Lisa Richardson Attorney at Law

The amber liquid in my glass was the color of a sunset I was too busy to watch. I sat in the corner booth of the Mansion Bar, the kind of place where the wood is dark enough to hide secrets and the air smells like leather and old money. I had just finished a three-week trial that ended in a "not guilty" verdict for a CEO who had definitely been skimming off the top, but the prosecution’s theory had more holes than a piece of cheap Swiss cheese, and frankly, it smelled just as bad. I took a slow sip of the Macallan 25, letting the peat and oak settle on my tongue. This was my ritual. The win was a rush, a jagged high that usually kept me buzzing for days, but tonight, the silence of the bar felt heavy.

My phone vibrated on the polished table, the harsh buzz cutting through the low hum of jazz. I didn’t recognize the number, which was usually a sign of a new client or a debt collector for someone I’d once represented. I considered letting it go to voicemail, but the persistence of the vibration suggested a different kind of urgency. I picked it up on the fourth ring.

"Richardson," I said, my voice crisp and devoid of the fatigue I felt in my bones.

"Lisa? Lisa, is that you?"

The voice was a ghost, a haunting melody I hadn’t heard in five years. It was deeper now, frayed at the edges, and thick with a desperation that made my stomach do a slow, uncomfortable roll. Grady Halloway. The man who had promised me forever before realizing that my career didn’t leave much room for his ego. I felt the old armor snap into place, my posture straightening as if he could see me through the line.

"Grady," I said, my tone flattening into a professional blade. "This is a surprise. I’m fairly certain our last conversation ended with a very clear understanding that there wouldn't be a next one."

"I know, I know. God, Lisa, I wouldn’t call if I had any other choice. I’m at the end of my rope. It’s Brendan. He’s in trouble. Real trouble."

I leaned back, the ice clinking softly in my glass. Brendan. I remembered him as a lanky teenager with a sketchbook and a shy smile, a kid who always seemed a bit too soft for the world Grady was building for him. "What did he do, Grady? Reckless driving? Possession?"

"No," Grady’s voice cracked, a sound so raw it actually made me flinch. "He’s at Lew Sterrett. They’ve arrested him for murder, Lisa. They’re saying he killed Chloe."

The air in the bar suddenly felt thin. I knew the name Chloe. Chloe Vance was a rising star in the Dallas social scene, a girl whose face appeared in D Magazine more often than the mayor’s. "Start from the beginning. Slowly."

"They found them in her apartment. In the Design District," Grady panted, his breath hitching as he spoke. "Brendan was on the floor, passed out cold. Chloe... she was in the bed. Someone shot her in the head, Lisa. One shot. And they found the gun in Brendan’s hand."

I closed my eyes for a second, mentally cataloging the disaster. A body in the bed, a defendant with the weapon in his hand, found at the scene. That wasn't just a bad case; that was a funeral for a twenty-one-year-old’s future. "Whose gun was it, Grady?"

There was a long, agonizing silence. "It’s mine," he whispered. "A registered Smith & Wesson. I keep it in the glove box of the Rover. Brendan must have taken it. But he didn't do it, Lisa. He loved that girl. He’s been struggling, yeah, the drugs and the blackouts, but he’s not a killer. He’s just a kid."

"He’s a man in the eyes of the State of Texas," I countered, the lawyer in me taking the wheel. "And if he was found with the smoking gun in a locked apartment, the DA is going to have a field day. Why are you calling me? You have a dozen corporate lawyers on retainer who could find him the best criminal defense in the state."

"I don't want the best. I want the most ruthless. I want you," Grady said, his voice dropping into that familiar, persuasive low register that used to make me melt. "The police are railroading him. They aren't even looking at other suspects. They see a rich kid with a drug problem and they’re closing the book."

"I can't do it, Grady. It's a conflict of interest on a personal level that would make a judge’s head spin. Our history is... well, it’s a goddamn mess. Find someone else."

"Lisa, wait! Please," he begged, the charm replaced by a frantic, jagged edge. "I’ll pay whatever you want. Double your usual retainer. I’ll fund your entire firm for a year, just to get you to look at the file. And there’s something else. The lead detective on the scene... it’s Bo Beaumont."

I froze, my fingers tightening around the condensation-slicked glass. Detective Bo Beaumont. The man was a walking relic of the old-school, "lock 'em up and throw away the key" mentality. He had a personal vendetta against me that spanned a decade, fueled by every time I’d humiliated him on the witness stand or exposed his department’s "procedural shortcuts." Beaumont didn't just want a conviction; he wanted to see me fail. If he was at the scene personally, he was already weaving a noose for Brendan Halloway, and he’d be whistling while he did it.

"Beaumont is already there?" I asked.

"He’s been there since the 911 call came in. He’s the one who processed Brendan. Lisa, you know how he is. He’ll bury evidence if it doesn't fit his narrative. He’ll break that boy just to get to me—or to get back at you."

I stared at the flickering candle on my table. I should hang up. I should finish my scotch, go home to my quiet apartment, and forget I ever knew a man named Grady Halloway. But the thought of Beaumont smugly pinning a murder on a kid who might not even remember the night, simply because it was an easy win, made my blood simmer. It wasn't about Grady anymore. It was about the game.

"Fine," I said, the word feeling like a heavy stone. "I’ll go down to the jail. I’ll talk to Brendan. But listen to me, Grady, and listen well: if I see the evidence and it’s clear your son pulled that trigger, I am only there to mitigate the damage. I’m talking a plea deal to keep him off death row. I don’t perform miracles for the guilty, and I don't lie for ex-boyfriends."

"I understand," Grady said, a sob of relief catching in his throat. "Thank you, Lisa. Truly."

"Don't thank me yet," I snapped. "I’m sending you my billing info. Have the retainer wired by midnight or I don't set foot in that jail. And Grady? Don't call me 'honey' or 'sweetheart' ever again. If we’re doing this, I’m your attorney, not your salvation."

I hung up before he could respond. My heart was thumping a rhythm I hadn't felt in years—a mix of adrenaline and a lingering, dull ache I’d thought I’d buried. I drained the rest of my scotch, the burn a welcome distraction. I grabbed my charcoal blazer from the back of the chair and slid it on, checking my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. My eyes were sharp, my bob perfectly in place, but I looked like a woman walking into a storm.

I left the Mansion and headed for my car, the Dallas humidity hitting me like a wet blanket. As I drove toward the Uptown office to grab my briefcase and the necessary intake forms, my mind was already racing through the legal hurdles. A father’s gun. A blacked-out son. A dead socialite. And Bo Beaumont standing in the center of it all with a grin on his face. This wasn't just a case; it was a landmine. And I was about to step right on it.

I pulled into the parking garage of my building, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The office was quiet, the cleaning crew having already passed through. I sat at my desk for a moment, staring at a framed photo of myself and Jax DuPree after our first big win. We looked young, hungry, and invincible. I picked up the phone to call her. Jax was the only one who could navigate the sludge of the Dallas PD without getting covered in it. She’d need to start digging before the ink on the police report was even dry.

I took a deep breath, the scent of expensive stationery and floor wax filling my lungs. I reached into my drawer and pulled out a fresh legal pad. At the top, I wrote a single name: Brendan Halloway. Below it, I added: The Gun. Then, after a pause, I wrote: Bo Beaumont. I stared at the names for a long time. The ghosts of my past were no longer just haunting my sleep; they were officially on the payroll. I tucked the pad into my briefcase, straightened my red heels, and walked out. The night was just beginning, and in Dallas, the night always had a way of getting bloodier before the dawn.