No client’s case had ever made her feel more desperate, more like a fraud, or made her miss Abigail more. Abigail would have known exactly how to handle these people, Stacy thought miserably, brushing at a tear in the corner of her eye. “These morons haven’t even posted bail! How are they allowed to call me and complain?” she demanded before realizing she was talking to herself. “It’s like they’ve got nothing better to do than yell at me. I’m not the one who killed the old lady!” The sound of a truck backing up outside Stacy’s office brought her out of her unhappy thoughts. Truck deliveries were as common as dirt at her business, but not in front of the building when there was clearly a large, professionally-lettered sign that indicated deliveries were made in the rear of the building. She got up and walked over to the window, brushing back the damask draperies with the back of her hand. The sight of four identical mid-sized dump trucks from Doran’s Manure & Fertilizer, stationed at various points on the property and already hoisting up to drop their loads—the thought of that wording almost made her throw up—did manage to cause her to scream out loud.
