Dead Dreams by Emma Right Page B

end of the day, debt is debt, and I didn’t want to start a career with a noose around my neck. That was why this windfall from Sarah could right my path. Make up for lost opportunities. Prove that I could make my dreams come true without help, without intervention from well-meaning parents.
    Maybe I could confide in Jackson about Sarah’s plan. He was, after all, on her side. Besides legal implications, why wouldn’t she want Jackson to know? We could use him as a hedge, in case things went wrong. But, could I trust him not to use the information I confided in him against me?
    Not pursuing my gut feeling and not researching more about Jackson was one of the many slip-ups I made.



Chapter Twenty-Five
     
    From my jeans pocket, I worked out Jackson’s card—the one I’d snatched from Sarah’s dresser and now was crumpled—and stared at it before punching in the digits after his name, instead of redialing the number from the call I’d made to him earlier. Maybe subconsciously I wanted to see if I could connect with him at this other number, too, after the failed first attempt in the toilet stall.
    “Anderson and Partners, Attorneys-at-Law. May I help you?” It was the same Southern woman’s voice. Probably Martha, the secretary Sarah had mentioned.
    “I’d like to speak with Mr. Jackson Anderson, please.”
    “May I know who’s calling?”
    What if Jackson had given me his private line for a reason? Maybe he didn’t want anyone, not even Southern -belle Martha, to know he’d contacted me. Would I get into trouble if I left my name?
    “Can I just speak with him?” Of course, they’d have my cell phone number now, what with caller ID.
    “Hon, this is a law-yer’s office.” Martha’s drawl conjured pictures of Scarlett O’Hara dressed in her voluminous ball gowns as in Gone With The Wind . “If you want ta speak ta a law-yer, you’d need ta at least share your name.” She sounded impatient, despite the drawl.
    I hung up the phone. What an idiot . I should have just called the number that was already in my recent call menu. Before I could press the speed dial, a call came through. I somewhat recognized the number.
    “Yes?”
    “Brianna? This is Pastor Perry again.” No wonder the number was familiar.
    “I can’t talk right now. I’m at work.”
    “Your mother told me to get you. I’m outside Stay Fit this very moment.”
    “Shucks! I mean, never mind. I’ll be out. Wait out there.” If he came in and found out I’d quit, that would complicate matters.
    I grabbed my yellow duffel and breezed out the door.
    “Hey!” Thao hailed me as I bolted to the main entrance. “That’s it? You not coming back, and no good-bye hugs, even?” Her Vietnamese accent was more pronounced. Stress could even affect speech. I rushed to my cubby hole, snatched the brown envelope from Jim, stuffed it into my duffel, and almost bowled Thao down with my bear hug.
    “I’ll call you,” I hollered, rushing out the door. Someday. One day.
    Pastor Perry stood by his white, one-ton Dodge van. It could carry twelve passengers. When I’d asked why he needed something that big, seeing as there were only him and Mrs. Michaels since Sasha’s accident two years earlier, he’d said he used it to sleep in when he made cross country trips.
    I waved to him and headed toward my Mini Cooper parked five cars down the street. “I’ll see you at the hospital,” I hollered.
    “I’ll drive you there and back.” He pointed toward the van’s passenger side. Its door was already open. “You look too tired to be driving, anyway.”
    I shrugged. He can be so persistent. No way could I get out of this one. Better be agreeable. I quickened my steps and strode toward him. “How’s Dad?” I swung myself into the passenger cab of the Dodge as he revved the engine.
    “He’s a fighter. Keep praying.”
    I felt guilty. I’d only whimpered out that poor excuse of a prayer. What good would praying do, anyway? When it was time to