Chapter 89.

CHARLIE STARED AT ME, blown away, for a few moments before he brought me back into his office and sat me down. After he paid for the taxi, he put a half-full water gla.s.s of Johnnie Walker in my hand and one in his own, sat slowly himself, and let out a breath. After several more beats, he yelled, "What?!"

I stared at him for a few seconds, biting my lip. How could I do this? I thought. How could I open up after so many years, so many lies? I'd been keeping my secrets for too long. How could I reveal them now?

At first, I scrambled to think of a way to minimize the utter outrageousness of my insane life story. But after a minute, I realized how impossible that was.

Harris's case file was sprawled out on Charlie's desk. I stood and retrieved the sheet with the photographs of the suspected Jump Killer victims.

"Look, Charlie," I said, tapping my high school yearbook picture twice. "This isn't a young Renee Zellweger. It's me. My name is Jeanine. Jeanine Fournier. I used to be married to Peter Fournier, the Key West chief of police."

Then for the next half hour, as Charlie sat there blinking, I explained myself. Or at least tried to. When I got to the part about my faked abduction, he held up his hand.

"So you're telling me that Fournier, the chief of police, is not only a bad cop, but, in fact, a psychopath?" Charlie said.

I nodded vigorously. "That's why I faked my death. Peter's first wife tried to leave him through regular channels. I didn't feel like being stalked and gunned down."

Then I told him the part about the Jump Killer and my new life and ident.i.ty up in New York with Emma.

"When my firm volunteered me for the pro bono initiative, and I found out about Justin," I explained, "I knew I had to come back down here to help. I knew Justin was innocent because the psycho who picked me up hitchhiking and tried to kill me the night I left was white."

Charlie closed his eyes and began to rub them. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

"Are you really a lawyer at least?" he finally spat out.

"I went to Fordham Law at night. I even pa.s.sed the bar. My plan here was to get Justin off, but keep my life secret and safe and intact. But that's out the window now. Peter was in my room tonight. He must have seen me at the bar when he was talking to you. I'd call the cops, but Peter is the cops. What am I going to do?"

Charlie lifted his drink and stared at it, thinking. Then he finally finished it.

"Well, from one lawyer to another, here's my best advice, off the top of my head," he said. "You need to get on a plane and get as far away from Fournier as possible until we can figure out a way to deal with him. You need to go back to New York."

Chapter 90.

"GO BACK to New York?" I said. "What about Justin? I had contact with the real Jump Killer! That's pertinent to Justin's case, isn't it? I'm probably the only person who's ever seen the Jump Killer and lived. Don't I need to testify?"

"It's not that simple," Charlie said. "In order to get a stay of execution with this little time left, you have to go through the Florida Office of Executive Clemency. We're going to get only one shot at convincing the board to look at any new evidence. As it stands now, Justin's fiancee recanting her damaging testimony is still the best possible scenario. She's the only one who has vital exculpatory evidence that speaks directly to the case. The members on the board would be forced to consider it."

"But-" I started.

Charlie silenced me with a palm. "Your, uh, new revelations, on the other hand, are essentially this: you came into contact with a white man who seemed to be the Jump Killer. It's certainly thought-provoking, but there's not enough legal red meat there. In fact, it might be seen as so fantastical that I wouldn't be surprised if the governor dismissed it as a desperate stunt. Fabiana's testimony is it, our only shot."

"But we haven't even found her yet," I pointed out. "Let alone convinced her to tell the truth. And what if we don't? Then what do we have? Nothing. Fantastical as it is, my testimony is at least something."

"Maybe," Charlie said. "But it'll be really hard for you to testify if you're dead. You're not thinking straight. Didn't you just say that Fournier was in your room? You getting out of Key West isn't a choice."

I sat there staring at him. He had a point. I definitely was in danger. Now more than ever. But after meeting Justin, I knew I couldn't run again.

"I need to see this through," I finally said. "Whatever happens, I'm not leaving until I've done everything I can do for Justin. I'm staying."

Charlie stared at me, exasperated. He drummed his fingers on the desk.

"Mission Exonerate? Mission Impossible is more like it," he said. "Fine. I'm not going to deny that I do need your help. For Justin's sake, I guess we don't have a choice. But until this is over, we stick together. Agreed?"

"Agreed," I said, letting out a breath.

I couldn't believe it. I was still here. I had actually told someone my secrets, and I hadn't burst into flames.

Not all of my secrets, I reminded myself. I had yet to mention Ramon Pena, but I guess it was a start.

"I can't tell you how much this means to me, Charlie," I said. "For me, for my daughter. I've been holding this inside for so long. I've never told anyone. I'm so sorry I lied to you."

Charlie lifted the phone. "I should have known you were trouble the second you crushed your doughnuts in my door, Nina. Or do I have to call you Jeanine now? Never mind. What's the number for your hotel? That bathrobe is probably too casual even by Miami standards. If we're still going to go up there to find Justin's ex-fiancee, I have a funny feeling you're going to need your bags."

Chapter 91.

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Charlie and I were in Miami. It was around nine when we rolled up in front of the address Fabiana's cousin gave us, a tiny stucco house in the northeast Miami neighborhood known as Little Haiti.

I looked anxiously down the block at the bars on all the neighboring windows, the chain-linked front yards cluttered with garbage and barking dogs. Loud Caribbean hip-hop blasted as a bunch of muscular kids in g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger do-rags sat on a battered gray leather sectional on the corner, giving new meaning to the word loitering.

"Wait in the car," Charlie said, opening his door. "With the doors locked."

"No way," I said, following him out. "You're not leaving me out here."

We hurried up the cracked concrete path to Fabiana's tiny house and rang her doorbell.

"Fabiana!" Charlie called, giving the door a couple of quick pounds for good measure.

A minute later, one of the larger corner "kids" rolled past on a BMX trick bike, alternately sizing us up and glancing at our rental.

"There doesn't seem to be anyone home," I said quickly as the kid rolled back toward his posse. "Why don't we check for Fabiana at her mom's restaurant?"

"That's funny. I was just thinking the same thing," Charlie said as we raced each other back to the car.

After Little Haiti, Fabiana's mother's restaurant, the Rooster's Perch, was a happy surprise. It was half an hour away in South Beach, a block west of the trendy art deco hotels of Ocean Drive and the beach. Behind the eatery's battered wooden sidewalk tables, a wall mural depicted cattle and chickens under palm trees, smiling black kids in plaid school uniforms, dark women in colorful dresses carrying wash.

"We do not open until lunch," said a very dark old woman who was cutting open a bundle of tablecloths at the bar just inside the door when we walked in. She wore an expensive cream-colored dress, pearls, and a suspicious, sullen expression.

"Let me guess. You're Isabelle," Charlie said.

"Who are you? How do you know my name? What do you want here?" the woman said, her eyes gleaming as she came immediately around the bar.

Now I understood what the trailer park manager meant when he compared her to his paper cobra.

"We're here to speak with Fabiana," Charlie said.

"There is no one here by that name," the old woman said, pointing at the door with her knife. "Leave, I tell you. Now."

"It's OK, Mama," said a younger black woman in an ap.r.o.n who suddenly appeared in the swinging kitchen doorway.

Charlie and I looked at each other in happy surprise.

"It is not OK!" Isabelle insisted as she turned.

The younger woman barked something in French. The old woman's eyes went wide before she reluctantly stepped out of our way.

"I am Fabiana Desmarais," the young woman finally said as she waved us into the kitchen. "How can I help you?"

Chapter 92.

FABIANA WAS PEt.i.tE with very light blue eyes and cinnamon-colored skin. Though she was almost in her fifties, she looked maybe half that. She wore a simple, wide-necked peasant blouse with a fuchsia cotton skirt that seemed much cheaper than her mother's.

Behind her, several quartered chickens sat on a cutting board beside a pile of Scotch bonnet peppers. From an industrial-sized bubbling pot on the stove came the strong but comforting smell of chicken broth. Immediately hungry, I had to resist the urge to ask for a bowl.

"Hi, Fabiana. I'm Nina, and this is Charlie," I said, taking the lead. "We're really sorry to bother you, but we're here about Justin Harris."

A look of fear wafted through Fabiana's blue eyes. Her mouth opened in a tiny O. "What about him?" she said, collecting herself after a moment.

"You mean you don't know?" I said.

She shook her head. "Know what?" she said.

"Justin Harris is going to be executed, Fabiana," Charlie said. "In two days, he's going to receive the death penalty for killing that girl, Tara Foster."

Fabiana pinched her chin as she stared wide-eyed at the tiled floor. "Are you from the police?" she said.

"No, we're here to help Justin," I said. "We're his lawyers. We want to save him. But we need everyone to tell the truth once and for all so that he will not have to pay for a crime he didn't commit."

Fabiana walked over to a stainless-steel counter where a large mortar and pestle sat. "I loved Justin," she said as she began violently grinding a pile of spices. "He was a good man, always a gentleman. He had a car. He would take me everywhere. I never knew that the world could be so wonderful. He said he was going to marry me. He said he was going to take me away from Mama.

"Then the police said that he had done a bad thing with that white woman. That he had done nasty things to her at his job. He lied. He was no gentleman. Mama was right. I could never love such a man."

"But he was with you on the day the girl was abducted, Fabiana. We know that he was. You went to the Miami Seaquarium together."

"That never happened," she said as she dropped the pestle. "On that day, I was with my church group. Mama will tell you. Justin was mistaken. I must get back to work."

"Wait," I said, grabbing her wrist. "What Justin did with Tara Foster was wrong. To treat you in such a manner was unconscionable. But he shouldn't have to die for it. If he was with you on that day, then everyone needs to know. Or you'll be the one who is responsible for his death."

Fabiana shook her head. "I have nothing more to say. You must leave now. I must get back to work."

"Yes," Queen Isabelle said, coming through the swinging door. "Leave now."

"Fine," Charlie said, putting his hand into his jacket pocket. "You know the South Beach Marriott?"

"The hotel around the corner?" Fabiana said, puzzled. "Yes. What about it?"

Charlie handed her his card with a room number scrawled on the back. "Well, we're going to be there for the next two days. If you want to come by, you can watch the coverage of your ex-boyfriend's execution with us."

"But you said you were his lawyers. Won't you be there to help him?" Fabiana said, confused.

"It's out of our hands, Fabiana. You're the only one who can help Justin now," Charlie said as we left.

Chapter 93.

"ROOM SERVICE?" Charlie said into our phone at the Marriott ten minutes later. "Please send up two turkey clubs and a pitcher of-"

I kicked Charlie in the back of the knee with my pump.

"Um, lemonade," he finished, hanging up.

I dropped my laptop and briefcase in a heap by the couch. I walked across the suite and drew the drapes. Reeling with disappointment and exhaustion, I shook my head at the too bright Florida sky, the too bright glittering ocean.

My return to Florida wasn't going as I had hoped. I'd wanted to avoid Peter, but I failed. I was continuing to lie to someone I was starting to have feelings for. And now, after we'd finally found Fabiana, she was refusing to help Justin. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment. What the h.e.l.l were we going to do now?

Behind me, Charlie kicked off his shoes and lay down on the couch.

"Do you think Fabiana will take the bait?" I said.

"Do I know?" Charlie said, closing his eyes. "Depends on how much she hates Justin, I guess. h.e.l.l hath no fury like a woman scorned, right? It's looking like Justin must have scorned the living c.r.a.p out of Miss Desmarais. Is it actually possible for a woman to hate a man to death?"