Enslaving My Ex-Boss

Murder Suspect

[Hazel]

Later, after submitting the papers, I stopped at a bagel stall and bought one. There, my eyes caught a brochure for a support group for those experiencing mild or early-stage depression. The slogan read: "Your problems may not seem big, but they are still problems—and they deserve solutions."

"Nice one," I said, muffled by the bagel in my mouth.

"You wanna join?" The stall owner asked with a friendly grin. "I’m a member. It helped me a lot to recover from a nasty divorce."

I let out a short laugh. "Thank you. I’m neither divorced nor planning to get married."

He raised an eyebrow. "Then you should recommend someone who is."

Elijah’s name echoed in my mind like a drumbeat I couldn’t ignore.

"Thank you," I said, my voice clipped. I narrowed my eyebrows, doubting the timing. Today I submitted my boss’s divorce papers, and now I was getting a suggestion for a support group. I forced a smile. "I’ll," I added, hoping it didn’t sound like an excuse.

I shoved the bagel in my mouth, chewing quickly as I stepped onto the sidewalk and flagged down a taxi. "Taxi!" I muttered, barely swallowing.

The car screeched to a halt, and I slid in, giving the driver the office address.

When I arrived, I scanned my ID and stepped into the elevator. As it reached the top floor, I don’t know why, but I felt anxiety gripping me. Staff stood gathered near a door, whispering, their eyes flicking nervously between one another. Then, I saw Elijah—flanked by two cops, his wrists tightly cuffed. The sight hit me like a punch, and I froze. But it wasn’t just the cuffs that caught my attention... it was the look in his eyes. He was sad—heartwrenchingly sad.

------

After the officers took Elijah, I stood frozen outside the elevator for a few minutes. He had been arrested for murder—Miranda Davenport’s murder. The revelation sent the shiver through my spine.

Did Elijah really kill Miranda?

The way he was sad yesterday and acted so fine today gave me reason to doubt but then his face flashed in my mind—his broken expression, raw and unguarded. It didn’t look like the face of a killer. It was too honest, too fragile, too full of heartbreak to harbor such malice. Besides, Elijah had already dealt his revenge in the most safest way. I shouldn’t doubt him, at least not until I see any evidence against him.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to move, and rushed to my desk, my hands trembling as I rifled through the pile of business cards scattered across the surface. Luckily, my fingers finally stopped on the one I was looking for: James Williams, Attorney at Law. Relief flooded me, albeit momentarily.

“Hello, Mr. James Williams?” I asked, gripping my phone tightly. After a deep breath, I told him everything.

Down, outside the building’s entrance, I paced back and forth, the soles of my shoes scuffing the pavement as my anxiety gnawed at me. The cold air stung my cheeks, but it did little to numb the restless drumbeat of my heart. A few minutes later, a sleek black Lincoln Navigator SUV pulled up, its engine purring softly. The back passenger window rolled down, revealing James. His blond hair was a little disheveled, his tie loosened, but his sharp eyes gave nothing away.

“Hop in. Let’s go and save that bastard,” he said with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Throughout the way, as almost all Lincoln lawyers do, James was busy typing paperwork on his laptop. The soft clatter of the keyboard filled the silence as his brows furrowed in concentration.

“Fill me in on the gaps,” he said, his tone as precise as the words he typed. He wanted the details—the messy ones about Miranda, their marriage, their fallout.

I hesitated each time, my throat tightening. Answering felt like walking a thin line. It’s said that you shouldn’t hide anything from your lawyer, but it wasn’t my story to tell, and Elijah wasn’t here to approve. I carefully answered the less personal questions, my voice steady but guarded.

Elijah can be very strict when it comes to his privacy. Even though James is his best friend, and I was just trying to help with fair intentions, if Elijah found out that I leaked his privacy without permission, he might get furious. So, for the more intimate details, I feigned ignorance, saying, “I don’t really know about that.” My voice wavered slightly, but James didn’t press further.

The SUV rolled to a smooth stop in front of the police station. Even though it would only make a few seconds’ difference, neither of us hesitated to sprint toward the police desk. Our concern for Elijah drove us forward, but just as we reached the investigation office, both James and I froze at the doorstep as we saw the view before us.

An old man sat ahead of us, his back straight and commanding, despite his age. His posture spoke of authority, his presence undeniable. Seated across from the detective, he exuded an air of quiet dominance. Beside him stood a thin, brown-skinned man, his head lowered, and shoulders slouched.

We didn’t need to see the old man’s face to recognize him. Elijah’s grandfather.

“Grandpa Arthur,” James called out, his voice sharp but softened with familiarity.

Arthur turned, his piercing gaze landing on us. He wore a lavish red velvet coat, the rich fabric catching the light in subtle, undulating waves. His thick snow-white hair was neatly combed, framing a stern and dignified demeanor. Heavy dragon-shaped rings adorned his fingers, which gripped the golden handle of a polished walking stick. His knuckles were tight, the veins pronounced, as though his grasp alone could command silence in the room.

“Oh, James. You came at the right moment. Please join.” He said before turning back to the detective. "Here's Miranda's suicide note," he slid the see-through plastic evidence bag towards the detective and then, with a sweeping gesture toward the thin, brown-skinned man standing nearby, he added, "Our gardener found it. It was in the garden behind Elijah and Miranda's room."

The detective leaned back in his chair, his skeptical gaze flickering between the bag and Arthur's face. After a moment of hesitation, he donned a pair of gloves, picked up the bag, and carefully removed the note. As he read, his jaw tightened, his expression hardening with every word. Sliding the note back into the bag, he placed it on the desk and exhaled sharply. "Hmmm... our search team looked everywhere, but it wasn't there," he said, his voice heavy with doubt. "And now you're claiming the gardener suddenly found it? Feels suspicious."

Arthur's face darkened, a flicker of anger sparking in his sharp eyes. Leaning forward slightly, he spoke with deliberate firmness. "Are you implying that I am forging the evidence?"

"N-no, Mr. Davenport," the detective stammered, his tone softening. "The whole world knows Arthur Davenport never lies. But the law doesn't work like that. In fact, we wouldn’t even consider this evidence if it came from someone else. But out of respect for you, we'll send it to the handwriting experts to verify its authenticity." He paused, casting a nervous glance toward Arthur before continuing, "Until then, Elijah must remain in custody. Bail isn't an option for a murder suspect. At least not without clear evidence of innocence." He sat straighter, trying to reclaim some authority. "I’ll personally ensure your case is expedited. We’ll have the analysis by tomorrow."

"Is he telling the truth?" Arthur looked at James and asked.

James sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. "Unfortunately, yes." He then took the case file from the detective's table without his permission, which resulted in a low growl from the detective. James ignored the detective's growl and flipped the file open, his fingers moving urgently through its pages. "We can’t bail him out unless we have solid evidence or a wit—Damn it, Elijah!" His voice rose in frustration as he stormed toward the interrogation room where Elijah was held.

To be continued...