The Secret Lives of Married Women by Elissa Wald

Author:Elissa Wald [Wald, Elissa]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Hard Case Crime
ISBN: 9781781162637
Google: nxnIngEACAAJ
Amazon: B00CCONU0O
Barnesnoble: B00CCONU0O
Goodreads: 17797188
Publisher: Titan
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

2

I was listening to this account in the corner booth of an otherwise empty tavern. I had arranged this meeting; in fact, I’d been compelled to arrange it and now I was blowing off the whole afternoon for it.

The young woman across from me had blindsided me during my last trial, in a way nothing else had in my entire legal career. There are many reasons I’m considered one of the best defense attorneys in Kings County, and one of them is my ability to anticipate every aspect of a courtroom battle.

My first boss—Milton Willis—was a master of litigation and he molded me in his own image. A heavy glass paperweight on his desk was inscribed with these words: For every hand extended, another lies in wait. It was a line from a song called Anticipate.

His rules were fixed and inflexible, and I thought of them every day. Never ask a question in a trial unless you already know the answer. Never create an opening for the unexpected. Control every aspect of what unfolds on your watch.

Whenever I thought I was on top of any and every possibility, he would urge me to think again. This is a complicated game, he liked to say, and there are sixty-four squares on the chessboard.

This was guidance I lived by, and by the time I strode into the courtroom on expensive heels and said, “My name is Lillian Reeve and I represent Abel Nathanson,” I believed I had a true blueprint of every box on the board before me.

Nan had obliterated this conviction and dealt a hard blow to my confidence. I needed to understand what happened.

I was dressed down for this encounter, in jeans and a gray t-shirt. I was trying for a vibe that was casual and cozy, one that would lower her guard. When the waitress came over, I asked for a French onion soup and a beer.

But Nan ordered nothing. She sat across from me in the dimly lit booth, her back perfectly straight. She wore a highnecked blouse with a bow at the throat and she held herself still as she spoke. Her gaze was direct and her presence unsettling.

A few days earlier, when I’d called to ask whether we could meet, she had astonished me by saying, “I’ll only talk with you if we can officially deem the meeting a pro bono legal consultation. You’ll need to sign something to that effect. I need an airtight assurance of confidentiality.”

I remembered the first time I met her. Abel had been indicted the day before. He was at the firm to retain my services. Nan was at his side; he held her arm with one hand, his cane with the other.

They were a striking pair. Despite his odd facial disfigurement and his blindness, there was something suave about him, an air of serene self-possession. And her looks were arresting; she was slender and delicate with wide gray eyes and the innocent gaze of some woodland creature. Improbably proper, even

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