Page 1 of A Touch of Dark
The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
I hate that stupid saying, but sometimes it’s the only one that fits—poetic justice, in a sense. My father used to be a monolithic figure in this city, a giant in his own right. But then he fell pretty damn hard, inspiring a million cliched headlines.
Ex-Judge Under Fire.
Racial Bias Suspected in Overturned Murder Conviction.
Today’s doozy read:Killer Vindicated?
Some asshole brought a stack of the latest tabloids to the office and left them in the damn boardroom. To provoke me? Torment me? No matter the reason, any other day, I’d do the daughterly thing and burn them all.
Unfortunately, it’s already pushing midnight, and I was able to sequester myself in my office only a few minutes ago. Locked behind the frosted glass door, the fake smile I’ve been sporting for hours falls flat.
Tonight, my father’s drama has to take a backseat for once. What was that line he always spouted?
A man is only as strong as the cracks in his mask.
He loved uttering that one from the bench more than any other saying. As one of the harshest judges in the state, he excelled at peeling back the façades of those in his courtroom and revealing the monsters lurking underneath: Criminal. Liar. Sociopath.
Until now.
Overnight, he’s gone from hero to hypocrite and his advice doesn’t feel so warranted anymore. Some people wear masks for a fucking reason.
Mainly to hide behind.
Nerves creep down my spine as I finally feel along the wall for the light switch while looking everywhere but at my desk. Alone, I can’t suppress what is so easy to hide around a room full of analysts hanging on my every word. None of them suspected what this day truly means to me—at least apart from the “I’m a workaholic” cliché.
How had Sharla from accounting put it? “You must be the only woman in the world who loves when stuffy meetings derail her birthday plans, Ms. Thorne. Like, seriously.”
She had a point. The date on the calendar is an ominous reminder: I can’t avoid my present forever.
Happy birthday to you.
That awful tune echoes in my mind as I face my desk and spot the beautiful gift someone left beside my computer monitor. A rectangular box wrapped in black paper and topped with an ebony bow.
I know that security footage or the guard downstairs will refute the suspicion that anyone came into my office while I was gone, but there is no erasinghispresence. My nostrils flare, catching the familiar scent of sweat and cologne, and a grim sense of nostalgia washes over me.
Happy birthday to you.
I flatten my hand against my hip to stop from reaching for the phone. No. I don’t need to call my therapist tonight. I’m a big girl. According to that fucking book she made me read, “mentally healthy” people can find the positive in any situation. Think happy thoughts and such.
Like, there will only be ten death threats waiting on my office voicemail once I gather the nerve to check. There’s a positive. Score one for optimism.
You and your whole racist family can go fuck yourselves.
I hope you get raped like that Borgetta whore, you bitch.
I’m sure they’d love your daddy in prison.
The insults serve as a fitting soundtrack as I unwrap my present. Surprise. Like every year, I’ve received a bottle of vintage wine—but it’s the thought that counts. Keeping in the spirit of optimism, I choke down my customary sip. Three years of receiving the same brand and I’ll never get over the bitter taste. Or the name of the vintage, printed in red on a black label:EnduringTradition.
I continue to sip as I run my fingers over the ebony business card the bottle came with—but I wait until my breathing steadies before flipping the card over. White font forms a simple message:
To another year.— Simon
My hand shakes as I pour more wine into a two-dollar mug scavenged from a drawer. It has a smiley face on the front, beneath the headline:You’re never lonely with a…
I contort my mouth while eyeing my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows across from my desk. The woman staring back at me looks regal in her black Versace cocktail dress—a congratulatory present to myself that I now regret. The wine is worth more.
