Chapter 6 6

Thunder cracked directly overhead.

Bethel bolted upright in bed, gasping. The sound of rain hammering against the thin aluminum roof of the trailer was deafening. It sounded like being inside a drum.

She was sweating, her cheap cotton nightshirt clinging to her back.

The dream faded-Baron standing in the rain, waiting for her, five years ago. He had waited until he collapsed from hypothermia. She had watched from the window, crying, but she hadn't opened the door.

A drop of water splashed onto her forehead. The roof was leaking again.

Her phone buzzed violently on the plywood nightstand, dancing toward the edge.

She looked at the screen. Harvey Huber.

Bethel's stomach twisted into a knot. Bile rose in her throat. She stared at the name, the man who held the leash to her life.

She picked it up.

"Hello," she whispered.

"Sleep well, bride-to-be?" Harvey's voice was thick, oily.

"I'm not your bride, Harvey."

He laughed. It was a wet, ugly sound. "Your daddy's appeal hearing is next week. Without my father's testimony recanting the statement... well, the old man rots in federal prison. Maybe they'll move him to Supermax."

Bethel gripped the phone so hard the plastic creaked. "I'm working on the appeal. I'll find new evidence."

"With what resources?" Harvey sneered. "You're a charity lawyer living in a tin can. You think you can outmaneuver the Feds with a public defender budget?"

He paused, letting the silence stretch.

"Tonight," he said. "My club. Be there, or I tell my dad to lose his memory about the fraud details."

"Harvey, please-"

Click.

Bethel dropped the phone. She pulled her knees up and rested her forehead on them. The trailer smelled of mold and damp cardboard.

She dragged herself out of bed. She walked to the tiny kitchenette. The linoleum was peeling in the corner. She opened the fridge. Half a carton of milk and a loaf of bread that was starting to turn green.

This was her reality. Last night, she had been in River Oaks, surrounded by millions of dollars. Today, she was scraping mold off bread.

She dressed in her oversized grey suit, trying to hide the thinness of her frame. She checked the mirror. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes.

She grabbed her keys and walked out.

Her neighbor, a man with no teeth, was urinating against the side of his own trailer. Bethel looked straight ahead, walking to her car.

The 2008 Toyota Corolla was a wreck. The bumper was held on with duct tape. She turned the key. The engine coughed, whined, and died.

"Please," she begged the dashboard.

She tried again. It sputtered to life, shaking violently.

She drove out of the trailer park, the suspension groaning over every pothole. As she stopped at a red light, she looked to her left. In the distance, the glass towers of downtown Houston gleamed. Somewhere in one of those penthouses, Baron was waking up in silk sheets.

The light turned green. The car behind her honked aggressively.

Bethel stepped on the gas, the car lurching forward. She had a job to do. She had a father to save. She didn't have time to mourn a love that was already dead.