When Devils Sing(23)

>It’s all connected to the Lake Clearwater community. Find out their secrets before more people go missing. Everyone knew Judge Johnson was among the most powerful men in Clearwater—a rising political figure in the whole state of Georgia. If there was even an ounce of truth to Dawson’s email, it meant Isaiah’s father could be involved.

The thought was enough to make his palms sweat. But did it mean Isaiah had to go digging? He didn’t owe his investigations to anyone or anything. Secrets of the South had started as a distraction. A mere hobby. Why couldn’t he let it end as one, too?

Isaiah pushed his anxious thoughts away and pasted on an easy smile.

“Afternoon, everyone,” he said. “What’s the occasion?”

The men laughed as if they were all in on a private joke, not bothering to answer.

Isaiah just kept smiling. The bland, polite smile he’d mastered for situations like this. He took his seat at his small desk in the corner. His father and the attorneys resumed their discussion of some new legislation that had just passed, and Isaiah riffled through case files, started a pot of coffee, and began the arduous process of photocopying a pile of documents left on his desk.

It was meaningless work, very little of which would prepare Isaiah for a career in law. But it wasn’t what he did during the internship that mattered—it was about whose hands he shook. And if he made a good impression here, the next internship would be an even better one. Maybe something in a high, gleaming office overlooking Washington, DC. After all, he’d learned from the best.

Isaiah glanced up from the folder he was filing, watching covertly as his father took another sip of his scotch, his posture relaxed and easy in his chair. He wore a dark gray suit that complemented his deep brown skin, his short hair freshly cut, and sat completely at ease. Isaiah didn’t know how his father did it—but he commanded every room he stepped into.

“We best get out of here for the luncheon.” Rutledge, the older of the two attorneys, stood and polished off his scotch. “I don’t need Russ chewing our heads off for being late.”

“Luncheon.” Leblanc grimaced. He had neatly kept, dark brown hair with a bit of silver shining through, and wore designer tortoise-print glasses. A man from old Southern money who liked to pretend otherwise. The kind that voted libertarian and recycled. “My goodness, I’ll never get used to it.”

“Man up.” Rutledge gave Leblanc a hard slap on the back. “It’s only once every thirteen years. You can handle it.”

Leblanc rolled his eyes, turning to Isaiah’s father. “Laurence, you still joining us?”

It was a simple enough sounding question, but Rutledge and Leblanc looked expectantly at Isaiah’s father. He eyed the scotch in his glass, then knocked the rest of it back. “Of course,” Isaiah’s father said as he rested the empty glass on the table. “But I need to speak to my son for a moment. I’ll be right behind you.”

As the two attorneys gathered their keys, Rutledge paused at Isaiah’s desk. “If you could continue going through the folders dated from the past two weeks, that’d be great. Once that’s done, you can head out early.”

“Water the plants today, too,” Leblanc said, following behind Rutledge. In a lowered voice, he added, “And don’t worry about any calls of mine while we’re out. There’s been so many spam calls recently. The damn thing just keeps ringing and ringing.”

Once the front door of the firm shut behind them, Isaiah relaxed just a bit. Turning to his father, he said, “I didn’t know you were in town yet, considering you never showed for the harvest this morning.”

“I’m afraid this luncheon took precedence.” Laurence stared out the bay windows, gazing at the glistening lake water. “Being invited is a significant honor.”

Isaiah fished, “What’s the big deal with it anyway?”

“It’s a Clearwater tradition of welcoming the cicadas.” Laurence motioned outside. “Don’t you hear them?” His dark eyes cut to Isaiah, his gaze heavy. Isaiah instinctively straightened his posture, tilting his head a little higher. His father’s stare had a way of making him aware of every part of himself that needed improvement. “You were fifteen minutes late today.” His tone was measured, calm. A voice honed through years of playing God in a courtroom.

Isaiah hesitated, considering whether to tell his father about the security guard at the gate—or just drop it. He sighed, relenting. “I need a new visitor’s decal for my car. The guard almost didn’t let me in this morning because of it.”

Laurence bristled, ever so slightly. “I’ll take care of it.”

It most likely meant him, and Isaiah had a feeling he wouldn’t see that specific guard working again. That was how his father handled things. Laurence believed there was nothing in this world he couldn’t achieve without enough wit, money, and a calculated handshake. Isaiah understood where his father came from, but it didn’t mean he had to agree. He knew well enough that wealth and power weighed differently in their hands.

“We also were carried away with the harvest,” Isaiah said. “Would’ve been faster if we had some extra help. Grandma Bee really wanted you there.” I really wanted you there.

Laurence’s gaze returned to the window. “Your grandmother knows, good and well, I don’t play farm boy anymore.”