The Weight of Blood by Laura McHugh Page B

because I was afraid he’d mention it to Crete, but there was no way to hide it from him. So I told him I had some legal questions about my parents’ estate.
    â€œI’ll go in with you,” he said. “I’ve known Ray Walker since I was a kid.”
    He said the same thing about everyone we saw. It seemed that, aside from me, not a single new person had entered his life, they all had always been there. “If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’d feel more comfortable alone. I don’t talk much … about my parents.”
    â€œOh,” he said. “I’m sorry. Sure. I’ll wait right out here. Take your time.” He sat down on a bench outside the office. “Just holler if you need me.”
    I stepped inside the aggressively air-conditioned entryway and erupted in goose bumps. The secretary spoke briefly to Mr. Walker on the phone and then rose to open the door to his office. He looked momentarily stunned when he saw me—shocked to see an unfamiliar face, I assumed—and then quickly regained his composure.
    â€œPlease come in,” he said. He was tall and angular, wearing a white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a tie with the knot loosened. His graying hair was combed to the side with pomade, and his eyes were pale and piercing. He stared at me expectantly.
    â€œHi,” I said. “I’m Lila Petrovich.”
    â€œI know who you are,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. “I expect the whole town knows by now. I’m Ray Walker. Let’s have a seat, shall we?”
    I followed him around the billiard table that dominated the room. He sat behind a polished mahogany desk, and I sat across from him.
    â€œWhat brings you here?” he asked.
    While I tried to decide what to say, he poured two cups of coffee and slid one across the desk to me. “If I tell you something, do you have to keep it to yourself?” I asked. If he knew Carl, he probably knew Crete, and I didn’t want the conversation getting back to my employer.
    â€œWell,” he said, stirring sugar into his coffee, “I do abide by the attorney-client privilege, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    That didn’t ease my fears, but I didn’t have much of a choice. “I have some questions about a contract, and I wondered if you could look at it for me.”
    He laughed, and it turned into a cough that went on for a minute until he cleared his throat. “Would this be a contract with Crete Dane?”
    I nodded.
    â€œThen I imagine your contract is pretty well binding.”
    The room suddenly felt too small. “Did you write it?”
    â€œLord, no.” He chuckled. “He retains what you might call a more prestigious firm in Springfield. Lucky for you, I suppose. No conflict of interest.”
    â€œSo you could help me.”
    â€œPossibly. I would need a retainer, and I would need to see a copy of the contract.”
    I didn’t have either of those things. “How much is the retainer?”
    He wrote a number on a notepad and showed it to me. I fidgeted in my seat. “Do you have a payment plan?”
    He stared at me as though trying to gauge something with no standard of measurement. He took a swallow from his mug and sighed. “Do you have any money at all?”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “I mean, not very much. That’s partly why I’m here. If you could just give me some advice—”
    He held out a hand to stop me. “I am a country lawyer, madam. I have accepted chickens in settlement of a debt, and I am certain we can work something out. But I must insist on a small percentage of cash up front. Bonnie can explain the terms on your way out, and you can come back and see me when you have the means to move forward.”
    â€œThank you,” I said, standing to leave.
    â€œAren’t you worried he’ll find out you’ve been here?”
    His words