Page 18 of Blind Justice

He reheated the meal in the microwave, the familiar aromas filling the room. Once the timer beeped, he plated the food and carried it into the living room.

The space was simple and uncluttered, with a large leather couch and matching recliner facing the fireplace and a TV mounted above the mantel. Photos of his siblings, his parents and his new niece dotted the shelves, alongside a few books and mementos from his years in law enforcement. A thick knit blanket draped over the arm of the couch added a touch of coziness.

Noah flipped on the evening news, balancing the plate on his lap as he settled into his favorite chair. The anchor’s voice filled the room, recapping the day’s events—weather updates, a local crime story, and some feel-good holiday fluff about a community shelter.

As he ate, Noah’s thoughts began to wander. The turkey was tender, the mashed potatoes creamy, but he barely tasted them. His mind drifted to what it might feel like to have someone waiting for him at home—maybe a wife, or even kids. A family to share the warmth of the house and quiet moments like these.

He imagined walking into laughter echoing through the halls, the smell of fresh bread baking in the oven, a little chaos to break up the solitude. Someone to talk to about his day, to share the burdens and joys that came with it.

But as the news droned on in the background, Noah pushed the thought aside. His life wasn’t built for that kind of connection—not yet, anyway. His job was demanding, dangerous, and it didn’t leave much room for romance or domestic bliss.

He finished his meal, setting the empty plate on the coffee table and taking another sip of scotch. The snow continued to fall outside, blanketing the world in silence, and again he let himself imagine what it might feel like to let someone in. Someone like Ruth Everhart.

The thought surprised him, but he didn’t push it away. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, letting the warmth of the scotch and the flickering light from the fireplace ease the tension in his shoulders.

Tomorrow, the storm would end, and the fight would continue. But tonight, in the quiet sanctuary of his home, Noah allowed himself a moment to simply be.

Seven

Ruth awakened to the muffled hum of snowblowers and the scrape of shovels against concrete. She blinked against the soft morning light filtering through her bedroom window, the familiar sounds a small comfort. This was one of the reasons she had chosen her condominium complex: the maintenance department was exceptional, always ensuring the paths and parking lots were clear before residents stepped outside.

She pulled herself out of bed, steeling herself for a quiet but productive day. The offices of Ellison & Grant were closed to clients during the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day, but they remained open to the attorneys who wanted to catch up on their caseloads. Ruth had decided to go in and dedicate the day to planning her defense of Curtis Warren, the deputy mayor’s son.

The drive to the office was uneventful, the streets quiet under the thick blanket of snow. Ruth parked in her usual spot and made her way to the large glass doors of the sleek, modern building. The lobby was hushed.

“Good morning, Ms. Everhart,” greeted the head of security, John “Mac” McAllister. He was a former Marine with salt-and-pepper hair and a warm, fatherly demeanor that put everyone at ease. Dressed in his crisp navy-blue uniform, he stood at the security desk with his ever-watchful eyes scanning the monitors.

“Good morning, Mac,” Ruth replied with a small smile.

“Cold one today,” he said. “You’re the first one in. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Mac. Will do.”

Ruth made her way down the quiet hallway to her office. After starting her Keurig, she pulled out the Curtis Warren file and sat down to work. She sipped her coffee as she pored over the police report, diagramming the timeline of events. The report was tightly written, with little room for error or contradiction. Her mind sharpened as she delved into the details, her focus absolute.

“I thought I heard someone,” Matt Brandt’s voice sliced through the quiet.

Ruth’s pen slipped from her fingers, her heart jolting. She turned to see Matt leaning casually against the doorframe, the kind of grin on his face that always made her stomach twist—not in a good way.

“Matt,” she forced her voice to steady even as her skin prickled. “I’m busy. Do you need something?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he folded his arms and stayed exactly where he was, his broad frame blocking her only exit.

“Busy as always,” he said with mock exasperation, his tone dripping with condescension. “Thought I’d come by and see if you ever stop working long enough to enjoy life. What’d you do yesterday? I noticed you weren’t in.”

Ruth gripped the edge of her desk, using it to anchor herself. His intrusion was so brazen, so entitled. “I took the day off,” she said curtly. “I really need to get back to this case. Please let me do my work?”

But Matt didn’t budge. Instead, he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click that sent a jolt of fear through her chest. “You’re always so serious.” The teasing edge in his voice barely masked something more menacing. “Come on, Ruthie. You can’t keep turning me down. How about this—let me take you to the firm’s holiday party? It’ll be fun. We can get a hotel room. You need to loosen up.”

Ruth stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the carpet and almost falling back. She grabbed her coffee mug as a flimsy shield. She kept her voice firm, though her hands trembled. “Matt, I’ve told you before—I’m not interested in dating you. Please stop.”

“Stop?” Matt repeated, his smile fading into something sharper, his tone darker. “I’m just being nice. You don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”

Her breath caught, but she refused to back down. “You are not being nice. You are harassing me. I said no. I’m not going to the party with you. Besides, I already have a date.”

The words tumbled out before she could think them through, a desperate attempt to end the conversation. But instead of deterring him, her lie seemed to ignite something worse.

“A date?” he scoffed, stepping closer. His eyes narrowed, his voice laced with venom. “Don’t bullshit me, Ruthie. You don’t date. You’ve been here over two years, and all I’ve ever seen is you hiding behind your desk. What’s his name?”

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