Ripple by Heather Smith Meloche Page B

“Thanks.”
    I head to my jacket hung on a break-room chair, dig my phone out of the side pocket, where I usually keep it so it doesn’t get drenched and destroyed by all the wash water. I check it often, but today, with my focus on making as much cash as I can, it clearly wasn’t enough. Dr. Kristina Surrey, my mom’s psychiatrist, has called eight times. I curse myself as I click to listen to her latest message.
    â€œHi, Jack. It’s Dr. Surrey again. I just really want to make sureyour mom is all right, because she missed her appointment this morning and isn’t answering her phone when I call. Can you let me know if everything is okay? I’ll be in the office until—”
    I hang up, dash back to Tony’s office. Don’t even knock before I rush in.
    He looks up, startled. “Jack?”
    â€œOh, God, Tony. I hate to do this to you, but I just got a call from—”
    His palm flies up. “Uh-uh. Don’t say it. What do you need?”
    â€œI’ve got to go. Now.”
    Tony purses his pale lips and nods. “I can see on your face you’ve got yourself a situation, kid. So go ahead.”
    â€œThanks, Tony. Really.”
    â€œNo worries. But, hey, take this with you.” Tony reaches into his desk and pulls out my weekly paycheck. I swear it gleams as he hands it to me.
    â€œGladly.” I toss Tony a grateful smile, then haul ass out of his office toward my car. Just before I drive away, I see Tony holding a towel, taking my place next to Hollis on the line. That dude is definitely one of the good guys.
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    When I rush into the house, Mom is holding a law manual open in front of her at the kitchen table, her glasses perched on the end of her nose. Her short hair is bed-head wild. Her eyes scan the words. Then she long-hands on a yellow legal pad. Scan. Write. Scan. Write.
    I release the breath I’ve held for what feels like the whole drive home. She’s safe. Alive. Doing the work she loves. She must have worked straight through her appointment with Dr. Surrey. Her cell sits next to her, the face of it black, the battery probably dead.
    I stare at her for a long, thankful moment because I dig watching her this way. Focused. Professional. Working hard. It’s how I want to remember her when she’s gone. The thought guts me.
    She looks up when I walk all the way into the room. “Jackie.” A faint smile crosses her thin lips. Then she bows her head into her book again. I notice her ever-present cup of vodka and grapefruit juice close to all her paperwork.
    â€œBig case?” I ask.
    â€œAs big as I can get,” she says, not looking up. Her client base has dwindled in the past five years. She used to rock as a divorce and family lawyer. When she’s lucid, she still does. Women love her hard-ass approach and her intention to financially cripple and crush the balls of the deadbeat, cheating, or abusive husbands who have driven them to end their marriage. And although she still has some of her fire and drive, it’s interrupted a lot by what she calls “being lost,” and when she’s not “lost,” she’s drinking to stop being afraid of being “lost.” Which just makes her even more “lost.”
    â€œGive me the gruesome details,” I say.
    She half smiles. “So my client hired me earlier this week. She fired her previous lawyer because she was worried his defense was weak. And the case is a little sticky.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œWell, she decided she was gay after she filed for divorce.”
    â€œOr she just failed to reveal her sexual orientation before filing,” I say.
    Her expression slips to serious. “Stick to the facts, Jackie.”
    I let loose a laugh. “Right. Sorry.”
    â€œSo—” She grabs up her drink and takes a long swig, clears her throat, then continues. “My client’s