The Wish Collector

  by Mia Sheridan

  The Wish Collector

  Copyright © 2018 by Mia Sheridan.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Permission by the author must be granted before any part of this book can be used for advertising purposes. This includes the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  COVER ARTIST: MIA SHERIDAN

  FONT DESIGNER: JUAN CASCO,

  WWW.JUANCASCO.NET

  (ROMANCE FATAL SERIF)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  This book is dedicated to Fred, who always has the best advice.

  PROLOGUE

  Jonah‘s whistle echoed off the marble walls as he strode purposefully down the empty courthouse hall. Glancing at the domed ceiling, he inhaled deeply, appreciating the timeless smell of law and order. God, I love it here, he mused, satisfaction filling his chest.

  He’d been coming to the Orleans Parish Criminal District Court since he was just a boy, trailing behind his father and hoping someday to be looked at in the same way others had eyed his dad—with respect, but also laced with a hint of fear.

  “If others don’t fear you a little, son, you’re not doing it right.” Of course, his dad applied that same theory to his parenting as well. If anyone ruled his home with an iron fist, it was Edward Chamberlain.

  “Have a good day, Mr. Chamberlain,” said the blonde attorney in the pencil skirt as she passed through the metal detector. She was entering on the other side and looked over her shoulder as she passed, running her eyes quickly down his body and biting her full bottom lip. She’d been sending him come hither signals for weeks, and although he’d been too busy to indulge in extracurricular activities, as soon as this case was over, he was going to take her up on her “offer.” The thought of peeling that conservative suit off her shapely body and finding out what she wore beneath caused a pleasant twitch between his legs.

  He jogged down the stone steps outside, swinging his leather briefcase by his side. The world is my goddamned oyster, he thought with a grin.

  Applegate, Knowles, and Fennimore was less than a mile from the courthouse and he chose to walk, whistling again—that damn song that had been stuck in his head since Palmer Applegate’s retirement party two days before.

  Palmer was the senior of all the senior partners at the firm, who, by the way, wasn’t anywhere close to a jolly good fellow. The old guy was a “Stodgy, Lifeless Bore,” but Jonah supposed a tune by that name might not have gone over quite so well at an honorary event. In any case, he would now be boring his new trophy wife on a full-time basis rather than the rest of the employees at the firm Jonah had been hired at six months ago.

  The prestigious law firm occupied the entire top two floors of the brick building Jonah entered, whistling a few bars yet again as the door swung shut behind him.

  That nobody can deny!

  The elevator ascended smoothly, dinging as the doors slid open.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” his secretary, Iris, greeted.

  “Iris. Any—” His words cut off abruptly when the man sitting in a chair in the small waiting room to his left stood. Justin.

  “Sir, I told this gentleman your schedule was packed but—”

  Jonah gave her a nod, concealing a grimace. “It’s okay, Iris. This is my brother, Justin.”

  “Oh,” Iris said. “I didn’t realize . . .”

  It spoke to how little anyone at the firm really knew him—though he spent the majority of his time there—that they didn’t know Justin Chamberlain was his brother. Justin was a lawyer as well, though the law firm Justin worked for was in a far different zip code, and from what Jonah could tell, took on more pro bono cases than paid clients. It was a wonder they could afford office space at all.

  He gripped his brother’s hand, smiling as they shook. “What’s up, bro? Long time no see.”

  Justin gave him a thin smile. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Not really—”

  “It’s important.” Justin shoved a hand through his dark brown hair, exposing the Chamberlain widow’s peak before his hair flopped over his forehead again.

  Jonah glanced pointedly at his Rolex as Justin continued. “I’ve been calling you for weeks now. I even stopped by your apartment a couple of times.”

  Jonah sighed. He’d received the messages. He just hadn’t had time to call his brother back. What the hell could be that important anyway?

  He signaled Justin to follow him to his office down the hall. “I’ve been slammed. You know I’m in the middle of this big case. I’m preparing to cross-examine the victim tomorrow. This could be—”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about.” Justin shut Jonah’s door, and Jonah felt a moment of pride as he watched his brother take in the small but luxurious office with a glimpse of the New Orleans skyline out the window. But when he turned his eyes back to Jonah, Justin’s expression was grim.

  “Don’t do this, Jonah.”

  “Do what exactly?”

  “This case.” He shook his head, his bleeding heart making his eyes glisten in a way that made Jonah want to roll his eyes. “Murray Ridgley committed this crime and you know it.”

  Jonah leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. “The partners took on his case because they believe in his innocence, Justin. True, it doesn’t look good. The circumstantial evidence is . . . extensive. But he deserves a fair trial and good representation just like any other citizen.”

  “I’m not arguing with that. All I’m saying is let someone else talk to the news cameras from here on out. Let someone else cross-examine the victim. I know you, Jonah. You’re a damn good attorney. You’ll crush her if that’s your aim. But please don’t, I beg you. Don’t be tied to this. Don’t have this case be the one you’re remembered for. This is not something you want to hang your legacy on.”

  “Jesus, listen to yourself. Are you telling me not to win?” In the last few weeks, he’d become the face of this case—the partners had designed it that way and he hadn’t needed to ask why. He was handsome, and he had the smile of a golden boy. Women liked looking at him; men respected him. The jury trusted him.

  “I’m telling you not to be like Dad.”

  That stopped Jonah like a punch to the
gut. He knew that Justin, being the oldest, had taken the brunt of the discipline in their house. The lion’s share of the pressure Edward Chamberlain pressed upon his sons had landed on Justin’s shoulders. As a little boy, Jonah had watched and learned. He knew what brought about his father’s wrath and what gained his approval, and he strove always for the latter.

  “Dad wasn’t all bad.”

  “Is anyone?”

  Good question.

  Maybe Murray Ridgley if he had in fact committed the crime. Jonah had plenty of doubts himself. And he had this notion that there was something the partners weren’t telling him. But he had no proof of that, just some whisperings behind closed doors as he’d walked past.

  And this case . . . this case was the one that could catapult him to the next level. If he impressed the partners, it could literally make his career.

  One of the junior partners was taking Applegate’s vacancy, but one of the other two remaining original partners, Knowles, was practically a walking corpse. In the next couple of years, he’d retire or die, and if Jonah played his cards right, he could make junior partner and then partner thereafter. Partner! Even his dad hadn’t made junior partner until he was thirty.

  Jonah had worked his ass off to graduate college in two and a half years, had attended an accelerated law school program, passed the bar on the first try, and had received a job offer at one of the most prestigious firms in New Orleans immediately after that. He was on the fast track. He couldn’t afford a stumble.

  Jonah met his brother’s gaze. “Dad was respected.”

  Justin’s eyes narrowed. “Dad was a sonofabitch who cared about power far more than he cared about people. He ruined lives as easily as he buttered toast. That’s not you, Jonah. I’m your brother. I know—"

  “All right, listen, I appreciate this whole do-gooder speech, but let me assure you that my conscience is perfectly clear where my job is concerned. Murray Ridgley may very well have committed this crime.” Murray Ridgley may very well be a monster. “But I’m not going to ask to be removed from his case. It would ruin me.”

  Justin studied his brother for long moments before moving his eyes away again, toward the picturesque view. “I just have a feeling . . . you’re choosing a path here, Jonah.” He looked at him again, and this time Jonah detected sadness in his brother’s eyes before he gave him a small smile. “Quitting this case . . . you’re right, it would probably mean your career at this firm was over, but you always have a job with me.”

  Jonah chuckled. “Fighting injustice for little more than pocket change? That’s your calling.”

  Justin released a laugh that contained more breath than levity. “I could use a little help. There’s a lot of injustice in the world, bro.”

  “Some might say it’s worthless to try to fight against it.”

  “Some might.”

  As he looked at the person he loved most in the world, something pressed on his chest, some weightiness he wasn’t sure how to explain. A feeling that— His phone rang, breaking the strange sort of trance that had descended upon Jonah. “I really gotta get back to work. Can we talk later?”

  Justin nodded, his smile sad again as he moved past Jonah. He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Sure, Jonah. Let’s talk later.” And with that, he turned and walked out of Jonah’s office, shutting the door behind him.

  The phone continued to ring, but Jonah didn’t answer it. Instead, he walked to the window and stared out at the sweltering summer day, that feeling returning to his chest again—pressing. I miss my brother, Jonah realized. He had been avoiding him. But after this case was over, he would make it a point to see Justin more often.

  Absentmindedly, Jonah brought his hand to the place where his heart lay and massaged lightly.

  You’re choosing a path here, Jonah.

  But he’d already chosen it. There was nothing to be done now.

  Two weeks later, as Jonah lay in a pool of spreading blood, the charred smell of his mutilated flesh heavy and rancid in his nostrils, his brother’s words would come back to him, flowing lazily through his mind like the misty wisps of a forgotten dream.

  You’re choosing a path. Let’s talk later.

  But there would be no talking to his brother later.

  His brother was dead.

  The screaming dimmed enough for Jonah to register the high-pitched expulsion of air rasping from his smoke-drenched lungs.

  He was whistling again.

  Only this time, there was no tune.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Present Day

  “Extend your arm. Clara, you are supposed to look like a swan but you look like a duck. Begin again.” The music came to a sudden halt and there was a collective—though quiet—groan from the other dancers. Heat rose in Clara’s face as she noticed the disdainful glares shot in her direction. Being the new girl in the New Orleans Ballet was proving to be everything she’d feared. And more.

  “Yes, Madame Fournier.” Clara returned to her mark, positioning her body as the music began again. I am a swan. I am a swan, she chanted in her mind.

  The problem was, despite her focus on a gracefully extended arm, Clara felt like a duck. One very much out of water.

  As practice ended and the other dancers began gathering their things, Clara walked to her duffle bag, putting her foot on the bench and untying the silken ribbons of her pointe shoes.

  “A girl I know went to the Goddard School with her,” Belinda Baker whispered from behind Clara, clearly referring to her. “She was the recipient of that Dance For Life Scholarship, otherwise she never would have gotten in.” Clara swung her duffle bag over her shoulder, glancing back at Belinda, who obviously hadn’t realized she was there, her eyes widening in surprise as their gazes met. Clara turned and quickly walked out of the theater.

  It was true what Belinda had said: Clara’s father had sacrificed in every way possible so she could follow her dream of becoming a professional ballerina. But he never could have afforded that school without assistance. Clara was proud of that scholarship, and she wouldn’t let a couple of gossipy girls make her feel differently.

  Still, thoughts of her father caused that familiar ache to take center stage in her chest and she had to force herself not to tear up. Her recent move to New Orleans had been hard, the fact that her reception in the ballet had been less than . . . warm only compounded that hardship, and this feeling of melancholy seemed to be her constant companion.

  She spotted the bus rounding the corner and speed-walked to make it to the bus stop a block away, fumbling for her phone. “Thanks,” she said breathlessly as she scanned her mobile ticket, and the bus driver gave her a wide, welcoming smile. She smiled back, grateful for what felt like a little sunshine on a cloudy day.

  Thirty minutes later, she stepped off the air-conditioned bus, the heat hitting her and causing a physical jolt. If she were living a story, the New Orleans summer heat would be a character all its own. A large, corpulent fellow with sleepy eyes and steamy breath. Intense and all-consuming.

  A lock of blonde hair fell loose from her bun and Clara tucked it behind her ear, as the smell of something savory and delicious met her nose, wafting from the house on the corner and distracting her from the mugginess. Comfort food. What was it about almost all the Louisiana cuisine she’d sampled that seemed to minister not only to the palate but to the soul?

  The smooth, plaintive sound of a saxophone from an open window somewhere nearby wound through the tree branches and seemed to penetrate Clara’s skin.

  Is there anything lonelier than the distant sound of a singular instrument floating on the wind? she mused.

  But then another sound joined that lonesome melody—a sweet, rich voice accompanying the notes, weaving, growing louder, clearer. The music—both distant and close by and yet somehow still a seamless duet—filled Clara, causing her skin to feel charged and her heart to lighten. She knew that voice. It sounded like smoke mixed with molasses and so often carried hymns along the
street where Clara lived.

  The voice halted. “Well hello, darlin’.”

  Clara smiled even before she looked up at Mrs. Guillot rocking in her rocking chair at the end of the block where Clara rented a small garden apartment.

  “You looked so deep in thought I hardly wanted to disturb you,” the old woman said with a smile.

  Clara opened Mrs. Guillot’s black, wrought iron gate and slipped inside, climbing the brick steps and sitting on the second wooden rocking chair that usually sat empty. “Just going over the moves from practice today.”

  “Ah. How is it going with the other swans?”

  “All right. I just wish . . . ” What did she wish? That they didn’t act so petty? That she’d make a friend? Feel more accepted and not as if she were being judged and found lacking? Clara shook her head. “I wish I knew at least one person here. Starting from scratch is harder than I imagined it would be.”

  Mrs. Guillot smiled kindly. “Well, you do know one person. You know me.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Guillot, I didn’t mean—”

  “Nonsense, child.” She laughed. “I know what you meant. I was only teasing you. A young woman like yourself needs other young people. You’ll find them. Don’t you worry your pretty little head now.”

  Clara released a breath. “I know. And that will be nice. But I’m grateful for you too.” It was true. Mrs. Guillot had been so kind to Clara since she’d moved to New Orleans two months before, offering up her knowledge about the city, giving her directions when she needed them, and sitting and chatting when Clara had a few minutes now and again.

  “I know, darlin’.” She paused. “How’s your dad? Have you spoken to him?”

  A stab of pain pricked at Clara’s insides as she shook her head. “I wish. His moments of clarity are so few and far between now.”

  Mrs. Guillot studied Clara for a moment, her gaze filled with the sincere sympathy of someone who knew the pain of loss. Of course she did. How many times had Mrs. Guillot grieved in her lifetime? “Well now, sweet thing, that’s two wishes. Go give one of them to Angelina.”