be able to get you an appointment with a retired FBI polygrapher, but it's going to cost about a grand."
"But I thought you just said they aren't admissible or whatever."
"Not as evidence in a trial, but if you pass…I could use it as leverage with the prosecutor."
"I will pass."
"Well, we can just shred the report if you don’t."
"I will pass it," I repeat, and she looks back out toward the ocean. "What? You don't think I will? You thought I was guilty this whole damn time, so will this finally prove to you that I'm innocent?"
She finally faces me again. "It doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what twelve jurors believe, and I'm telling you, one look at those pictures and you're going to get convicted."
"Your job is to make sure I don't!"
"I'm just an attorney, not a freaking miracle worker," she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
"You're really starting to piss me off," I warn her.
"Then maybe you should hire someone else to represent you," she replies, her jaw tight, face blood red, looking as angry as I am at the moment. "Because if you get convicted, I don't want you blaming me for the fact that you were too stupid to take a plea!"
"You are such a stuck-up bitch, you know that?"
She scoffs at the insult. "Well, you're an arrogant, rude, overcompensating…" she sputters.
"Yeah, so what? That doesn't mean I'm guilty!"
"You know what, I'll just take the train home, so you can go on back without me," she says.
"Hell no you won't! I'm not leaving you in this city by yourself. You're going back with me, even if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you to my car."
She huffs out a breath, and her blue eyes narrow when she puts her clinched fists prissily on her hips. Damn if that doesn’t make her even sexier. It's also pretty funny to see her wound up like a feisty, aggravated kitten. The ones you can't help but keep teasing, trying to get them all riled up until they arch their backs and hop around on all four feet like they're little bad asses.
"What's the smirk for?" she asks in a huff.
"You're kind of cute when you're trying to look pissed off."
"You're not taking this seriously."
"I'm as serious as a motherfucking heart attack. This is my life at stake here!"
"Then listen to me when I tell you that those pictures are going to get you convicted, whether you're guilty or innocent. That's why a plea might really be the best thing-"
That does it. I throw the papers down and stand up to get in her face. "I'm not pleading guilty! Maybe you should try listening to me for once!"
"I'll be committing malpractice if I let you go to trial and get twenty or more years active when you could've taken a plea and gotten out in just a handful!" she yells.
"Seriously, woman, I don't want to have this discussion with you again. No fucking plea is going to happen! So don't you lose another single wink of sleep worrying your pretty little head about malpractice nonsense."
She blows out another breath, and I'm so close I can smell the peppermint scent. "Fine. Then you won't mind signing something stating that I advised you to take a plea and you refused?"
"I'll sign any fucking thing you want as long as you quit talking about that shit."
"Fine."
"Good. Glad we could clear that up," I say, taking a step back to put some space between us.
"I'm going back down to the security desk to see if the video is ready, and if so, try get them to print a few pictures of her. I think I can pick her out from her Facebook photos. Then I'll find out who in the hotel was working that night based on the other people visible on the camera. I'll show those people her picture and see if anyone remembers seeing her."
"Great. I'll be at the pool when you're ready to go," I tell her.
Of course she scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. "This is not a vacation, Mr. I'm-Serious-as-a-Heart-Attack."
"I’m serious, but there's nothing else for me to do while you do that shit, is there? And since I had to pay for
The 12 NAs of Christmas, Chelsea M. Cameron