Page 5 of Client Privilege

“What happens now?”

“I need to review everything you’ve told me. Research similar cases, consider our options.” She hesitated. “I want to be honest with you—cases like this are challenging. The burden of proof is high, and without documentation…”

“I know.” I’d expected this. “But I had to try. For Buster, if nothing else.”

“I’ll do everything I can,” she promised. “Can I reach you at the number you provided?”

I nodded. “It’s a burner phone. I keep it off except for an hour each evening.”

“I’ll call you within a week with a plan.” She stood, extending her hand. “In the meantime, please consider going to a shelter. Living in your car isn’t safe.”

I didn’t take her hand—couldn’t bear the contact—but I managed a grateful nod.

“Thank you for listening,” I whispered. “No one else has.”

Natalie

I UNZIPPEDmy dress, letting it pool around my feet as laughter drifted up from the kitchen below. I could hear the clatter of pots and pans, my husband’s deep voice telling some ridiculous story that had our children giggling uncontrollably.

The normalcy of it all struck me like a physical blow after the day I’dhad.

I sat heavily on the edge of the bed, Alex Lajeunesse’s haunted eyes still vivid in my mind. The way he’d flinched at sudden movements. The mechanical precision with which he’d recounted horrors no one should experience.

“Nat? Your dinner will be ready in ten!” my husband called up.

“Be right down,” I answered, my voice steadier than I felt.

I reached for my phone, scrolling to a contact I rarely used anymore. Our paths had diverged after law school—mine to public service, his to the gleaming towers of corporate law. But if there was ever a time to call in a favour…

The phone rang three times before he answered.

“Damian Richards.”

“It’s Natalie Wong.”

A pause. “Natalie? It’s been what, two years?”

“At least.” I took a deep breath. “I need your help, Damian.”

“Professional or personal?”

“Both.” I closed my eyes. “I have a client. Domestic abuse case, worst I’ve seen in years. The abuser is wealthy, connected—Marcus Delaney.”

I heard Damian’s sharp intake of breath. Everyone in Toronto’s legal circles knew that name.

“The victim needs specialized representation I can’t provide with my resources. He’s living in his car, for Christ’s sake.”

“Natalie, I don’t do pro-bono domestic cases. I’m corporate—”

“Cut the bullshit, Damian. You were top of our class in criminal law.”

“You know that was almost two decades ago.”

I gripped the phone tighter. “Remember when we were twenty-two and drunk on cheap wine in my dorm room? You told me you went into law to make a difference. What happened to that guy?”

“He grew up andgot practical.”

“He got comfortable,” I corrected. “Listen, I know your firm takes on the occasional high-profile pro-bono case for the PR. This could be that case.”

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