Second Honeymoon

Chapter 49

THE BAD FEELING engulfed me well before I turned my head. When I saw who it was, the feeling only got worse.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.

It was far from a Christian welcome, but I couldn’t help it. Hit your thumb with a hammer and you’re going to scream. Step barefoot on a piece of glass and you’re going to bleed. See the lawyer for the guy who killed your wife standing uninvited in your backyard?

You’re going to be pissed off.

“I tried ringing the doorbell,” said Harold Cornish. “I think it might be broken.”

“I’ll put it on my to-do list,” I said.

Harold Cornish, perpetually tan and perfectly coiffed, stood before me wearing a three-piece suit and a tie with a Windsor knot. It was late June, hovering in the mideighties, and there wasn’t even a suggestion of sweat anywhere on him. Amazing. He was as cool out of the courtroom as he was in it.

I hated the guy.

And that’s what really pissed me off. Because deep down I knew that I was being completely irrational.

I didn’t hate Cornish for representing McMillan. Due process; I get it. Even the biggest pricks in the world deserve a lawyer.

No, I hated Cornish because he was a good lawyer. Facing a maximum sentence of ten years or even more, McMillan basically got the minimum. Three years. All because of Cornish.

“You certainly don’t owe me any favors, but I want to ask you something,” he said. “You’re aware that my client will be released from prison in a couple of days, right?”

I nodded. Nothing more. I wasn’t about to let on that McMillan’s release had preoccupied me to the point of near self-destruction.

“So this is what I’d like to ask you,” continued Cornish. “McMillan very much wants to apologize to you.” He immediately raised his palms. “Now, before you react, please let me finish.”

“Did I react?” I asked calmly.

“No, you didn’t, and I appreciate that,” he said. “I know my client apologized to you and your family in court, but after doing his time he wants to apologize again, in person. Privately. Would you consider that?”

I immediately thought of Dr. Kline and all the great strides I was making with him. I could even hear his voice inside my head, telling me to keep my cool, stay under control. No more Agent Time Bomb.

But I couldn’t help it. Cornish had lit the fuse and there was no stopping me. I got up, walked straight over to him, and stood facing him toe to toe. Then, at the top of my lungs, I gave him my answer.

“TELL YOUR FUCKING CLIENT TO GO TO HELL!”

Cornish blinked slowly, took one step back, and nodded. “I understand,” he said.

Whether he really did or not, I didn’t know and I didn’t care. He turned and left without saying another word.

I waited until he disappeared around the corner, heading toward the front of the house. There was still half a beer left in my hand, and I polished it off with one long swig.

Then, without thinking, I added something else to my to-do list: clean up the broken glass from the patio.

Smash!

I heaved the bottle against the house so hard my shoulder nearly popped out of its socket.

Apparently, I hadn’t made the great strides that I’d thought.

In fact, I still had a long, long way to go.