Page 49 of Damon
“Come in.” I gesture toward the living area, and he walks past me. “Mrs. D, could you keep an eye on Annie please?”
“Of course,” she replies, then makes her way upstairs.
Harrison walks in front of me; clearly, he knows his way around the house. I would imagine he’s been here plenty of times before. The thought is slightly unsettling, like it is every time I think of what should have been, not what is. On arriving in the living space, he hovers around the sofa, not sitting but in position so that he can if it suits.
“Take a seat,” I say, then sit in the chair opposite as he lowers.
He sits forward on the edge of the cushion, his hands clasped and elbows on his knees. “Emma, I understand you have previous personal history with Samson Moreno, and because of him you were forced into witness protection.” The bluntness of his words takes me by surprise, and I gasp silently. “You are now aware it was me who defended him, then had him successfully released back into society.”
“I am.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, simply and without hesitation. “There is no justification I can give you beyond me doing the job I was paid for. I understand it must be hard for you to look at me right now. You must hate me for protecting a man who took so much from you, not only your family but your identity.”
“I won’t lie; it is disappointing that someone I hold in high esteem has been involved in releasing a person so dangerous and vile, yes.” When I look at him, there is an uncertainty in his expression which is unfamiliar. Harrison always looks so self-assured. “But I also understand that my feelings are so because this bastard personally affected me, so my opinions are not purely professional. The world you and I work in brings both guilty and innocent to our door looking for a defense. When Moreno came to you, he was a paycheck, no more. I get that, though it’s frustrating.”
“That is true.” He pauses, shrewd eyes surveying my face. “Perhaps being so good at what I do is a curse in reality. Perhaps I’m part of the problem, but which is worse…an innocent man going to jail due to poor representation or a guilty man walking free?”
I think about his question for a moment before answering. My instinct is to say the guilty man walking free, but sense tells me otherwise. After taking a steadying breath I answer. “An innocent man losing years behind bars for a crime he had no responsibility for.”
“Why?” he asks, cocking his head to one side.
“Because a guilty man will no doubt reoffend and can be caught. An innocent man will never reclaim time.”
“Exactly, Emma. When I started in law it was to fight for those who needed help. I will admit that my success was somewhat unexpected and has diverted the course of my initial intentions. Perhaps when you come back to work eventually, we could look at putting right some of those wrongs.”
“How cryptic,” I mutter, but giggle. “What do you have in mind?”
“I was thinking we, you and I, could provide free law representation to members of the community who can’t afford to pay our prices. People who have been dealt a bad hand, what do you say?” He stops speaking, leaving the words floating between us. I don’t rush to answer, using his own method against him. “Emma,” he prompts.
“I would be open to discussing the possibility.” He laughs, then leans forward, offering me his hand. We shake and he rises.
“Excellent. Well, once you are ready to return to work, we can discuss moving the idea forward.” I move to stand but he gestures for me to stay seated. “Relax, I’ll see myself out.” He turns then walks away. I hear his steps recede then the front door closes.
I sit back, close my eyes, and relax as I rerun the conversation in my mind with a smile on my face. The knowledge that Harrison freed my parent’s killer was hard to accept, but I’m not a stupid little girl. I know how the world works. His actions were not against me or my family; he didn’t know me then. Business is business, and when you walk in the shoes he does, there are always going to be decisions with gray morals but perhaps I can make his work a little less gray by helping free innocent people wrongly convicted.
***
That evening, I finish laying the table with polished silverware and light the candle at the center as the front door opens. Damon walks into the kitchen, stopping dead on entry. He stands silently as his wide green eyes sweep around the kitchen and dining space. Gentle acoustic pop music plays from a speaker in the corner as our meal finishes cooking in the oven. What I hope is an enticing aroma of homecooked food wafts around the room.
Mrs. D helped me prepare what she says is his favorite meal: a traditional lasagna with garlic bread. It’s a recipe I have never made before, but we had a lot of fun this afternoon preparing it all. She teased me about my lack of culinary skills while I did the same about her vertical challenges when she couldn’t reach the pan on the top shelf.
“Hi,” I say with a smile as our eyes meet. “Did you have a good day?”
“Complex,” he replies, uncertainty clear in his tone. Annie shrieks and his focus moves to the crib in the corner. He walks over, leans down, and lifts her up against his chest. The difference in size is startling, her tiny body resting against his wide frame. His lips drop onto the top of her head. “Good evening, Constance,” he says. I’ve noticed he has started using her full name more often—I wonder why.
“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” I tell him, and he glances over.
“I’ll put Annie to bed and come back down.” He walks toward the door, then pauses and looks back over his shoulder with blank eyes. “Blow out the candle, Emma. This isn’t a date. It’s roommates having supper.”
***
Damon
As the phrase leaves my mouth, I regret it. Emma’s face falls but she quickly rearranges her features to impassive. I’ve noticed she has the ability to mask her hurt well, especially when I’m being an asshole. Just like I’m acting at this very moment. Without another word, I walk away to take my daughter to her room.
The tiny space is perfect for her at the size she is. It’s cozy and warm, plus close enough to my bedroom I can hear her cry without a baby monitor. After changing and redressing her in a suitable onesie, I lay her down to sleep. The last thing I want to do is go back downstairs; it’s also exactly where I want to be. After pacing from my bedroom to my daughter’s a few times, I make my way back to the kitchen.
When I arrive, I find the scene that welcomed me gone. The table has been cleared, and a single plate sits on the countertop with cutlery and a glass of water. Emma and her meal are nowhere to be seen. “Emma,” I call, but she doesn’t respond.