A Pairing to Die For Read online

  I wonder if it belonged to whoever got in a fight with Oscar, or simply to a random tourist lost on Pearl Street.

  Either way, I tuck it safely in a Ziploc bag and stash it in the junk drawer, making a mental note to share my discovery with Eli. Then I settle in next to Zin and open my laptop.

  The childhood story about Reid is like an earworm writhing through my mind, playing over and over. It makes me wonder: Do I really know him as well as I think I do? And if I don’t know the man I’ve given my heart to, what about someone like Oscar? Who knows what sort of woes might be hidden in his past?

  I find myself navigating social media and scrolling through Oscar’s feed.

  He hadn’t been very active in recent days, likely having been too busy with work, family, or the sheer effort of adulting.

  I delve deeper into his past, where a photo from nearly a decade ago catches my eye. It’s of him and Reid, their arms thrown around each other’s shoulders and carefree grins on their faces. Their free hands are extended, holding matching plates of some fancy dish—French, by the look of the sauce. From the dozens of comments, I gather they’d just been named first and second in their class at the Culinary Institute of America.

  I switch to Spoons’s profile. Social media can be harsh, trolls and misinformation in abundance. But, as it turns out, the media has been kinder to Reid than it was to me. Whereas the masses blamed me and my chardonnay for the death of a renowned critic faster than you can say Gewürztraminer, complete with its own damning hashtag, Reid is being hailed as a genius chef who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A double standard, perhaps, or maybe stabbing is more acceptable than poison in our industry.

  Opening a new tab, I type Oscar Flores into a search window. Articles with today’s date float to the top. I click on one by a local publication called the Boulder Camera.

  The article doesn’t say much more than what I already know. Oscar was found dead in the early hours of the morning under suspicious circumstances. A suspect was in custody based on witness testimony. The law enforcement agency was making the case a priority. Which, based on my knowledge of such things, means they want this case wrapped up and the perpetrator behind bars right quick.

  And then I find the break I need—the smallest detail that probably wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but me: the witness is an accordionist who performed on Pearl Street earlier that evening.

  Details come back to me. The scents—waffle cones, incense, barbecue—and then the sounds. There was an accordion trio playing “Bad Romance” on Pearl Street the night of the Dinner That Shall Not Be Named. I’d passed it, had even contemplated stopping and listening, before opting for grape stomping instead.

  Opening yet another fresh tab, I search for accordion bands in the area. From there, I scroll through the results until I see a photo accompanying a link that looks promising. The Squeeze Keys are a group formed of three guys who came together because of their mutual appreciation for the worldly instrument.

  The best part: their schedule is on their website. And conveniently, they’ll be playing at Union Station in Denver Saturday afternoon, which is only two days away.

  Hopefully this mess will be over by then, but if not, at least I have a lead.

  * * *

  * * *

  You can tell a lot simply by looking at a glass of wine. The color, consistency, legs. All of this hints at the alcohol concentration, aging (if there was any), flavors, and presence of tannins.

  People are the same way.

  Whether we like it or not, the way we dress and carry ourselves says something about our person, our confidence, and our credibility.

  Which is probably why I’m putting way too much effort into deciding what to wear this morning.

  I don’t know why I’m bothering. It’s not like the judge is going to notice my pencil skirt and blouse and say, Oh, that ensemble is so fabulous—that maroon tweed, that embellished lace!—obviously this has all been a huge mistake and your boyfriend is completely innocent!

  And yet, I can’t help but try on outfit after outfit until I find the perfect one.

  Checking my reflection in the mirror, I tuck in the front of my blouse and smooth out the wool of my pencil skirt. My usual beaded necklace is strung around my neck and my locks are straightened to frame my face.

  I do a cat-check before I leave. Zin stares longingly through the panes in the French doors where a songbird hops from foot to foot on the balcony. And William, much like his human counterpart would be doing at this hour, is prowling in the kitchen.

  After topping off their food and making sure their toys are placed for maximum entertainment, I wish them a harried good-bye. “Wish me luck. Or Reid, really. And I really need to stop talking to cats.”

  Reid’s arraignment is being held at a courthouse inside Boulder County Jail. Which means I need to get an Uber. To the jail. It’s as awkward a ride as it sounds.

  The driver who accepts my request is a scrawny guy named Earnest who eyes me curiously in the rearview mirror as we make our way to East Boulder and turn down Airport Road. We pass the park, where dogs are playing fetch and bikers are showing off their moves, and make our final ascent up a hill with a breathtaking view of the mountains.

  Earnest slows after we enter the parking lot, uncertain where to drop me off.

  “The main entrance is on the north side.”

  “Been here before?” he asks, following my directions.

  “No, but I figured it was time I turned myself in.” I wait half a beat, my eyes meeting his briefly in the mirror before I add, “I’m kidding.”

  He chuckles halfheartedly and seems all too relieved when I finally get out of his Impala, practically peeling away in the dirt parking lot.

  Sage is waiting for me outside the entrance to the jail. She’s wearing slate-gray slacks, an emerald-green shirt, and lightning bolt earrings. Her hair is swept back into a low ponytail and she’s clutching a no-nonsense leather briefcase.

  “I thought Camilla kicked you to the curb,” I say by way of a greeting.

  “She tried,” Sage responds huffily. “But Reid refused to meet with her fancy-schmancy lawyer, insisting on sticking with yours truly.” There’s an unmistakable hint of pride in her voice. “Did you get any sleep?”

  “A little,” I say. Although, honestly, I’d be surprised if I managed to get more than a couple of hours with my brain mulling everything over and two cats vying for space in my bed.

  Sage sees through my lie. “Don’t worry, these usually go fast.”

  I shift to the side to let an older gentleman pass us, gravel crunching beneath my feet. The compound is just as intimidating as it was yesterday. The concrete is cold and the bright-red accents come across as harsh.

  Sage’s phone buzzes, offering a welcome distraction. She checks the screen and looks up in surprise. “Wow, he’s on time for once.”

  “Who?”

  “Liam.” She stashes her phone in her pocket and cranes her neck, scanning the full parking lot.

  I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “So, you two have been texting a lot,” I say, baiting her for information.

  She brushes a stray lock of strawberry-blond hair from her face. “You think so?”

  “More than he texts with his own sister.”

  She frowns, as if this hadn’t occurred to her. “Well, we’ve been worried about you, Miss Never-Asks-for-Help.”

  “Hey, I’ve gotten better,” I say defensively. It’s true; while I used to see myself as an island, fully capable of doing everything solo, I’ve recently tried to take my self-reliance down a notch. “I asked you for help.”

  She bats her eyelashes at me. “And aren’t you glad you did?”

  “Indubitably.” I hold a hand over my heart. “I bow before your brilliance and beauty.”

  “Not before
I regale you about your wit, charm, and general badassery.”

  “Aw, talking about me?” Liam asks, sauntering up. “Don’t stop on my account.”

  He’s wearing checkerboard Vans, slim jeans that accentuate his gangly limbs, and a TARDIS T-shirt, which tells me he has the day off work. He adjusts his camera bag, slung over one shoulder.

  A tinge of red appears on Sage’s cheeks.

  “You wish,” I quip, going in for a side hug. He crushes me with his arm, surprisingly strong from all the landscaping. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Liam says. “Gotta have something to hold over Reid. The last time he got in trouble was a bar fight in Telluride, and that was ages ago.”

  “Can you please refrain from mentioning that inside?” Sage asks. “No reason to cast any more suspicion on my client.” Her voice swells as she says my client.

  “Sure thing.” Liam salutes her and then focuses on me. “You doing okay, Parker?”

  Early on, Liam cast himself in the role of my protector. In elementary school, when I was bullied for requesting extra math assignments (served me right, I know), through high school, when the class jerk spread a nasty rumor about me (which put me off hotdogs for life). And now in adulthood.

  “Fine,” I answer, crossing my arms over my chest. “You should really be more worried about how Reid is doing.”

  “He’s okay,” Sage says. “There’s a good chance we’ll get him off the hook.”

  “And if we don’t?” I ask, my stomach twisting itself into knots that rival those I use for climbing.

  “Then we hope bail is set low enough that he can sleep in his own bed tonight.” She glances at the screen of her phone. “Let’s get inside. It’s showtime.”

  * * *

  * * *

  My only experience with courtroom drama is from Law & Order reruns, and they apparently leave out some details.

  The courtroom consists of three sections, each separated by a glass partition.

  The first is for the general public, and is almost as small as the lobby, with three measly benches. Liam and I wedge ourselves among parents, siblings, friends, and significant others of inmates. I rubberneck my fellow onlookers, trying not to seem too obvious.

  I hardly expected Reid’s family to show up, but it still stings that they couldn’t make time for the son they supposedly came into town to visit.

  I continue my cursory scan, surprised to see Eli Fuller in the back row, his gaze stubbornly fixed ahead of him. And I’m even more surprised to see Britt Hartmann a few seats to his right. What Reid’s pastry chef is doing here, I don’t know. She catches my eye and I hurriedly face forward.

  Sage is in the central area, where the proceedings will take place, relegated to the perimeter with the other defense lawyers until their respective case numbers are called. She doesn’t seem the least bit nervous, no doubt thanks to her experience clerking for the esteemed Judge Manuel Acosta, or The Manual, as he’s affectionately known to us for his encyclopedic knowledge of everything related to the law profession. He expects the best from his protégés and, in return, is their staunchest supporter. Which is maybe why he’s cool with Sage doing this pro bono—to give her a taste of her career aspiration: criminal law.

  Public prosecutors lounge at a long table piled high with manila folders, chattering pleasantly while they wait for the session to start. The judge’s bench towers above us lowly commoners, vacant except for a bailiff hastily organizing papers. The bench itself is gorgeous, mahogany sporting a placard engraved with Boulder County judicial district information, and perched off to the side is the recorder, sipping from a Big Gulp with a bored expression on her face. Officers flank every entrance.

  There’s movement across the way as a dozen inmates are led into the third glass-encased area.

  I dig my fingers into the armrest to keep grounded as I scan each face for Reid. He comes in last, followed by a deputy who chuckles at something Reid’s just said.

  The sight of him sends a jolt of electricity through my body. Leave it to Reid to somehow pull off an orange jumpsuit. The cut enhances the strong angles of his cheekbones; the orange, the copper undertones in his hair; and the thin fabric, his lean muscles.

  My breath hitches as I wonder when the next time I’ll be able to hug him—to even touch him—will be.

  Reid gazes hungrily through the glass partitions, scouring the courtroom and then the visitors’ area. When his eyes finally meet mine, they lock on and, I kid you not, he winks.

  At least he still has his good humor.

  “Knew he’d be happy to see me,” Liam whispers at my side.

  “Uh-huh,” I say, the entirety of my focus on Reid.

  Even though he exudes his usual air of nonchalance, there are dark circles under his eyes and a bruise blossoming around the gauze covering his original cut. I have a hunch he slept less than I did last night, that he couldn’t afford to.

  “All rise,” the bailiff says. “Honorable Judge Rhya Jones presiding.”

  I get to my feet as the judge, a steely-eyed woman with her hair pulled into a severe knot, enters the courtroom, her black gown cinched with a golden pin. She settles at her podium and shuffles through the papers the bailiff worked so hard to organize.

  “Please be seated,” Judge Rhya Jones says in a commanding voice. With a pointed look at an inmate who stubbornly remained on his derriere, she adds, “For those of you who actually stood.” She’s clearly not one to be trifled with.

  I sit back down, tucking my pencil skirt beneath my legs.

  “Let’s start with case number”—the judge rattles off a stream of nonsensical digits—“Reid Michael Wallace.”

  The judge peers toward where Reid is standing with his cuffed hands clasped in front of him. “Hi, Reid,” she says.

  “Your Honor,” Reid answers, nodding respectfully.

  She shifts her attention to the attendants in the courtroom. “Will the counselors please announce their names for the record?”

  Sage springs to her feet and makes her way to the podium. She lowers the microphone and states, “Sage Bennet on behalf of Mr. Wallace.”

  The judge continues and soon I’m so lost in the legalese she might as well be speaking a foreign language. The words that stand out chill me to my core: “First-degree murder of Oscar Hernandez Flores.”

  Sage stands ramrod straight, her hands gripping the sides of the podium as she listens intently. There’s a tiny crease between her eyebrows that speaks to her mounting concern. It’s the same look she had going into the final Avengers film.

  The judge comes to a brusque close. “How will the defendant plead?”

  “Not guilty,” Sage says, her voice strong.

  Reid doesn’t blink, doesn’t seem to breathe. His shoulders are back, though he must be crushed by the weight of all that’s transpired.

  Judge Rhya Jones looks down her nose at Reid. “Further proceedings will be set for the thirteenth of September,” she says.

  I feel a stab to my heart. That’s three days from now, an entire weekend away. I stare at Reid, my vision growing blurry around the edges.

  At my side, Liam takes my hand and squeezes it.

  The judge continues, “Bail will be set to four hundred thousand U.S. dollars.”

  A wave of dizziness overwhelms me as the reality of what I just heard sinks in. Liam’s hand is the only thing keeping me level, like an anchor to a balloon threatening to escape.

  Reid starts, “Your Honor—”

  “Young man, I would advise you to let your attorney speak for you,” she interjects. “Given the circumstances, be grateful I set bail at all.” And with that, the hearing is over. The judge shuffles through papers, already moving on to the next case.

  I slump forward, my elbows on my knees, fighting the sobs threatening to rack my body. I bite m
y lower lip, hard enough that it brings me back to the present.

  Keep yourself together, I tell myself, for Reid.

  So, I take a shuddering breath and lift my chin, just in time to watch Reid escorted from the courtroom.

  I don’t like what I see in his downcast eyes. His hunched posture.

  Defeat.

  Chapter

  Nine

  Though it grates on my psyche to admit it, there’s only one person I can think of who might be able to help Reid.

  I stumble outside the jail to make my call, leaning against one of the red metal pillars framing the entrance. My hand shakes as I bring the phone to my ear.

  Camilla answers on the first ring.

  I don’t have the energy for pleasantries, so I cut to the chase, telling her about Reid’s arraignment and the astronomically high bail set by the judge.

  “Reid needs you,” I say, my voice full of anguish. “Please.”

  “He made it very clear he doesn’t need me or my money.”

  “At the moment, he could use both.” The door to the jail opens behind me, but I ignore it, covering my other ear with my free hand.

  A gust of wind sends dirt and dried leaves skittering across the parking lot, the dry air reeking of exhaust from a nearby construction site. It’s enough to make my already-uneasy stomach clench.

  I hold my breath as Camilla chats with someone on her side of the line, a muffled conversation I can’t make out.

  When she returns, her tone is huffy. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  My hope evaporates like the angel’s share of wine—lost to the wind. “Why not?”

  “Because when Reid cut ties with our family, he cut ties with our bank account as well,” she says curtly. “He can’t decide he wants to be a part of this family when it suits his needs.”

  “But he’s your son,” I argue. “You have to do something.”

  “I tried to do something and Reid dismissed me without so much as a thank-you,” she hisses. “He got himself into this mess, he can get himself out of it.”