MAGGIE GALLAGHER LEGAL THRILLER

  The Midwest Lawyer

  The Bloodied Client

  The Wrong Victim

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

  RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, JANUARY 2026

  Copyright © 2026 Relay Publishing Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Peter Kirkland is a pen name created by Relay Publishing for co-authored Legal Thriller projects. Relay Publishing works with incredible teams of writers and editors to collaboratively create the very best stories for our readers.

  Cover Design by Deranged Doctor.

  Print and ebook formatting by Lori Colbeck.

  www.relaypub.com

  BLURB

  A teenage girl is charged with the unthinkable…

  The crime? The brutal murder of her own parents. The prosecution’s argument seems airtight. But small town defense attorney Maggie Gallagher senses something isn’t right…

  Months earlier, Zoey Conrad had already faced her worst nightmare when two men broke into her room. In the terrifying struggle that followed, one intruder ended up dead. The judge declared it self-defense and dismissed the charges, allowing Zoey to rebuild her life in their small town. But now, with her parents found murdered under disturbingly similar circumstances, the evidence against Zoey quickly piles up.

  Maggie knows Zoey and she wants to believe the girl is no killer. Yet the more she learns about the twisted life the Conrads led, the stronger her compassion for Zoey grows. But the deeper she digs, the worse things get. Especially since Maggie’s own son has gotten personally involved.

  As the prosecution builds an ironclad case and the clock ticks down, Maggie must race to expose the truth. If she fails, Zoey’s fate is sealed—and an innocent life could be shattered forever.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  End of The Bloodied Client

  About Peter Kirkland

  Make an Author’s Day

  Sneak Peek: The Wrong Victim

  Sneak Peek: Small Town Conviction

  Also by Peter Kirkland

  1

  You expect warning signs before a disaster. Sirens. Gunshots. Clouds rolling up on your perfect blue sky. But I was sure my sky was all blue, no clouds, no sirens. Nothing out of its place—at least, that I could see.

  The Dunlaps were in for a quick probate issue—Emily Dunlap and her son Ken. Emily’s husband George had passed on unexpectedly in a car crash, and I could see that her grief was still raw. She looked past me, not at me, as I talked through our business. My office had a nice view of the old courthouse, but I doubted she noticed it in her state.

  “Mrs. Dunlap?”

  She focused her gaze on me to show she was listening. Ken gave me the nod, so I went on.

  “Most of the estate was in both of your names: the house, the business, your Atwood Lake cabin. There’s no paperwork you need to worry about to transfer those assets. Same goes for⁠—”

  Ken cut in. “His retirement account?”

  “Yes, that as well.” Emily was back to staring past me, and I found myself frowning as I went on. “All his accounts were in both of your names, with the exception of this one.” I held out the statement for her to see, but she didn’t look at it. Ken reached out instead. Was he a little too eager? I thought back to an old case I’d once prosecuted, a son who had stolen his mother’s estate. Sold it all out from under her while she stewed in her grief.

  Ken smiled. “Uh, Ms. Gallagher?”

  I realized I was holding on to the statement, clutching on tight as he tried to take it. But he wasn’t the kid from that long-ago case, and Emily wasn’t that sad, helpless mother. She had her sisters and cousins to lean on, and Ken was a good kid as far as I’d seen.

  You’re not a prosecutor anymore, I reminded myself. And not everyone is a crime waiting to happen.

  I let go of the statement and cleared my throat. “It’s an investment account, and it’s just in your husband’s name. Same goes for your Lexus, and your son’s truck. I’ve prepared an order for the court to sign, to transfer those over. You should be through probate by the end of this month.”

  Ken let out a tight breath and sagged with relief.

  “So we give this to the judge, and that’s it? We’re done?”

  I could sense his fatigue, so I offered a smile. “I’ll take care of that part. You’re essentially done. All I need from your mom today is her signature here.” I’d prepared applications to put the titles for the Dunlaps’ two houses solely in Emily’s name. Now I passed her a pen, and she signed them without reading.

  “So that’s all you need?” She seemed relieved too, glad to be done with this and with my office.

  “That’s all,” I said, then searched for some words of comfort. “Your husband did a great job securing your future. He made this easy as easy could be.”

  Emily laughed then, a soft, broken sound. She blinked, then she stood. “Yeah. That was George.”

  The Dunlaps filed out and Auntie El bustled in, in one of her trademark loud floral blouses. I’d thought about asking her to tone down her wardrobe—we were a law office, not a car lot—but clients liked her. She put them at ease. And she cheered me up too, a bright splash of color to pep up my day.

  “So sad,” she said, when the Dunlaps were gone.

  I sighed. “I know. How old was he? Sixty?”

  “Sixty-one; far too young. Damn those drunk drivers.” Auntie El set about straightening my desk. I winced, thinking back to Dad’s drinking days, all the times I’d had to confiscate his car keys. There’d been a few times I hadn’t caught him in time, and only by God’s grace had he come home without hurting himself or anyone else.

  Auntie El stepped back, done with her straightening. “You have Edie Endicott coming by later. She has some more questions about her ‘divorce.’” She did bouncy air quotes, and we both groaned. Edie had been coming every week for a while, testing the waters on her maybe-divorce. “And you’ve got the Batchelder custody hearing, so you’ll want to get down to the courthouse by four.”

  “Get me their file,” I said.

  Aunt Louise fetched the file, and she freshened my coffee. “You ever wish you’d get a splashier case? Like when Troy was charged with killing Coach Schafer?”

  I shuddered at the memory. “That case was messy in a lot of ways. Don’t forget, it started when his son almost died.”

  “But it was exciting. You live for a challenge. I’ve known you all your life, so don’t act like you don’t.”

  I thought again of the Dunlaps and their dull probate case, and how I’d flashed back to the Mulligan fraud. Had some part of me wished for a monster to fight? I did love a challenge, no doubt about that. But Troy’s case had been awful. Folks had been hurt. I shuddered, remembering how hard it had been on Troy and his family.

  “No one gets traumatized in probate court.”

  “But does it stir your soul?”

  I swiveled my chair around to look out the window, at the old courthouse with its closely cropped lawn. No one heard cases there anymore, not since the new courthouse went up down the road. But still, when I looked at it, I always sat straighter. It reminded me why I did what I did.

  “My soul’s fine,” I said. “Now, go on, get.” I put on my “gruff sheriff” voice to show I was joking. Auntie El huffed, hands on her hips. Then, with a shake of her head, she went out, grumbling the whole way about stubborn people. I watched her go, smiling, then got back to work. I was fine with these types of workaday cases, and finer still with leaving at five. No long nights holed up in my office, desperately digging for contradictions in witness statements. No tossing and turning, losing sleep over whether I’d done everything I could to save my client’s life. With these cases, I could rest easy—and have time to relax. I’d made it home every night last week to a hot dinner, and I expected this week to play out the same.

  I drove home through Kerry in a good mood. This w
as what I’d moved back for, the small-town quiet. The kids in the park in their letter jackets, tossing a football out by the pond. The moms with their strollers up by the swings. Mrs. Adler from the mini mart bringing in her displays: flats of fresh fruits and vegetables, buckets of flowers. She looked up and waved when I stopped for the light.

  I drove on through the suburbs, past houses I knew. My cousin Liam’s place. His neighbor Jim’s. The Hensons’, the Learys’, the MacDougall place. Our own house was farther out, on the edge of town, big enough for the three of us but not so big we rattled. I pulled up behind Sean’s car and headed inside. The good smell of tacos met me at the door.

  “Tuesday already?” I stepped inside, stretching out the stiffness of the day.

  “Don’t yell through the house.”

  “That you yelling back?” I kicked off my shoes and stowed my briefcase with a grin, and went through to the kitchen to find my husband at the stove.

  “I’m starving,” I said, and stole a fried pepper. Sean pretended to smack me with his wooden spoon. Hot grease flew off it and spattered my sleeve.

  “Shoot, just a minute.”

  “It’s fine, don’t fuss.”

  He got the vinegar anyway and mixed it with water, and dabbed my sleeve till the grease spot was out. Anyone else, it would’ve annoyed me, being fussed over when I’d said I was fine. But I loved when Sean cared for me. I always had. He did it in little ways that weren’t intrusive. Little reminders he was here. He was mine. I pressed a kiss to his temple—my blue-eyed boy. His hair had grayed some since our move from Chicago, but he was still handsome, always would be to me.

  “Ian home yet?”

  “Yeah. You can get him. I’m about to dish up.”

  I called out for Ian, yelling through the house again. He yelled back he was coming. Sean rolled his eyes.

  “Sit down and relax,” he suggested. “I’ll set the table.”

  I did as he said, stretching my legs out in front of me. The left one still got stiff at the end of the day, even after over a year of PT. I massaged my hip while Sean wasn’t looking, but the pain just migrated down to my knee. Upstairs, Ian’s door slammed, and I straightened up.

  “Hey, Mom,” he said, slouching into the kitchen, that hunched seventeen-year-old too-cool-for-school gait.

  “Hey. How was school?”

  “You can’t ever ask about anything else?” He grabbed the placemats off the top of the fridge and set them out on the table, a little askew. He set out napkins too, and poured us all water. I watched him and tried to pinpoint his mood. Setting the table was a good sign, but the school snapback wasn’t. His normal response was ‘I don’t know, fine?’

  “Okay, how’s your social life? Getting along with your friends?”

  He snorted. “What am I, five?”

  “When you were five, you wouldn’t shut up. You’d go on and on while your⁠—”

  “Mom!”

  “—nuggies got cold: then my teacher did this. My best friend did that. We made paper turkeys⁠—”

  “Dad, make her stop.”

  Sean set my plate down, loaded with tacos. He’d overstuffed them as usual, but I didn’t care. I spooned on guacamole and pico de gallo, and leaned over my plate for a big, juicy bite. Beans squirted out and I spooned them up, and I sighed as I savored the sharpness of lime juice.

  “How’s soccer?” I tried when I’d swallowed at last.

  Ian gulped water. “I quit the team.”

  I almost choked on my next bite. “You quit? Wha⁠—”

  Sean kicked my ankle and I shut my mouth. The last thing we needed was me “going red,” as Sean called it when I lost my temper. A hilarious joke on my flaming red hair.

  I breathed in through my nose and exhaled my feelings. Or tried to exhale them. Inside, I could feel my frustration rising. Soccer was Ian’s thing. He’d always played soccer. And he was good at it, and it was a team sport, which meant it was gold for college applications. If he’d quit last year, when we’d moved to Kerry from Chicago, I might have understood. But he’d enjoyed playing last year. He’d gotten on great with his coach and his teammates. Why would he quit now?

  “You quit soccer,” I said again, more calmly this time. “I thought you were liking it.”

  Ian shrugged. “I liked it fine, but I’m too busy. I have too much homework to make it to practice.”

  I glanced over at Sean to see how he was taking this, and more importantly, if he’d already known. His look of bamboozlement told me he hadn’t. I willed him to say something so I wouldn’t have to, but he popped a forkful of rice in his mouth.

  “College applications are coming up,” I said, keeping my tone even. “After-school activities look good on those.”

  Ian took a page from Sean’s book and bit into his taco. The two of them sat chewing, and I threw up my hands. “Okay, I get it. I’m not going to nag. Just tell me you’ll think about adding another extracurricular. I’m sure you can find one that sucks up less time. How about debate club?”

  Ian rolled his eyes at me. I rolled mine right back.

  “Fine, not debate. Model UN. Mathletes?”

  Ian covered his mouth so he wouldn’t spray taco meat. Sean laughed too, pfft through his nose. I knew I wouldn’t beat them, so I joined them instead. I laughed, and it felt pretty good. It felt normal.

  That was my day. Normal. Boring. No sirens, no gunshots, no clouds in my sky. I did my normal work and came home to my family. We bickered over dinner, then came back together, same way we always did. Sean had brought lava cakes home for dessert, and I had two and crashed out from the sugar. I stretched out on the sofa with some contracts to review, and at some point, as normal, I fell asleep.

  I half-woke when Ian yelled through the house, “Night, Mom!”

  I half-woke again when Sean went up to bed, yelling through to remind me not to sleep on the couch.

  I jolted awake to full dark, no stars, a pale spill of contracts across my lap. Something had woken me. A sound? A thump? I sat up, spine tingling, hairs stiff on my neck.

  “Sean? Is that you?”

  No answer. Silence. Then came the thunder of fists on the door, somebody banging. Had Ian locked himself out? But it was a school night. He wouldn’t be out.

  I squared up my contracts and set them aside, and squinted through the dark at the clock on the wall. Ten thirty. Who⁠—

  The banging came again, then the doorbell. Whoever was out there was mashing the bell, so its chimes ran together like dingdingdingdong. I sprang off the couch and ran out to the hall, where I nearly crashed into Sean in his pajamas. He nudged me behind him and strode to the door.

  “It’s a girl,” he said. “In her PJs.”

  Ian shuffled out to the top of the stairs. “Mom? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Go back to bed.” I waved him back, but he didn’t move. I pushed in to take Sean’s place at the peephole. He was right—it was a kid out there in her pajamas. She looked sixteen, seventeen. Around Ian’s age. I’d seen her before at Ian’s school.

  “Please let me in.” Her voice was all ragged, like she’d been crying.

  Sean nodded, and I opened the door. The girl stepped forward into the light. My breath caught in my throat as I saw the whole picture: the blood on her face and her pajama top. She looked like she’d been sprayed with it, or had it coughed on her. And in her hand, she was clutching a gun.

  2

  “Get upstairs,” I yelled at both Ian and Sean.

  The girl dropped her gun and started to cry.

  “I need help,” she said. “You’re a lawyer, right?”

  “I—”

  Ian came hurtling down the stairs. “Zoey!” He lunged right at her, going in for a hug, and I barely got between them in time.

  “No! No, don’t touch her.”

  “Why, is she hurt?” Ian tried to push past me, but Sean held him back. I held my hands up for a time-out.

  “What’s happening, Mom? Zoey, you hurt?” Ian sounded frantic, but I couldn’t focus on calming him down when I had a blood-covered, traumatized teen in front of me.

  “What’s happening is, we need to get her inside. Zoey, is that your name? Zoey, come in.”

  Zoey stared blankly, like she hadn’t heard me. I glanced at the gun and realized she might not have. If she had fired it without wearing ear protection, she might’ve damaged her hearing.