cameras that caught every blemish. Briefly she considered escape through the back door of the justice building, but that would be letting Cindy win.
She twisted the top off her mascara. Not today, baby . Except her hands still trembled, jerking when her cell phone suddenly vibrated in her pocket. She gave up on the mascara, checking her phone with a frown. She had a million voicemails.
Reporters. She’d given up changing her phone number. It never seemed to even slow them down. Ignoring the voicemails, she checked her texts and smiled. One from Ford, sent while she’d waited for the jury. Good luck, Mom! He was such a good kid.
She steadied her hands enough to type. Thx . Call me later . Love u .
There were many texts from Paige. The first three were notes from yesterday’s meeting with the contractor they’d hired for their foundation’s newest project – the rehab of an abandoned school into a facility that would serve twenty single mothers undergoing chemotherapy. It had been one of Daphne’s dreams for years, ever since she herself had faced the big C as a newly divorced woman with a twelve-year-old son.
Daphne’s mother had taken care of her and Ford, but the single moms who had no support system weren’t as lucky. Back then she’d vowed that someday she’d change that. With the help of Paige and a lot of other people, that someday had become today.
Paige’s other messages were increasingly more urgent. She’d seen the news and heard about the courtroom drama. No one was releasing information and she hadn’t been able to reach Grayson. Poor kid , Daphne thought. She must be frantic .
Grayson and I are fine , she typed. I’ll have him phone you asap .
Unsurprisingly, there were a whole slew of messages from her mother, most of them in the last ten minutes. Daphne knew her mother – she’d have had the TV on in the shop and all of her customers would be watching.
Working in a dress shop had been her mother’s dream when Daphne had been small and her mother had also been a single mom, cleaning hotel rooms for a living. Now her mother owned her own shop and it was her pride and joy.
Both she and her mother had come a long way from the hills of West Virginia. Being a prosecutor had been Daphne’s goal since she was old enough to understand what ‘justice’ really meant. And what happened to victims when justice was denied.
Think about that, Daphne . About the good you were able to do . Smell those roses . Today she’d felt the thrill of delivering justice. And it felt powerful. I feel powerful .
Daphne dialed her mother’s number, knowing her mother would need to hear her voice, just like she needed to hear Ford’s. I’ll call him next .
‘Mama, it’s me,’ she said when her mother answered. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Daphne! I was so worried.’
Daphne frowned. ‘Are you crying, Mama?’
‘’Course I’m not,’ her mother declared with an indignant huff.
Of course she had been. But Simone Montgomery would never admit to tears, even on the rare occasions that she shed them in front of people. Especially on those occasions. ‘Of course you weren’t,’ Daphne said apologetically. ‘How silly of me.’
‘The news said someone got stabbed.’ This came from Maggie, her mama’s best friend. And my mentor, teacher, confidante . Savior . ‘Are you hurt, too?’
‘I’m all right, Maggie. I’m just a little rattled, but I’ll be fine.’
‘Of course you will,’ Maggie said matter-of-factly, then her voice softened. ‘Should I leave the barn light on for you?’
Daphne let her mind drift until she could hear soft whinnies and smell sweet hay. When she was a little girl in West Virginia, when she was most upset, she went to the barn to brush Maggie’s horses, whispering her darkest secrets and deepest fears in their ears. They always listened and never told a soul. They never criticized or terrorized. She’d worked through many a panic attack by brushing a horse.
When
She twisted the top off her mascara. Not today, baby . Except her hands still trembled, jerking when her cell phone suddenly vibrated in her pocket. She gave up on the mascara, checking her phone with a frown. She had a million voicemails.
Reporters. She’d given up changing her phone number. It never seemed to even slow them down. Ignoring the voicemails, she checked her texts and smiled. One from Ford, sent while she’d waited for the jury. Good luck, Mom! He was such a good kid.
She steadied her hands enough to type. Thx . Call me later . Love u .
There were many texts from Paige. The first three were notes from yesterday’s meeting with the contractor they’d hired for their foundation’s newest project – the rehab of an abandoned school into a facility that would serve twenty single mothers undergoing chemotherapy. It had been one of Daphne’s dreams for years, ever since she herself had faced the big C as a newly divorced woman with a twelve-year-old son.
Daphne’s mother had taken care of her and Ford, but the single moms who had no support system weren’t as lucky. Back then she’d vowed that someday she’d change that. With the help of Paige and a lot of other people, that someday had become today.
Paige’s other messages were increasingly more urgent. She’d seen the news and heard about the courtroom drama. No one was releasing information and she hadn’t been able to reach Grayson. Poor kid , Daphne thought. She must be frantic .
Grayson and I are fine , she typed. I’ll have him phone you asap .
Unsurprisingly, there were a whole slew of messages from her mother, most of them in the last ten minutes. Daphne knew her mother – she’d have had the TV on in the shop and all of her customers would be watching.
Working in a dress shop had been her mother’s dream when Daphne had been small and her mother had also been a single mom, cleaning hotel rooms for a living. Now her mother owned her own shop and it was her pride and joy.
Both she and her mother had come a long way from the hills of West Virginia. Being a prosecutor had been Daphne’s goal since she was old enough to understand what ‘justice’ really meant. And what happened to victims when justice was denied.
Think about that, Daphne . About the good you were able to do . Smell those roses . Today she’d felt the thrill of delivering justice. And it felt powerful. I feel powerful .
Daphne dialed her mother’s number, knowing her mother would need to hear her voice, just like she needed to hear Ford’s. I’ll call him next .
‘Mama, it’s me,’ she said when her mother answered. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Daphne! I was so worried.’
Daphne frowned. ‘Are you crying, Mama?’
‘’Course I’m not,’ her mother declared with an indignant huff.
Of course she had been. But Simone Montgomery would never admit to tears, even on the rare occasions that she shed them in front of people. Especially on those occasions. ‘Of course you weren’t,’ Daphne said apologetically. ‘How silly of me.’
‘The news said someone got stabbed.’ This came from Maggie, her mama’s best friend. And my mentor, teacher, confidante . Savior . ‘Are you hurt, too?’
‘I’m all right, Maggie. I’m just a little rattled, but I’ll be fine.’
‘Of course you will,’ Maggie said matter-of-factly, then her voice softened. ‘Should I leave the barn light on for you?’
Daphne let her mind drift until she could hear soft whinnies and smell sweet hay. When she was a little girl in West Virginia, when she was most upset, she went to the barn to brush Maggie’s horses, whispering her darkest secrets and deepest fears in their ears. They always listened and never told a soul. They never criticized or terrorized. She’d worked through many a panic attack by brushing a horse.
When