Mia Like Crazy (5 page)

“How do you know I’m smart? We only met today.”

“You think I’m an idiot? I had you checked out. You graduated fifth in your class at Columbia Law. You’re perfect. Any law firm would want you to work for them. Any man would want to—” He stopped speaking abruptly.

“Why did you have me come here?”

“I wasn’t expecting
you.
I was expecting some egghead reject with thick glasses and a bun in her hair. You don’t belong here. You should be in a plush office, or lying by a swimming pool.”

“I don’t enjoy working in a large firm. I can’t help how I look.” That was a little bit of a lie because I knew how men saw me and certainly didn’t do anything to detract from it. “The fact is I’m a lawyer. There’s no reason I shouldn’t be your lawyer.”

“No reason?
No reason
?” The rage was back in his voice. “Did you say
enjoy?
” He threw my words back at me with such force, I gripped the edge of the table next to me. “Do you think you’re going to
enjoy
working for me?”
He paused only briefly for an answer and when none came, he resumed his erratic strolling. “Did my sister tell you?”

“Yes.”

“Everything?”

“Yes.”

“You aren’t afraid of me?” He paused and looked at me, and for a moment I thought I saw something other than rage in his eyes. The look was almost pleading, then hopeful, but he quickly turned and began pacing away from me.

“No, I’m not.”

He was across the room, but as soon as I answered his last question, he turned and charged toward me like an angry rhino.

I was startled, and began walking backwards, but after only two steps I felt the wall at my back.

His hands slammed into it on either side of my shoulders, giving the illusion that I was pinned there without him actually touching me. His face was only a few inches from mine, and he stared directly into my eyes.

Although the sound of his palms hitting the wall jarred me, when I looked into his face, all fear dissipated.

As I peered up at him, curiosity took over, since I realized this was the first good look I’d gotten since we met. His brown eyes were framed by surprisingly lush lashes, which softened his features when viewed up close. His skin had a nice tone, halfway between my deep olive and Meridith’s peaches and cream. And, he was tall enough to make me feel small, though I was a respectable five foot six.

The jaded attitude had thrown me off before. Drew was younger than I’d thought, maybe not even thirty. His face was slim—not gaunt—but considering the harsh expression he wore, if I’d added a goatee and horns he truly might look like Lucifer’s son.

Yet, my mind wouldn’t let go of the snapshot it had taken when he smiled.

I remembered to breathe.

Odd. He didn’t smell like any of the normal things—cologne, soap, fabric softener. It was a clean, pleasant scent, though. The term “lemon fresh” came to mind.

Furniture polish
? I glanced over at the gleaming end table by the sofa.

Since Drew was still leaning over me with his hands propped on the wall, I could feel his warm breath on my forehead. I didn’t have the slightest urge to flee my imaginary confinement. I looked up at him and held his gaze for several long seconds.

His eyes shifted down to my mouth, and I got that feeling I always did, right before a man tried to kiss me. Although kissing him was surely the last thing I needed to do, my lips parted automatically in anticipation.

His breathing was suddenly very shallow. His mouth opened. The slight movement of his face toward mine was almost imperceptible.

He spoke to me in a whisper. “This is a very dangerous place.”

When I didn’t reply, his eyes drifted to a section of my hair that hung down past my shoulder. I sucked in a deep breath, inadvertently causing it to move up and down, with the rise and fall of my breasts.

He turned his head away, squeezed his eyes shut, and took in a deep breath.

“Look, you need a lawyer,” I said, finally remembering why I was there. “And I’m willing to take your case—”

He slammed the side of his fist into the wall, but looked more frustrated than angry now.

“I’m trying to warn you.”

“And I appreciate that.”

He pushed off and went over to the table. I felt downright silly about the twinge of disappointment I experienced.

“Here.” He scribbled something onto a scrap of paper and handed it to me. “These are the directions to the library. Look up all the newspaper articles that were written about me, and if you’re really not afraid, come back tomorrow.” He turned away from me, and, for the second time that day, disappeared up the staircase.

~

An hour later, I was sitting in the grimy basement of the library,
trying to work an ancient-looking microfiche viewer.

Now that I was here, I wasn’t sure I wanted to do this. I’d asked the woman at the desk for all the stories on Drew Larson, but I didn’t want the unvarnished truth—for once—and I certainly didn’t want the demonized version reporters often enjoyed writing.

When I got the first page into the viewer, I was stunned by the face staring back at me—a young boy with unreadable, dark eyes. The headline read, “Larson Wins Little League MVP Award.”

But while the story was positive and congratulatory, the boy didn’t show any signs of the delight that should accompany such an honor.

I removed the page and went to the next article and the next several after it. They mentioned Drew Larson’s top honors at the science fair, first place ribbon at a state math competition, and winning season as the quarterback of his high school football team. However, whenever a photo accompanied the story, the same odd expression stared back at me.

I was shocked to note that the crude, apathetic man I’d just left had an overachieving past that rivaled my own.

“Why was he trying so hard?”

“Hmm?” The librarian had stopped on the stairs, a cardboard box in her hands. “Did you say something?”

“Oh, no…yes,” I replied. “I was talking to myself.”

“I do that all the time,” she said as she continued up the steps.

“I don’t.”

Once I heard the door shut at the top of the stairs, I copied each of Drew’s pictures, and placed them into a file in my briefcase, as I wondered why in the world I was doing it. Then, I went back to the pile of unread articles.

I was soon faced with the one I’d dreaded from the minute I sat down.

It said Drew Larson was accused of raping a young woman at a high school graduation party. This story was followed by a deluge of others about the trial.

There were no witnesses other than the victim, and no mention of a confession, but after reading several stories, I got the impression Drew didn’t participate in his own defense. It was understandable that he made no statements to the press before or during the trial, but he also didn’t testify or even speak at his sentencing.

The pictures that appeared with these stories made me sick to my stomach. Drew, so young, being led away in handcuffs. Drew on his way into the courthouse. Photo after photo held the same unreadable expression.

Apparently, getting arrested inspired the same emotion in this young man as winning a track meet, with one exception.

One photograph—one moment in time—seemed to capture the boy inside. He looked as though he was surprised by the camera as he stepped out of a police car, and it was there in his eyes, a desperate, pleading look, much like the one I thought I’d seen earlier when he asked if I was afraid of him.

I pressed the “copy” button and placed it in the file with the childhood pictures.

I spent the night in my hotel room in fitful sleep, dreaming of the boy in the photos, but instead of reflecting the expression most of them held, every picture was pleading with me.

Gradually, the boy’s face morphed into that of a man’s, close enough to touch, but when I reached up toward him, I realized a glass separated us.

He smiled and his eyes grew kind as I stared into them. He opened his mouth—I was certain, to whisper my name. But instead, I heard “Medina” spoken in a sharp, sarcastic tone and awakened, only to fall back to sleep and repeat the same disturbing dream.

Chapter Four

The next morning, I wondered how early I should be at work, but didn’t call for fear Drew would tell me not to come at all, so I knocked on his door at a respectable nine o’clock. A few seconds later, the door opened.

“Are you in the habit of harassing all your clients so early in the morning?” he asked without a hint of humor. It appeared he’d been up for hours, freshly showered and clean-shaven in his black suit with a white dress shirt, open at the top. In fact, he looked exactly as he had the day before. I wondered if he had an entire closet full of nothing but black and white.

Despite the statement, he stood back so I could walk in. He closed the door and turned toward me.

“Did you go to the library?”

“Yes.”

“And you read the clippings?”

“I did.”

“And you came.”

It sounded like more of a statement than a question, so I didn’t say anything. His gaze went to the window on the other side of the room.

A moment later, he turned back toward me, looked directly into my eyes and asked, “Are you nuts, too?”

“It’s not an impossibility,” I replied. “Would I know for sure if I were?”

The corners of his mouth turned up, and a warm feeling flooded through me because I knew I was the cause of it. “That’s a good question.”

He walked over to the table and pulled out a chair for me—a move I guessed might be uncharacteristically gallant for him.

I sat down in front of the file, which was in the same place it had been yesterday.
Wondering if the notepad was still underneath, I felt for it, but it was gone.

We sat for much of the morning, with me asking him questions, looking for the easiest way to get around the various conditions of the will. Had Meridith ever said anything about their father’s frame of mind during his last years? Who else spent a lot of time with Herbert Vaughn? Did he have doctors, psychiatrists?

Each time Drew answered, he did little more than glance at me, then he’d focus on the window as he spoke.

By eleven, I was beginning to get embarrassed about the rumbling sounds my stomach was making, since I’d been too nervous to eat breakfast. A few minutes later, he asked if I wanted something from the deli down the street, and I was grateful when they delivered it right away.

We ate in what felt like companionable silence, but when I finished my smoked turkey breast sandwich, I felt I had to try to simplify his very complicated life.

“There’s all kinds of legal maneuvering possible with this will, but I think you need to consider the possibility of getting a wi—”

“Are you gonna eat that?” He gestured toward the dill pickle, which had accompanied my sandwich. “I don’t understand why it only comes with turkey. I don’t like turkey, but I like pickles.”

“Yes. I mean, no, I’m not going to eat it. Help yourself. Anyway, I was saying—”

“Do you want anything else? Coffee, or more water, or tea?”

I had a feeling he knew where I was going with this and I was irritated by his stall tactics. “No, I’m fine. I was trying to tell you that the legal wrangling could take years. All kinds of things can happen while the will is being contested and it may be big news. Other ‘heirs’ could come out of the woodwork. You need to give some more thought to getting marr—”