Page 10 of Salem's Fall
Damien exhales, the barest hint of amusement flickering across his face. “Quinn,” he drawls, “I could buy ten of those rings and then go shopping for a new yacht before lunch. What exactly would I gain from keeping it?”
“Fair point,” Quinn says, watching Damien carefully. “Though I’m not sure the DA will see it that way. Obviously, with your arrest, it’s clear they’ve decided to tank the robbery angle. They’ll likely use the missing ring against you. They’ll say you took it yourself, hoping to mislead the authorities, send them running around in circles.”
Before Damien can respond further, Holly bolts up from her computer, her face pale.
“Quinn, you need to see this.” Her voice shakes as she reads from her screen. “There’s been a leak to the press. They’re going nuts. They found the murder weapon. Somekind of knife, buried behind the new Blackhollow Industries building on Congress Street.”
Quinn rushes to Holly’s side, his eyes skimming over her laptop. “Did you know anything about this?” he asks, whirling on Damien.
“Of course not,” Damien says, looking remarkably unbothered by this alarming turn of events. “I employ hundreds of people at that location. Could’ve been any of them.”
“Shit.” Quinn’s eyes narrow at Damien as he reads the article out loud. “Says it’s anexceedingly rareBlack Obsidian Bloodstone Athame that was sold last year to one Mr. Damien Blackhollow for $120,000 at the New England Historical and Cultural Heritage Museum’s annual fundraiser.”
“So?” Damien shrugs. “I like to support the local arts.”
Quinn’s lips thin. “This is bad. Very,verybad.”
“I don’t see why,” Damien says. “Anyone could’ve stolen my knife, used it to kill Vivienne, and then planted it at the new building to frame me.”
“It has your fingerprints all over it,” Quinn says.
My stomach drops as I pull up the article on my computer. It’s all right there in black and white and none of it looks good for our case. Finding a murder weapon is bad enough, but one this rare and with physical evidence that ties directly to the suspect? That’s going to be a major hurdle for us to overcome. This case is looking worse and worse by the minute.
“Does it now?” Damien asks, his voice soft but dangerous. “Oh well. I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Quinn. That’s why I hired you. Looks like things are about to get interesting.”
We’re going to lose this case.
A highly uncommon murder weapon with a direct chain of custody tied to our client, plus his fingerprints are all over it. It’s almost too easy for the prosecution… Either Damien is guilty as hell, or he’s being framed by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. Either way, this case is already going to shit, and we’ve barely begun.
It’s all I can think about as we finish up our initial prep meeting with Damien, and the feeling only gets worse after he leaves for the day to go back to house arrest and his palatial Boston estate. I should feel relief after he’s gone. There’s finally room to breathe in the War Room without him sucking up all the oxygen with his powerful presence. But instead, the unease lingers in my chest, twisting uncomfortably. There’s something about this that feels all wrong.
It doesn’t help that this case is also starting to seem just a bit too familiar. I usually try not to think about what happened to Mom—life is easier that way—but the eerie similarities between the two murders strike a chord I can’t ignore.
Just like Damien’s fiancée, my mother was found slain inside our house, the victim of a brutal knife attack. The authorities also found weird markings on her body and on the bedroom walls and floor nearby, some kind of runes orsymbols, they said. And the murder weapon was also dumped far away from the house, right near my dad’s office building. Yes, an office building also owned by Blackhollow Industries. Although that was the old building downtown, and not the new one on Congress Street, it’s still quite the series of striking coincidences.
In contrast to Vivienne Van Buren’s high-profile case, my mother’s murder flew under the radar, probably because my family were a bunch of nobodies. The state prosecutor never even touched the occult angle in her murder. They didn’t make much of anything, actually.
The State labeled it a tragic but run-of-the-mill domestic violence case. They never even tried to find any other suspects, even though my dad had no criminal history or record of violence, and my parents had a picture-perfect marriage right up until my mom’s death. They’d been married almost twenty years, and I don’t recall ever seeing them fight, not once. The only arguments they ever got into were about money and even those never lasted long.
Unfortunately, my dad didn’t have the money or resources that Damien has, so they threw the book at him. He was tossed in prison without any real investigation or a fair trial. It’s the reason I decided to become a lawyer—to ensure others like my dad get fair representation and real justice is served. This Whitehall & Rowe gig is just to gain experience and save up enough money so Maddie and I can live comfortably. The end goal is to have my own law firm one day or maybe even become a judge. Someone important with the power and resources to make a difference.
“Lunch is here!” Holly announces, bursting through the door with an armful of fishy-smelling plastic bags. She beams proudly, as if she’s prepared a seven-course feast rather than simply placed a delivery order, and begins laying out sushi platters for everyone. “It’s Quinn’s favorite—Sushi Hero.”
As she winks at her boss, my stomach churns. I feel queasy staring at the piles of crab, shrimp, and lobster rolls.
“Holly, don’t you remember? Woodsen is allergic to shellfish,” Quinn says and turns to me, looking apologetic as everyone else starts swarming the food.
“Oh, she is?” Holly’s face is the picture of innocence even though she damn well knows this, nor is this the first or even the second time she’s somehow “forgotten” my deathly allergy. “I’m so sorry, James,” she says, voice dripping with fake sincerity.
“It’s fine. I’m not really hungry,” I say even as my stomach growls loudly in disagreement, making a liar out of me.
“You sure, hun?” Holly asks with a watery smile. “I can bring you some menus. You can order something for yourself, if you like.”
This is not Holly being nice.
It’s literally in Holly’s job description to help attorneys order their lunch, along with booking travel and other administrative tasks so we don’t spend our clients’ time and money for things like this. She knows this. I know this. Everyone in the damn room knows this. But if I make it into a big deal,I’mthe one who’s going to look like a petty brat. This is a passive-aggressive bitch move at its finest. Annoyingly impressive, really.
“I’m sure,” I say. “Thanks anyway.”
