Cover Your Eyes by Mary Burton

scavenged at yard sales, hugged the long wall that stood opposite the bank of windows now covered with long strips of canvas. Some would have described her look as chic, in a scruffy kind of way. She called it for what it was: cheap. She’d furnished the entire space for less than two hundred dollars.
    She’d chosen the building because, like her furnishings, it was affordable. She’d found the place when it had gone into bankruptcy, had negotiated a great price and become a landowner. She lived in this space but also maintained her law offices on the first floor. Cursing the cold, she rose and hurried to the bathroom where she kept a small space heater. She clicked on the heater and turned on the shower. Soon the room warmed.
    She wiped her hand over the steaming mirror, ignored spiked bed-head hair, and studied her jaw. Purples, blacks, and blues colored the pale skin stretching from her chin to her ear. She worked her mouth from side to side, touching her fingers gingerly against the skin. She flinched. A check of her teeth left her grateful that none had been broken or cracked. She didn’t need a dentist’s bill.
    She threaded her fingers through her hair. Dark circles hovered under her eyes, a sign that she shouldn’t have stayed up until two a.m. reviewing briefs in another upcoming case.
    “Burning the candle at both ends,” she grumbled as she stepped into the shower. The wet heat soothed the lingering chill, coaxed some of the aches from her bones and tempted her to loiter and disregard the time. But time was money and both were rare luxuries.
    Her law practice was barely making ends meet and she’d scarcely made her mortgage payment and the light bill this month. She’d not drawn a paycheck in weeks but hoped enough billable receivables came through the door in the next day or two so she could draw a small wage.
    Instead of choosing her regular work clothes—yoga pants, a loose top, and slip-on shoes—she opted for black slacks, a fitted black V-neck sweater, and black ankle boots. Clients weren’t on the docket today, which was all about cranking out the work. But after last night’s media coverage she wouldn’t be surprised if she’d ended up with a visitor.
    Her memory flashed to the eleven p.m. newscast. It had lasted barely thirty seconds but the cameraman had caught Margaret’s right hook connecting with her jaw. She considered herself physically strong and agile and yet a woman twenty years her senior had dropped her like a stone. She’d replayed the scene and then, irritated, had shut off the television.
    The media. The vigil’s coverage hadn’t captured inspired sound bites but a street brawl. There’d been a quick mention of Jeb’s DNA request, a flash of the crowd holding candles, but the lion’s share of footage had been dedicated to Margaret’s punch.
    “At least they spelled my name right.”
    Rachel took extra time applying her makeup, using added layers of foundation and powder to cover the bruise on her chin. After several tries, she’d all but covered it and could admit in most lighting, it wasn’t noticeable. She didn’t need to be sporting a bruise for any media follow-ups.
    Rachel worked stiffness from her jaw, remembering Detective Deke Morgan’s amusement. She’d harassed the man nonstop and he clearly had enjoyed her public humiliation.
    “Damn.” She descended the iron spiral stairs to the first floor. A series of bookshelves created the feel of a smaller more intimate law office where she worked and saw clients. Beyond the shelves, she moved past dusty half-finished porcelain sculptures, bits of wires and gadgets, which she fashioned into chess pieces in her now rare spare moments. Through swinging doors, she moved into the former restaurant’s industrial kitchen. Her growing practice had gobbled her days, nights, and weekends giving her little time for cooking, let alone art.
    Behind the long stainless steel counter, she turned on her single-serve coffeepot.