

The stone jaw returned with a vengeance. “I don’t want my mother involved in this at all. She’s too trusting, and she doesn’t have the slightest idea how serious it is. But if I can’t stop her, I’m at least going to make sure it’s handled appropriately.” He pulled into a parking space and stopped, turning to face her, crowding her in the small space. “You do one thing to turn this situation into a media circus or to manipulate my mother, and I’ll make you wish you’d never heard of the Morgan family.”

Well, that was clear enough. She had a client who was probably guilty, an employer who was acting on instinct and a very formidable man who was determined to dog her every step. And she hadn’t even met the client yet.

CHAPTER THREE

THE ROOM ALLOTTED TO lawyer/client meetings was typical of such places—cement-block walls, a high barred window and a bare wooden table bolted to the floor, flanked by two chairs. The wire-meshed window in the door allowed a police officer to peer in on the conference but hear nothing.

Trey Morgan had walked with her through the maze of corridors. He’d seemed to know, or at least been recognized by, most of the people they encountered, and he’d had an easy, laid-back manner for everyone but her. She’d half expected him to try to stay with her, not that she’d have allowed it, but he hadn’t, merely saying he’d be outside in the truck when she finished with Thomas.

Jessica tried not to fidget as she waited for the client, but she couldn’t forget that Thomas Esch had been accused of beating a woman to death. Any normal woman would feel a sliver of anxiety in this situation. The table was only about three feet wide. If he decided to come after her, how long would it take the guard to get to her?

Nonsense. She’d certainly confronted worse during the three years she’d spent as an assistant D.A., prosecuting domestic-abuse cases. She’d burned out on that, finally, unable to look at another battered woman, knowing chances were good that the woman would change her mind about prosecuting at the last minute and go right back to her abuser, maybe ending up dead.

There’d been value in the work, certainly, but nobody could do it forever. Her father had been relieved that she had come to her senses, as he put it. From the day she passed the bar, he’d been ready to set up a position for her with a good firm. There’d also been his unspoken opinion that she wasn’t tough enough to deal with criminal cases. Unspoken, maybe, but it had come through. Too bad he hadn’t had the son he’d always wanted to follow his footsteps.

The door creaked, startling Jessica into an involuntary flinch. It opened. Two burly guards dwarfed the boy they ushered into the room.

At her first glimpse of Thomas Esch, the apprehension slipped away. He was nothing more than a boy, with frightened blue eyes in a round face and blond hair that looked as if someone had put a bowl on his head and cut around it.

She stood, giving him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Hello, Thomas. I’m Jessica Langdon. I’m the lawyer Mrs. Morgan hired to defend you.” She held out her hand.

Thomas looked at the outstretched hand as if it held a trap and then cautiously shook it. His palm was hard with calluses, and her opinion pivoted again. He might look like a boy, but he was strong as a man.

Strong enough to beat a woman to death? Thomas was innocent until proved guilty in the eyes of the law, if not the community. He deserved that same assumption from his attorney.

She sat again, nodding to the chair opposite her. Still looking uncertain, Thomas slid onto the seat, moving back as if to get as far away from her as possible.

She waited until the door closed behind the guards, its slam resonating through the bare chamber. She focused on the client, keeping her mind away from the locked door.

“Thomas, do you understand that Mrs. Morgan wants to help you?”

He nodded, eyes still very wide, not blinking.

“Good. She’s helping you by retaining—hiring—me to represent you with the law.”

He looked down at his hands. “Mrs. Morgan is very kind.” He swallowed, Adam’s apple moving.

At least he could talk. His speech was formal, like that of the young pair in the buggy, and she remembered Trey’s doubts over her ability to represent the boy when she knew nothing of his culture.

That was ridiculous. The law was the law, no matter what the defendant’s background.

“Thomas, I want you to understand that anything you say to me is private. I can’t tell anyone, and you can trust me.”

His only answer was to stare at his hands—big hands, bony and strong. Strong enough to kill. Did he get any of this? She couldn’t be sure, and her frustration rose.

“Mrs. Morgan wants me to help you,” she tried again. “But I can only do that if you talk to me about what happened.”

He looked at her face then away again. “My parents—they would not want me to be involved with the law.”

Trey had said something like that, but she’d disregarded it. Apparently she should have paid more attention. “Mrs. Morgan spoke with them about hiring me, and they agreed. And I’m afraid it’s too late, anyway. You are already involved. The police believe you killed Cherry.”

There was no mistaking the emotion behind his expression now: fear. She expected a denial, but he was silent.

“Did you and Cherry see a lot of each other?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes at parties she would talk to me.”

“Were you dating? Did you go out just with her?”

He shook his head, the muscles in his face working.

“You were found alone with her. Did you go out together that night? Saturday night?”

Again he shook his head.

“Thomas, you were found with her. You must have gone out together, or how did you get there?”

“The other lawyer. He said not to talk to anyone. Not to answer questions.”

“He’s not representing you now. I am.”

His face took on a mulish expression. “Mr. Frost said not to talk to anyone. Not to answer questions. I know him.”

The implication was clear. Thomas didn’t know her. He didn’t trust her. Would it do any good if she could arrange for Mrs. Morgan to talk with him? She could imagine Trey’s reaction to that.

“Suppose I talk to Mr. Frost. If he tells you it’s all right, will you answer my questions?”

The big hands tightened briefly, then relaxed. He nodded.

She blew out a breath. Patience. Obviously that was what was required just now. Plenty of patience.

“All right, then. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll bring Mr. Frost to vouch for me.” She stood, repressing the instinct that wanted to demand answers, to move, to get on with the case. She could do nothing without her client’s trust.

He looked up at her, his eyes as wide and innocent as a child’s. “They took away my clothes.”

“I’m sorry. You will get them back, if…when you are released.”

“It is not proper. For an Amish man to be dressed this way.” He touched the front of the orange jumpsuit he wore. “Not proper,” he repeated.

“People who are being detained by the police are required to dress that way. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“If you told them I need my clothes…”

“It wouldn’t do any good. They won’t change their minds.”

He just stared at her, eyes wide with expectation. She’d said he could trust her, but she couldn’t do the first thing he asked of her. Clearly he didn’t understand the situation he was in.

And just as clearly, she didn’t understand him. Trey had been right about her. She didn’t know enough to defend this boy.

TREY SAT IN THE TRUCK, waiting for the Langdon woman to come out of the red sandstone building that was the county jail. With those circular Norman towers, it looked more like a castle. Its builders had intended it to impress everyone who looked at it with the weight and majesty of the law. No doubt it intimidated a kid like Thomas.

With the radio on, he was treated to the views of the local station’s public, conveyed through the station’s call-in show. Opinion was running high—all of it against Thomas, it seemed. There were always those who harbored a prejudice against the Amish, just because they were different. Thomas’s arrest was feeding that feeling.

He switched the radio off. Neither Jessica Lang don nor his mother had a good grasp of the situation.

Trying to explain to his mother was useless. She wasn’t swayed by facts. She believed in Thomas, and she would do what she felt was right.

Jessica wasn’t in this for idealistic reasons, however. Worry tied his stomach in a knot. If Jessica thought this the sort of sensational case that would make her reputation, who knew what tactics she might resort to?

Was she that kind of person? His immediate impression had been of someone pretty hard-boiled, with her elegant clothing and her cool manner. But there had been a brief glimpse or two of someone not so easily categorized.

He didn’t think he liked that. He wanted to know where he was with people. And she’d challenged his opinion of what was best for his mother—he knew he didn’t like that. His mother could be devastated by this case, no matter how it turned out. Would Jessica even care?

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he deliberately forced himself to relax. Since Dad’s death, he’d been responsible—for his mother, for the family-owned businesses and rental properties, for all the people in the township who depended on the Morgan family. His thoughts flickered briefly to the office. He’d had to cancel a couple of appointments today, and no doubt there’d be more of that in coming days.

He couldn’t go to the office, deal with the day-to-day running of the family properties, handle the investments his grandfather and father had entrusted to his care and still deal with the ramifications of his mother’s interest in defending Thomas. So Morgan Enterprises would have to run along without him until this was settled.

In one way, he’d been preparing all his life for his role. It had governed his choice of summer jobs, his business major, even his Wharton MBA. He’d just never expected it to come so soon. He wasn’t ready. Maybe he’d never have been ready to lose his father, but to lose him that way…

Why, Dad? Why did you do it? How could the father I thought I knew do something like that?

He’d asked that question a thousand times. He’d never gotten an answer.

His gaze, idly scanning the street in front of the jail, suddenly sharpened. That dark blue van bore the logo of the local television station. The building entrance was out of his view from here, but the chance that the news crew camped out at the jail for any reason other than to cover the murder was nil.

He shoved the door open and slid out, worry and irritation edging his nerves. He reached the corner and stopped, stunned. Not only had the news crew clustered in front of the entrance, so had probably thirty or forty other people. A couple of them carried signs, leaving no doubt as to their opinion on Thomas’s guilt.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the television news reporter was busy interviewing them. Anyone who hadn’t already thought it a good idea to voice their uninformed opinion would probably be inspired by the sight on the five-o’clock news.

The crowd blocked the steps. Unless someone warned Jessica, she’d walk out right into the arms of the television news reporter. Was it coincidence the news people were waiting at this precise moment? He doubted it. He moved faster. If he could get into the building, find Jessica, take her out another exit—

Too late. The heavy door in the front of the building moved, and Jessica came out. In an instant the reporter pounced, calling Jessica’s name.

Her name. He hadn’t even known that until she’d arrived. They’d been tipped off, then. By Jessica? If she wanted attention, there was no better way to get it.

The crowd, alerted by the reporter’s question, closed in, waving their signs. He had a glimpse of a startled face through the narrow glass slit in the door. It quickly vanished, to find help, he hoped.

Trey elbowed his way through the mass of bodies with murmured apologies. Ridiculous that at a moment like this his mother’s training in proper manners held. Except that in Mom’s universe, people didn’t yell obscenities to express their opinions. If he could reach Jessica before she said anything that would focus attention on his mother…

Jessica seemed to be holding her own. He shoved his way between two burly bodies. She’d looked surprised when the reporter ambushed her, he had to say that, but she could have been faking it.

“Come on, Ms. Langdon. A Philadelphia lawyer doesn’t just show up here. Who hired you?” The reporter had the looks of a movie starlet and the aggressive instincts of a puma. She thrust the microphone in Jessica’s face.

“Every defendant is entitled to the best possible representation. I’m sure you’ll agree.” Jessica’s professional manner seemed unruffled.

“You want us to believe that an Amish family knew enough to bring in a topflight Philadelphia firm?” The reporter’s voice expressed disbelief. “The public has a right to know who brought you here.”

Trey pushed his way closer. If she mentioned his mother—

“Right now I’m more concerned with the rights of my client.” Jessica smiled at the camera as if she did this every day. “I don’t think anything will be gained by my discussing the case when I’ve hardly begun to assess the facts.”

“Everyone knows the facts. He’s a filthy murderer, and you’re trying to get him off.” The yelled words came from the far side of the crowd, and the mass of people seemed to surge forward.

Trey shoved his way through and caught Jessica’s arm. “Let’s go.”

“Mr. Morgan.” The reporter sounded like a woman who’d just been given an unexpected gift. “What is your interest in this case?”

“None at all.” Taking his lead from Jessica, he smiled blandly. “I’m just giving Ms. Langdon a ride, that’s all.”

He turned to go, clasping Jessica’s arm firmly, but the mass of people had closed in behind them. Push through them? Retreat into the jail?

Even as he thought it, the heavy door opened. “What’s going on out here?” The cop had a deep voice to match his authoritative manner. “You people can’t block access to the jail.”

Trey seized his opportunity, piloting Jessica through the crowd and toward the pickup. She hurried to keep up with his long strides. Finally she planted her feet, forcing him to come to a stop.

He glared at her. “You eager to do another round with the television reporter? Let’s go.”

“The police are keeping them busy. And it looks as if someone is waiting for us.” She nodded toward the truck.

A figure dressed in Amish black stood motionless. Ezra Burkhalter, one of the three ministers of the local congregation, apparently unnoticed as yet by the reporters. What was he doing here?

“Ezra.” He nodded, hoping the reporter wouldn’t look their way. “Something I can do for you?”

“I came to this place to see Thomas Esch, but the officers would not allow it.” Ezra’s narrow, bony face seemed to grow more rigid as he looked at Jessica. “This is the English lawyer you have brought down on us.”

It would be too much to hope that every Amish person in the county hadn’t heard by now that his mother had hired a lawyer to defend Thomas. But the Amish weren’t likely to be chattering about that to outsiders.

“This is Jessica Langdon. She’ll be representing Thomas in the English court. Ms. Langdon, this is Ezra Burkhalter. He is one of the ministers of Thomas’s congregation.”

“I’m glad to meet—”

“It is not fitting.” Ezra didn’t raise his voice, but it rasped like a saw blade, cutting through Jessica’s words. “The boy has brought disgrace to his family, and now you would have this exposed in an English court for all to see.”

Jessica stiffened. “Mr. Burkhalter, my only job is to give Thomas the legal defense to which he is entitled.”

“You can do nothing for him. Nothing.” The anger in Ezra’s face was unmistakable. “Stay out of this, and leave us alone.”

He turned and walked away. Jessica stared after him, looking stunned.

The television crew, freeing themselves from the crowd, hurried toward them. Trey hustled Jessica inside the truck. Climbing in himself, he slammed the door on a shouted question and pulled away from the curb, narrowly missing the cameraman who’d darted into the street. A glimpse in the rearview mirror showed him the television reporter trotting down the street after Ezra. Lots of luck. She wouldn’t get anything out of him.

They rounded the corner and Jessica let out an audible breath. “Well. That was…odd. I didn’t expect it.”

She sounded genuine, but how could he be sure? “You mean the television people, the crowd or Ezra Burkhalter?”

“Any of them. All of them. I guess the Burkhalter man particularly. Why is he angry that I’m here? I’d think he’d be grateful that Thomas has someone to defend him.”

Trey shrugged, trying to get rid of the tension in his shoulders. “The Amish don’t want to find themselves in the news. There’s prejudice enough against them without that. They believe in living separate, and they don’t go to the law.”

“Thomas said something like that, but in this case the law has come to them. I’ll do the best I can for Thomas.”

“I don’t think Ezra Burkhalter will see it that way.”

Her mouth set as she considered that. “If all the Amish react that way, it will make the situation more difficult.”

Difficult enough to make her go away? He was tempted to paint a black picture, just to achieve that, but he couldn’t.

“Not all. I’m sure there will be those who welcome your help. Thomas’s family, certainly.”

She nodded, brushing a wing of auburn hair back from her face. “I suppose. I certainly didn’t expect the crowd at the jail. Is there really that much prejudice against the Amish?”

“Not so much out in the country, where people know them.” He tried to answer fairly, but the Amish were such a constant part of his life that it was hard to see them as an outsider would. “They’re different, and plenty of misconceptions float around among people who don’t know them.”

He’d known there would be strong feelings about the ugliness of the crime and the Amish connection, but he hadn’t expected a mob at the jail, either. If people were this worked up now, what would it be like by the time the case came to trial?

He drove automatically, his mind turning the situation at the county jail over in his mind. It still rankled, having the television people there exactly when Jessica would be coming out. It was too pat.

“Were you really surprised by the news crew?” He put the question abruptly, not sure how much good it would do. If she’d tipped them off, she’d hardly admit it.

He felt her gaze on him and flicked a glance in her direction. The blue eyes had widened.

“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I be surprised?”

“You wouldn’t be if you were the one who told them you’d be there.”

“Told them—that’s ridiculous!” Her voice rose. “I’m not in the habit of headline-hunting.”

“The reporter knew your name. That means that someone told her you were going to represent Thomas.”

“I wasn’t that someone.” Her voice grew icy. “I understand that you want to protect your mother from any unpleasantness, but I’m not your enemy. All I want is to do my job for my client.”

He shot another look at her as he turned onto the road that would lead them out of town. “If you didn’t tip off the news people, who did?”

“Ask yourself that question,” Jessica said tartly. “It seems to me the leak was far more likely to come from your end of things than mine. My office would have no interest in tipping off the press at this point. Does anyone else know your mother was hiring an attorney for Thomas?”

A good question, and one he didn’t have an answer to. “Who knows? My mother is not exactly a model of discretion, as you may have noticed.”

“I found your mother delightful.” The frost was back in her voice.

“Try being responsible for her and see how delightful it is.” He muttered the words and was instantly sorry. He didn’t need to be confiding in this woman, of all people. “She may have told any number of people. And there are people in Bobby’s office who might think it worth a tip to the paper.” He lifted an eyebrow. “The same might be said of your office, I suppose.”

“You suppose wrong. Any hint of indiscretion in an employee of the firm would lead to immediate dismissal.”

There was a note in her tone that he couldn’t quite read. “Sounds like your boss runs a tight ship.”

Her hands clenched on her lap, then eased, as if she made a deliberate effort not to show a reaction. “He does,” she said shortly. He felt her gaze on his face. “You’d better get used to the publicity. There may come a time when I’ll have to talk to the press. Thomas is going to need all the goodwill he can get.”

“If and when that happens, I’d advise you to keep my mother’s name out of it.”

“If you wanted to keep attention away from your family’s role in the case, you shouldn’t have interfered with my handling of that reporter. I was perfectly capable of dealing with her myself.”

His mood wasn’t improved by knowing that she was probably right. He’d acted on instinct, just as he so often accused his mother of doing.

Maybe it was time to change the subject. “How did you make out with Thomas?”

Her frown looked worried. “Not well. I’ll have to talk with this Mr. Frost as soon as possible. Thomas trusts him, and he’s not going to open up to me until Frost assures him it’s all right.”

“That’s easily done.”

He drew the car to the side of the road and stopped, then pulled out his cell phone and touched the number for Leo Frost’s private line. In a moment’s time he’d set up an appointment for Jessica for the next morning. When he ended the call, he realized that she was looking at him with more than a little annoyance in her face.

“What?” he said, answering the look. “You said you had to meet with him.”

“I didn’t say I wanted you to make an appointment for me. Or to interfere in my handling of the case.”

“Interfering? I thought I was being helpful.” He gave her the smile that women usually found disarming. It didn’t seem to have that effect on Jessica.

“I don’t need your help. I’d hoped I’d made that clear.”

He found he was gritting his teeth. “You’ve made your position clear enough. Now you’d better understand mine. As long as my mother insists on being involved in this case, I am, too. So you’d better get used to it, Counselor. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

CHAPTER FOUR

BY THE TIME JESSICA pulled into the parking lot at her town-house complex in Philadelphia, her head was splitting. She’d hit the city just in time for rush-hour traffic. Nobody wanted to be caught on the Schuylkill Expressway, known as the Sure-kill by locals, at that time of day.

Her headache intensified when her cell phone rang just as she walked in the front door. She frowned at the number.

Her father. That was unusual enough to give her a jolt of apprehension as she answered.

“Dad. Is anything wrong?”

“Perhaps I should be asking you that question, Jessica.” Her father’s voice was as crisp as if he were talking to an erring subordinate. “I understand you’re on shaky ground at work.”

She was tempted to ask how he knew that, but that would be pointless. Her father moved in rarified judicial circles, where everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she said, hoping that was true as she closed the door behind her.

“I hope that’s true.” His voice echoed her thoughts. “I’ve invested my own political capital in obtaining that position for you. Don’t disappoint me.”

That was all. No question about whether she was being judged unfairly, no expressions of concern. She and her father didn’t have that sort of relationship. Still, he loved her in his own way, didn’t he?

“I’ll do my best.”

“Naturally.” Unspoken was his obvious suspicion that her best wouldn’t be good enough. “I’ll talk with you on the weekend.”

She hung up and blew out a frustrated breath as she turned toward her roommate. Sara Davenport was collapsed in their one recliner with her computer on her lap. “My father,” she said in explanation. “He’s heard about the job situation.”

“Don’t let it get to you,” Sara said, her voice warm with sympathy. She was one of the few people who knew how just how rocky Jessica’s relationship with her father was.

“I try.” She dropped onto the sofa, leaning her head back. “I’m going to have to get a motel room in Lancaster County, at least for the next week or so. Driving back and forth is a killer.”

“Don’t you have a date with Brett Dunleavy on Friday?”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “I’d forgotten. I’ll have to cancel.”

“You’d forgotten. Need I point out that that is a sad commentary on your relationship with young Dr. Brett?”

She’d have thrown a pillow at Sara if she weren’t so tired. “Brett understands. Given how busy his residency keeps him, he’s no more eager to get seriously involved at this point than I am.” She’d tried serious. It hadn’t worked.

“Couple of workaholics. Sounds like a match made in heaven.” Sara grinned. “So you’re forgetting your love life. This case must be a stinker.”

“It is, but what makes you think so?”

“If the partners were that ready to pass it off to you, that means they didn’t want to deal with it themselves.” Sara set the computer on the coffee table and shoved her glasses up on her head, using them to hold back her unruly tangle of red hair.

Since Sara had spent two years in a topflight firm in the city before escaping to a legal-aid office where she said she could at least help people who needed it, her advice was usually on target.

“You’re probably right.” Jessica rubbed her aching temples. “Henderson implied that the woman who’s paying for the defense asked for me, but I don’t see how that can be.”

“What’s the case? I haven’t had anything more interesting lately than the usual run of rotten absentee landlords. I spent the day arguing with a housing inspector, trying to convince him to do his job.”

“This would be right up your alley,” Jessica said. “You always like taking on the hopeless cases. I’ve got an Amish kid accused of the beating death of a woman who was apparently something of a party girl.”

“Amish? That is unusual. I can’t remember the last time I saw anything about an Amish person suspected in a crime.”

She hadn’t thought of Sara as a source of information. Maybe she should have. “I take it that means you’ve never represented one.”

“The Amish don’t spend much time in the city. I’ve been on the usual tour of Lancaster County, but that’s about it. Tell me about the defendant.”

“There’s not much to tell at this point.” Jessica rubbed the back of her neck, trying to get rid of the tension there. “He doesn’t trust me enough to talk to me, and I don’t know how to get through to him. His minister wants me off the case, and as far as I can tell, most of the community thinks he’s guilty.”

“What about the person who’s paying you?”

Jessica thought about how to explain Geneva Morgan. She wasn’t sure she could even explain to herself the effect the woman had on her.

“She’s totally convinced that the boy—Thomas Esch—is innocent, but it’s based on instinct, not on facts.”

Sara’s nose wrinkled. “I wouldn’t discount instinct, at least not if you thought her opinion reliable.”

“I’m not sure. Geneva—well, she seemed a bit quirky, I guess. Warmhearted. I can’t say what kind of judge of character she is on one brief phone conversation and an acquaintance of fifteen minutes or so.”

“But you liked her,” Sara said.

“Yes, I did.” There was no harm in admitting that. “She certainly has faith in the boy. And faith in my ability to prove him innocent. As for whether she’s right—well, her son doesn’t think so.”

“Her son? What does he have to do with it?” Sara snuggled into the chair, grinning. “Come on, give.”

“He tried to get rid of me, because he doesn’t want his mother involved in something this nasty.”

“Overprotective,” Sara said.

“Overprotective, arrogant, used to being the boss, I’d guess. And he’s determined to dog my footsteps to make sure I don’t do anything that reflects badly on the family.”

“Sounds like a pompous jerk.” Sara dismissed Trey with a wave of her hand. “If his mother retained you and the client agrees, he has nothing to do with it.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to deal with him.” And besides, Sara had more assertiveness in her little finger than Jessica had in her whole body. “It’s curious that Mr. Henderson is so keen on pleasing the Morgan family. I’d have said they were big fish in a small pond, frankly. Important enough in their little world, but hardly the type to impress Henderson.”

“Let’s see who they are.” Sara straightened, leaning toward the laptop. She looked at Jessica inquiringly. “Geneva Morgan, you said?”

“That’s right. The son’s name is Trey—well, actually Blake Winston Morgan the Third. But I’m not sure it’s appropriate to be looking them up.” It always made her feel like a stalker to do that, but Sara never hesitated to check Google even for casual acquaintances.

Sara’s fingers moved rapidly on the keys. “Hmm.”

“Hmm what?”

Her roommate grinned. “Aren’t you afraid it’s inappropriate?”

“Never mind that.” She crossed the room to perch on the arm of Sara’s chair. “What did you find?”

“Geneva is from a Main Line Philadelphia family—the kind of people who go to the right schools, marry the right people and only appear in the newspapers when they’re born, when they marry and when they die. That’s probably the answer. Maybe she went to the same exclusive girls’ school as your Mr. Henderson’s wife. Those people all know each other.”

Jessica couldn’t help but smile at the description, thinking of Geneva. “She must have been the outlaw, then. She dresses like a ’60s hippie. How did you get all that so quickly?”

Sara shrugged, not bothering to point out that she was a pro when it came to finding information about people. “I went on the assumption that Winston was Geneva’s maiden name. Easy enough to find her birth and marriage record. The rest of it is informed supposition, based on a lifetime of knowledge of Philadelphia society.”

“Come to think of it, she did mention something about Eva Henderson. What about Trey’s father?”

Sara’s fingers clicked on the keys. “Old county family, going right back to the original land grant from William Penn, it looks like. Nobody rich or famous, but solid citizens, all of them. Except…” The sassy tone in which she’d been reciting her research died away.

“Except what?” Jessica leaned over, trying to read the screen.

“Blake Morgan the Second. Your Trey’s father, I suppose. It seems he committed suicide about a year ago.”

“Suicide.” Jessica repeated the word, shocked and saddened. “I didn’t think—well, how could I know?” That would explain why Trey was so protective of his mother.

“The obituary is carefully worded. A newspaper report won’t be as tactful. If I can find anything else—” Keys clicked again, and Sara frowned at the screen.

It took only a few more minutes to find a newspaper account of the tragedy. Sara turned the laptop so that Jessica could read it for herself.

Trey’s father had shot himself in an isolated hunting cabin belonging to the family a few days after receiving a diagnosis of cancer. The photo showed a rustic cottage surrounded by dense woods. His son had been the one to find his body.

Jessica’s stomach twisted. “Poor man,” she murmured, not sure whether she was talking about Trey or his father. Maybe both.

“Yes,” Sara said, her normal ebullience muted. “But you can’t let it change how you deal with him. If he’s interfering in your case, you still have the right to brush him off. Politely, of course.”

She hadn’t been able to brush him off even when she’d resorted to rudeness. This made it a hundred times harder. She would have been better off not knowing. And poor Geneva…how difficult that must have been for her.

“What did you say the client’s name is?” Sara was clicking away again, undeterred.

“Thomas Esch. But you’re not going to find anything about him. I told you—he’s Amish. I don’t know much about them, but I’m pretty sure they avoid publicity. The original account I read gave only his name and age.”

Sara nodded, scanning quickly down through her search results. “You’re right about that. There’s nothing here except accounts of his arrest. He was taken into custody right after the body was discovered. He was still at the scene, either asleep or unconscious.”

“Right.” That was what Trey had said. “I’ll read through the rest of the coverage later.” If it came to asking for a change of venue, she’d need that ammunition. She rose, stretching. “Is there anything left of that chicken soup your mother sent over?”

Since Sara was a native Philadelphian, Jessica had benefited from her mother’s apparent conviction that they both needed quantities of home-cooked food every week in order to survive.

“You can have the rest of it,” Sara said absently, her gaze still intent on the computer screen. “Wait a minute. Here’s something you didn’t mention. Did you know that the barn where the body was found actually belongs to the Morgan family?”

Jessica stopped in the middle of a yawn. “Are you sure?”

“That’s what the paper says. They didn’t tell you?”

“No. Neither of them did.” Her mind whirled for a moment then settled. Geneva, in all her protestations of how innocent Thomas was, in all her talk of the gardening he did for her—was that only meant to establish that Thomas had access to the barn they owned?

And Trey. How could Trey have talked about the case as much as he had without mentioning the fact that he owned the barn where the murder occurred? He’d glossed over the finding of the body without so much as a hint of it.

The sympathy she’d been feeling for Trey after learning of his father’s suicide vanished. He’d lied to her. Well, maybe not lied, exactly, but he’d omitted an important piece of the truth. Which meant that she couldn’t trust Trey Morgan any farther than she could throw him.

TREY’S STOMACH CHURNED mercilessly as he pulled into the rutted track. Not because of the road. Because it led to the cabin where his father died.

Jonas Miller waited, leaning against a tree as if he had all the time in the world to spare, although Trey knew perfectly well that any Amish farmer had a long list of chores. Still, Jonas took all his responsibilities seriously, including looking after the Morgan hunting cabin and the surrounding property. It was a message from Jonas that had brought Trey here so unwillingly this morning.

He stopped the truck and climbed out, trying not to look at the cabin. “Morning, Jonas. I got your message.”

Jonas nodded gravely, his blue eyes serious in a weathered face above the beard that marked him as a married man. “Trey. I wish I had not had to bring you out here already.”

Trey shrugged, trying to ease the tension out of his shoulders. “It’s all right. I know you wouldn’t have sent for me unless something was wrong.”

The last thing that had been wrong at the cabin had been his father’s lifeless body, slumped over the table, the gun fallen from his fingers.

Jonas was silent, as if he knew and respected what Trey was thinking.

Trey took a breath and blew it out. “So. You came over and found the door open.”

“Chust cracked a bit, it was.” Jonas sounded troubled. “The padlock was lying on the porch floor.”

“Did you look inside?” The longer they stood and talked, the longer he could put off the moment at which he’d have to go in.

Jonas inclined his head. “I took a look, ja. Thinking it might have been teenagers, tearing places up. It did not seem anything was disturbed, so I thought it best to let it be until you could see.”

He couldn’t delay any longer. “Let’s have a look, then.”

He strode toward the cabin. The hunting cabin, they’d always called it, although Dad had never had much taste for hunting. Trey and his brother had gone through a phase of wanting to bag a buck when they were in their teens, and Dad had gone along with them, more to see them safe, he supposed, than because Dad wanted to shoot anything.

Still, they’d come out here often enough, whenever Dad wanted to get away from the telephone and have a bit of quiet. They’d fish the stream, cook out over an open fire and go to sleep watching the stars.

Good memories, plenty of them. Unfortunately they didn’t seem to cancel out the one terrible one.

Jonas stood back to let him go up the steps first. Trey crossed to the door and bent to examine the padlock. It wasn’t obviously damaged. He put his hand on the rough wood panel of the door, blanked out his thoughts as best he could and opened it.

At first glance, nothing seemed wrong. His gaze touched the kitchen table and skittered away. Nausea rose in his throat. He wanted to leave. The need pushed at him, pounded in his temples.

He couldn’t. Jonas’s sense of responsibility had brought him here. Trey’s own sense of responsibility forced him to stay, even though he ought to be back at Leo Frost’s office right now, keeping tabs on Jessica’s activities.

The cabin wasn’t large—a big room downstairs, divided into kitchen and living area, three tiny bedrooms upstairs, the smallest not much bigger than a closet.

He moved cautiously around the living room area, feeling as if any sudden gesture would set loose the pain that clawed at him.

Jonas made his own circuit. He stopped at the massive fieldstone fireplace that took up much of the outside wall. He squatted. “Someone has had a fire here. The hearth was clean and empty the last time I looked.”

Trey looked for himself. Jonas was right. “So someone’s been here, but not the usual teenage party crowd. They’d make more of a mess than this.”

“Ja, they would. A tramp, you think? Chust looking for shelter?”

“Could be.” Trey frowned. That didn’t feel right. They didn’t have tramps any longer, and Lancaster’s homeless wouldn’t be likely to come clear out here to find a roof.

Jonas had moved on to the kitchen, and Trey forced himself to follow. The memories were out in the open now. His mother’s worries when Dad didn’t come home that night. His own conviction that Dad needed a little time alone to deal with the bad news the doctor had delivered. Cancer. Serious, but something that could be fought.

But Dad hadn’t chosen to fight. The man Trey had always thought the bravest person he knew had put a gun to his head instead of battling the cancer. It didn’t make sense to him. It never had. He’d spent months trying to find a way to make that fact fit, but he couldn’t. If there had been something else troubling his father—

Trey looked at the table. He’d come in the door cautiously that morning, calling his father’s name, embarrassed at intruding on what he’d thought was a spiritual retreat on his father’s part. And found him dead.

The table and floor had been scrubbed clean since then, the table moved to a slightly different position. Jonas must have done that—Trey had certainly been in no shape to think of having it done.

He cleared his throat. “You cleaned up in here, after. Thank you.”

Jonas looked embarrassed at being thanked. “Ach, it was little enough to do for him. Your father was a fine man. Everyone knows that.”

Trey could only nod. Yes, everyone had known that.

“Trey—” Jonas hesitated for a moment. “It seems to me that only God can know what was in your father’s mind and heart in the last moments of his life. Only God can judge.”

Endless comforting platitudes had been aimed at Trey when he’d been in no shape to listen to them. Now, oddly enough, he found comfort in Jonas’s simple words.

“Thank you.”

Jonas was already turning away, with the typical Amish reluctance to accept thanks or compliments. He moved to the sink and stopped. “Look at this.”

Trey looked. An empty wine bottle lay in the sink. A moderately expensive bottle, not the sort of thing he’d expect the local teenagers to favor.

“Someone has been here,” Jonas said again.

“Yes. But I doubt we’re going to know who. Or why.” Some married man, meeting with a girlfriend on the sly? The thought sickened him—that someone would use the place his father died for such a purpose.

He straightened abruptly, leaving the bottle untouched. “I’ll get a new padlock and drop it off at your place, if you don’t mind putting it on. That’s all we can do.”

Jonas nodded. “It makes no trouble. I will take care of the lock.”

Turning his back on the table, Trey headed for the door. Maybe the best thing would be to put the place on the market. He didn’t see the family wanting to spend time here ever again. Let someone else worry about break-ins.

He was nearly at the door when a shaft of sunlight from the side window picked up a pinpoint of light reflecting from the leg of a wooden straight chair. He bent, running his hand down the leg.

His fingers touched a rough spot, jagged enough to snag a piece of fabric. He pulled the fabric free and looked at it.

A tiny red scrap, maybe an inch long and not more than an eighth of an inch wide. Tiny red sequins glittered when he moved it in his fingers.

Nothing. It meant nothing. It was the sort of thing someone who liked cheap finery would have worn. An image of Cherry Wilson popped into his mind, and he pushed it away. This had nothing to do with her.

CHAPTER FIVE

“THANK YOU, MR. FROST.” Jessica held out her hand to the elderly attorney. “I really appreciate your sharing your expertise with me.” Her interview with Frost had been helpful, and he’d been cooperative. Because of the Morgan connection with the case? Maybe, but she still appreciated it.

Gray eyes twinkled behind wire-rimmed glasses. “For a small-town fuddy-duddy, you mean.”

Was her embarrassment showing? That had been exactly the impression she’d had when she’d entered an office that looked as if it hadn’t changed since the 1930s and met the white-haired, stooped gentleman who’d risen from his rolltop desk at her approach. It had only taken a few minutes of conversation to realize how wrong she was.

“You’re as up-to-date as I am, and you have years more experience, as well. I’m surprised you’re not defending Thomas yourself.” An unpleasant thought occurred to her. “Is it because you’re convinced he’s guilty?”

Frost shook his head. “Even if I did, I’d still think he deserved a fair trial, unlike some people I could name, such as our esteemed district attorney.”

He sent an annoyed glance toward the newspaper lying on the corner of his desk. She’d already seen it. It contained a front-page interview with the district attorney, who seemed, by the way he spoke, to have Thomas already convicted and on his way to the state penitentiary.

“Is he usually that—” she considered several words and eliminated them “—outspoken?”

“Preston Connelly is ambitious. A case like this has already drawn regional attention. He’ll make the most of it, I’m sure.”

“Does that mean it would hurt your practice if you took on the case?” That would be a very good reason for bringing in an outsider.

“No, I’m stepping aside on doctor’s orders.” Frost patted his chest. “The old ticker’s been acting up a bit. Oh, I’m fine for routine jobs, but I’m afraid a high-profile murder case is too much.”

“I’m sorry.” She wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Don’t look so mournful.” He chuckled. “I’m not going to drop dead yet, but I am in the midst of retiring. Still, if you need any help, you can come to me. Strictly in confidence. Henderson, Dawes and Henderson don’t have to know a thing about it.”

“Thanks. I just might take you up on that.” Somewhat to her surprise, she realized she meant it. It wasn’t in her nature to trust easily, but Leo Frost’s integrity seemed to shine through everything he said.

She walked out of his office smiling, and there was Trey, waiting for her. Her smile faded, and she went toward him with a sense of inevitability. Of course he would show up. Just as well. Before much more time passed, she was going to confront him about what he’d been holding back.

He stood, laying aside the well-thumbed magazine he’d been looking at.

She lifted her eyebrows. “A little late, aren’t you? I expected you to be lying in wait the minute I arrived in town.”

“I had…something else to do this morning.” His normally pleasant expression went somber, and she thought she saw pain in his eyes. Before she could react, the impression was gone. “How did your meeting with Leo go?” he asked.

“Fine.” She wanted to confront him, but she could hardly do that here, with Frost’s elderly secretary pretending to look through a file while she listened to every word. “He’s meeting me at the jail at one o’clock to talk with Thomas.”

“Good.” His tone was brisk, as if whatever bothered him had been swept away. “What are you going to do until then?”

“I have a reservation at Willow Brook Motel in Springville, since I’ll be staying until after the arraignment, probably longer. I may as well go check in.”

She caught an expression of distaste on his face. Was he really that bothered by her presence? “Something wrong?”

He shrugged. “Not if you like faux Pennsylvania Dutch tourist traps. You might be more comfortable at one of the local bed-and-breakfasts, or at the Springville Inn.”

Was that really all that was behind his reaction? She couldn’t trust anything he said, knowing he’d already lied to her once.

“I’ll be fine. After all, I’m here on business, not a vacation.”

They had reached the ground floor of the building, and Trey continued walking with her down the hall toward the parking lot in the rear where she’d left her car. They were alone, doors closed on both sides of them. This might be the best chance she’d have to confront him.

“Tell me something,” she said abruptly.

He halted, looking down at her with a quizzical expression. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you own the barn where Cherry Wilson was found dead?”

If she expected an explosion in return, she didn’t get it. Trey simply looked blank for a moment.

“Didn’t I?” He frowned. “Maybe I didn’t. I suppose I didn’t think it that important.”

“Not important that the murder happened in your barn? Do you really expect me to buy that?”

His face hardened at her tone. “I’m not sure what to expect from you, Counselor. But that happens to be the truth. And it’s not exactly ‘our’ barn. Our barn is the one behind our house.”

“But you own it. The police had to have questioned you about that.”

“They did.” He bit off the words. “I didn’t even realize the crime happened on a piece of land our corporation owns until they brought it up. I told them just what I’m telling you. The barn where Cherry was found is on an abandoned farm my father bought years ago, miles from our place. Anyone could have had access to it.”

“That person would have to know it was there, and that he could get in.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Meaning Thomas? That’s what the police think, I suppose. But almost anyone in the township might know as much. Country people are aware of things like that.”

“You said it was abandoned. Doesn’t anyone use it?” Her suspicions couldn’t be allayed that easily.

“No one, much of the time. A neighboring farmer sometimes uses it for storage, but I don’t think he has anything in it right now.”

“So you just let it sit there.”

“Believe it or not, we do. The land is too cut up to be good farmland, but eventually it may be ripe for development. Look, this is not really that unusual, no matter how it might seem to you. That land is one small parcel out of hundreds of acres Morgan Enterprises owns in the county. A large part of our business is involved in real estate. I don’t necessarily know the details of every parcel. Naturally I looked it up, once the police told me.”

“I see.” Did that make sense? She supposed so. It would be like expecting her father to know instantly the status of every investment in his portfolio, she’d guess. “Does your mother know?”

“I didn’t tell her. It would just make her feel more responsible.”

“She might easily find it out. It’s been in at least one of the newspaper reports.”

“If and when she does, I’ll deal with it.” He started walking. “Look, I’m not going to keep trying to convince you. Either you accept my word or not.”

She trailed after him to the door, fighting with herself. She wanted to believe him, and the strength of that feeling dismayed her. Trey hadn’t given her much of a reason to trust him.

He held the door for her, and she went through it without speaking. She took a few steps and stopped dead.

“My car…” It sank to the pavement, both tires flat on the side facing her. Anger flickered through her. She hurried to the car, circling it. Not just two. All four tires were flat.

Her breath caught. A knife stuck out of the front tire on the driver’s side, piercing a piece of paper.

Trey grasped her arm, the warmth and strength of his hand penetrating the sleeve of her jacket. “Wait. Let me take a look.”

She shook herself free, bending to read what was scrawled on the paper. Go back where you belong. The words were followed by an ugly obscenity.

She started to reach for it, but Trey caught her hand, holding it as firmly as he’d gripped her arm. A wave of warmth went through her. She wanted to lean on him, to rely on him. But she couldn’t, because he might be the very person responsible for this.

THE POLICE HAD COME, had taken statements and photographs, and gone again. Trey leaned against his truck, watching Jessica, who in turn watched the garage mechanic now circling her car, shaking his head and clucking softly.

Jessica had surprised him a little by her seeming reluctance to call the police at their discovery. He’d done it for her, and she hadn’t liked that, either. Face it, she wasn’t going to like anything he did.

He pushed himself away from the truck, feeling a little reluctance of his own. This situation was spinning rapidly out of control. Despite the ugly crowd at the jail, he hadn’t expected outright vandalism, and the sight of that knife sticking out of the tire had twisted his stomach.

Jessica had turned to him in her shock and distress—for about half a second. Then she’d pulled away, determined to stand on her own. An admirable quality, he supposed, but in this case…well, he wasn’t sure what he thought.

The destructive act had sickened him, but looking at it in a hardheaded way, it could get him what he wanted. It could make Jessica think twice about this case.

He approached, noticing the way her shoulders stiffened as he neared. “I’ll drive you to the jail. You’ll be late if you wait until they get the tires on.”

She gave him a wary look that seemed to put him at a distance. “It might be better if I stayed with my car. Apparently it’s not safe in your municipal lot.”

“Not ‘my’ lot,” he said mildly. “Hey, Tom.” He raised his voice. “How long is this going to take?”

Tom, owner of Tom’s Garage, shoved his ball cap back and scratched his head. “I got Tom Junior bringing the tires over now. Shouldn’t be more’n an hour, I’d say.” His round, mild face puckered into a frown. “Nasty business. Gives the town a bad name, somethin’ like that.”

“It does,” he agreed. That was the attitude he hoped for from folks around here. “I need to take Ms. Langdon over to the jail on King Street for a meeting. You mind dropping the car over there when you’re done?”

“Sure thing, Trey. No problem at all.” He settled his cap firmly on his head and nodded toward Jessica. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t you worry. I’ll bring the keys in and leave ’em at the desk, okay?”

“Good.” He clapped Tom’s shoulder. “Thanks, Tom. You tell Tommy I said hi, too.”

“Will do.”

Trey raised an eyebrow at Jessica. “That all right with you?”

“I suppose so.” The words came out grudgingly. “I can get a cab…”

“My truck’s right here.” He took her arm. “By the time you wait for a cab, you’ll be even later.”

She pushed back her sleeve to glance at the gold bracelet watch that circled her wrist. Nice. And expensive. A gift, maybe, from a boyfriend or fiancé? She didn’t wear a ring, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t involved with someone.

“All right. Thanks.”

He opened the door for her. She climbed in, smoothing her skirt down over her knees. The skirt didn’t quite make it.

Removing his gaze with an effort, he rounded the truck, got in and started the engine. He shouldn’t be looking at her legs, much as they were worth a second glance. And he shouldn’t be wondering whether she had a man in her life. The only thing that should interest him at the moment was whether this unpleasantness might make her back off from the case.

They drove for a block in silence. “I’m sorry that happened,” he said finally. “I knew feelings were running high, but I never expected open vandalism. I hope it didn’t upset you too much.”

“Is that really what you feel? Or were you thinking that this might be what it took to drive me off?” Her tone was sharp, and he could hardly blame her. Jessica seemed to have an uncanny ability to read his mind.

He took a deep breath and sought for a rational answer. It wouldn’t come.

“I suppose you’re thinking that I might have done it myself to get rid of you,” he said.

A glance at her face told him she’d been thinking exactly that. He clamped his lips shut on the angry words that wanted to pour out. He wasn’t sure whether he was angrier at her for thinking that of him or at himself for caring.

He took a deep breath and held it for a count of five. Ten would probably have been better.

“I’m not going to keep protesting my innocence to you. But you ought to see that this is the very thing I’m trying to protect my mother against. I’m not pleased it happened to you, but—” He stopped. That sentence wasn’t going anywhere good.

“But you’d rather it was me than your mother,” she finished for him. “All right, I get that.” She slanted a sideways glance at him. “And I’m willing to concede that you don’t seem the sort of person to stick knives into people’s tires.”

“Thank you,” he said stiffly.

She shook her head. “I just don’t understand why anyone wants to take their anger at the crime out on me. Surely they realize that Thomas has to have a defense attorney. If not me, it will be someone else.”

“I’m not sure the person who slashed your tires is capable of logical thought. Besides, you’re a Philadelphia lawyer.”

She looked at him blankly. “So?”

“You don’t know the expression?” He couldn’t help smiling. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, Counselor, but out in country places, the term is used as a not-very-complimentary comparison. As in, ‘He’s as slick as a Philadelphia lawyer.’”

“Charming,” she said. “No, I didn’t know that. But our vandal might as well get one thing clear.” She turned toward him as he pulled up in front of the jail. “I’m not quitting this case. Not if I have to put new tires on my car every day of the week.”

“That could get expensive,” he said mildly, but he wasn’t deceived. Jessica didn’t just mean that for the vandal, whoever he might be. She meant it for him, as well.

He should be annoyed. He was. But he was also experiencing a certain sneaking admiration for Jessica Langdon. She might be a thorn in his side at the moment, but he had to admit that she had guts.

TRUE TO HIS WORD, Leo Frost was waiting for Jessica at the jail. She walked toward the spare, slightly stooping figure, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. Thomas must be persuaded to talk to her. To give her something upon which she could build a case.

That was the important thing, not the vandalism to her car. And certainly not whatever random feelings and questioning doubts Trey had managed to raise.

“Mr. Frost.” She gripped his hand briefly. “Thanks again for coming.”

“No problem at all.” He nodded toward the desk. “I asked the officer to have Thomas brought down. We may as well go on into the interview room.”

Maybe he needed to sit down. Compunction hit her as she fell into step with him. “Have you been waiting long? I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Not at all.” He held the door for her and then sank into one of the straight chairs with a sigh. Someone had brought an extra chair in, she noted, showing more consideration for Frost’s health than she had, it seemed.

“Mr. Frost, I do apologize…”

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