Chapter Eighteen
Ashlyn
“No. Get down. I mean it, Tank. Get . . . argh!” The one thing the dog just could not be trained to do was stay off the furniture. Not only did he climb on the couch every chance he got, but he’d stretch out and take up the whole damn thing. Already sitting on it? He didn’t mind. He’d just lay right on top of you. “Tank, I can’t feel my arm. Seriously. You have to—”
Ashlyn’s phone started ringing in the kitchen and her head hit the back of the couch with an only slightly painful thunk.
“Fine.” She wiggled sideways, attempting to free herself of the dog’s substantial weight. “You win. The couch is yours.”
Muttering about furry menaces, she shook out her left hand on her way into the kitchen, trying to restore feeling to her fingertips. The phone jumped and bounced on top of the microwave. Ashlyn groaned. Six names made up her contacts list; Mom, Dad, Mason, Em, Jay, and Bart. The rules were simple. If a call didn’t come from someone on that list, she didn’t answer. A seventh name had been added recently and she was beginning to regret it.
“Hello?”
“Miss Mills?” With a name like Mary Lou Ellens, you couldn’t help but expect everything that came out of her mouth to have a southern twang, but the D.A.’s voice was as perfectly clipped as any self-respecting city dweller.
“Speaking.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad I finally reached you.” Ashlyn detected a hint of irritation in the woman’s voice. She may or may not have let the last few calls go to voicemail. And never listened to them. “We have a problem.”
This was why Ashlyn preferred not to answer the phone. No one ever called with good news. “What problem?”
“To be blunt . . . your mother.”
“My mother?” Never should have answered. Why did she even have a phone? She was calling the company this afternoon and having it disconnected. No more phone, no more problems. “What about my mother?”
“She’s been making some rather . . . inflammatory remarks regarding the case. The defendant in particular.”
“So? The guy’s a scum-sucking dirtbag child abuser.” Anything anyone said about him couldn’t be worse than the truth.
“He’s an alleged scum-sucking dirtbag child abuser.” Mary Lou clarified. “The trial hasn’t even begun yet and that’s the problem. The defense is arguing that defamatory statements from someone as influential as a senator are polluting the jury pool.”
“How so?”
“These people voted for your mother. They believe what she believes. If she says he’s guilty . . . The defense is petitioning for a change of venue.”
“Okay.” Ashlyn wasn’t really grasping the problem. Who cared where they held the trial? A blind man could see he was guilty.
Mary Lou sighed. “The justice system isn’t cheap, Ashlyn. Trials cost money. Jailing someone . . . Who do you think pays for all of that? I agree that the man’s actions were reprehensible, but most occurred a very long time ago. The statute of limitations has already expired on some of it.”
“I thought that once the charges were filed, the statute didn’t apply anymore.”
“It doesn’t. But the defense is arguing that he’s a changed man. That he’s gotten help and reformed himself and shouldn’t be punished now for crimes from another lifetime.”
“That’s bullshit. He just came after Jay and Em—”
“Which is why your testimony is so important to this case. It blows their defense away. But it won’t do us any good if it doesn’t get heard.”
Ashlyn rubbed her forehead, attempting to keep up. “Why wouldn’t it get heard?”
“If your mother keeps speaking out about the case and the defense wins their petition, it could cause significant delays to the trial. That’s a cost that the state can’t afford to pay. They’ll be much more inclined to consider a plea deal.”
“What kind of deal?” Her stomach clenched as the floor wavered beneath her feet.
“Given how long ago the majority of the charges took place . . . there’s a reasonable chance that he could get off with no jail time.”
Pain radiated up Ashlyn’s arms from where her elbows collided with the countertop.
“You see why it’s important you speak with your mother about this as soon as possible?” The D.A.’s voice grew distant and tinny.
“She . . .” Deep breaths did nothing to help when there was no oxygen left in the room. “She won’t listen to me. Can’t you—”
“I’ve attempted to speak with her on multiple occasions. She never returns my calls. You’re the only one who can reach her.”
Crap. Not good. How the hell was she supposed to fix this?
“Do you understand how important this is?”
Ashlyn’s entire body rocked with impatience, but her fingers curled around the edge of the counter, anchoring her.
“Miss Mills? Are you—?”
“Yes.” Stop talking. Just stop talking. “I understand.”
“Very well.”
The line went dead and the phone dropped to the floor. Tank sniffed at it and let out a high-pitched whine. His ears flopped as he cocked his head at her. On the outside she must have looked ridiculous, hunched over, clinging to a counter when there was nothing physically wrong with her. But inside . . . she was swept up in a battlefield, fighting hard to deny what her subconscious insisted she needed. Fear, guilt, regret were building up. She felt like a balloon being pumped too full. If she couldn’t release some of the pressure . . . she’d pop.
The sound of the front door opening and closing was nearly drowned out by the harsh breaths sawing in and out of her lungs.
“Shit.” Keys hit the counter and then two thick arms wrapped around her waist from behind. “I’m here. I got you.”
Ashlyn pried her aching fingers from the countertop and latched onto Mason’s arms. He’d hold her together. She had to believe that.
“Talk to me, Ash.” Warm breath brushed the side of her neck. “What’s going on?”
“I c-can’t.” She couldn’t go there. She was trying very, very hard not to go there. Because she knew exactly where going there would lead her. Nausea swirled in the pit of her stomach and she shook with the force of will it cost her to simply stand still.
“Okay. Come here.” Ashlyn’s feet stumbled over each other as Mason turned her around and gathered her close.
She laid her head against his chest and let the fresh scents of spring rain fabric softener and the woodsy scent that was all Mason sooth her.
“Look at me.” He nudged her chin upward. “Pretty girl, eyes up here.”
They connected with his and for one moment she found steady ground.
“There she is.” Long fingers brushed her hair back over her shoulder and cupped her cheek. Warmth soaked into her skin from the palm of his hand. “You with me?”
Ashlyn nodded. For the moment the battle had stilled. “Yeah. I’m with you.”
“Good.” His thumb stroked over her temple. “That’s good. Now tell me what happened.”
“The D.A. called . . .” She leaned into him, letting his strength support her as she explained what was happening and what she needed to do next. “She wants me to call my mom. Get her to stop making statements about the case.”
“Okay.” Mason took her by the upper arms, making certain that she was steady on her own two feet before crouching to retrieve her phone. Tank head-butted him in the shoulder and he paused to rub the dog’s head before gently wrapping her fingers around the device. “Then you call.”
Ashlyn felt the room begin to tilt. “I don’t think—”
“Who’s in this room?”
“Wh—“ Her attention snapped away from the phone to gape at Mason. “What?”
“This room, right here, Ash. Who’s in it?”
Obviously he knew the answer to that question, but she couldn’t figure out why he’d asked it so she played along. “You and me. And Tank.”
“Right this moment, who can reach out and touch you in any way?”
“You or Tank?” It wasn’t a question, but once again she found herself at a loss.
“That’s right. And do you think either me or Tank would ever hurt you?”
“Mason, where is this going?”
“Answer me.” Mason stood before her, looking like a force to be reckoned with. Solid, steady, immovable. Unavoidable. “Would anyone in this room ever hurt you?”
Ashlyn eyed the dog and sighed. “No.”
“Right again.” He stepped closer, his hand wrapping around the nape of her neck to hold her attention. “You’re in no danger. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just us . . . and a phone call.”
“But she’s not going to listen—”
“You won’t know that until you try. Dial.”
Safe. She was safe. No danger. Just her mother’s wrath. And the probability of failure. And the consequences of such a failure. And—
Before she could psych herself out again, Ashlyn scrolled through her missed calls and tapped her mother’s name. Mason’s gaze bored into hers at it rang and Mark’s voice reached her from the other end of the line.
“Ashlyn? Your mother’s busy. If you can call back—”
“I need to speak with her. Now.” Before she lost her nerve. People didn’t tell Meredith Mills what to do. Not unless they were Mark Gregory, one of the nation’s leading campaign managers. Even then it was met with about a fifty percent success rate.
“Hold on.”
Mason’s eyes tightened slightly at the corners.
“Ashlyn? I’m dealing with a situation right now. Preston Harding has been in a horrific accident. They’re saying he’s lucky to be alive. The senator is beside himself. Impossible to reach. I may have just lost my chance at earning his support. What could possibly be so important that you had to—”
“You have to stop commenting on the trial.”
Preston was hurt? The thought that he deserved it felt cold even for her.
“What?” The senator’s tone could have cut through solid steel.
“The D.A. called and she said—”
“The D.A. is a nosey—”
“She said your statements are endangering the trial. The defense wants—”
“The defense wants . . . The D.A. wants . . . The only thing you don’t seem to care about is what your mother wants. I asked you to remove yourself from this media circus, but you refused. I warned you that your involvement would cause problems. All anyone wants to hear about anymore is this damn trial. No one’s paying attention to my platform. No one cares that the crime rate is down for the first time in decades, or that I’ve had a hand in creating more new jobs than this state has seen in the past twenty years. It’s all you, you, you. The reporters ask the questions, Ashlyn. What am I supposed to do, ignore them?”
“No.” Her gaze dropped to Mason’s chest and his hand closed around her elbow. “I just—”
“You dug this hole, Ashlyn. I’m just trying to climb out of it. Whatever happens . . . that’s on you. I can’t always be responsible for cleaning up your messes.”
The words echoed in her mind.
Mason caught her chin and tipped it upward. Her eyes riveted to his lips as they formed the words, “Can’t. Hurt. You.”
But he was wrong. Words could hurt. They cut deep and festered. They infected your soul and tore open old wounds.
The road blurred and swayed. Screeching tires. The acrid scent of burning rubber. The world dropped away and a steel cage enclosed around her. Screaming . . . Crying . . . The salty sweet mix of blood and tears.
“Ash!” A rough shake jolted her back to the present.
“M-mason?” The phone was gone and he was barely holding her up.
She wasn’t going to do it. Her mother wasn’t going to stop. And how could Ashlyn blame her? She’d created this mess. She’d dug the hole. If the defense won their petition, if the trial got delayed . . . who would end up buried at the bottom of it? Jay? Em? Mason?
“Are you okay?” He held her at arm’s length. “You went catatonic.”
“Get off.” The pressure was too much. Her skin too tight. She could feel it boiling inside. Too much in too little space. Explosion was imminent.
Ashlyn wrenched herself free and raced for the hallway, but Mason cut her off.