Page 12 of Salem's Fall
It’s the out I need. The excuse to walk away from the nightmare this case is certain to become.
“I’d like to step aside,” I say.
I pack up my things and head for the door while the othersresume the meeting. Voices hushed, heads together. No one skips a beat. It’s like I was never even there.
Back at my apartment, Lucky greets me at the door. He brushes against my legs as he winds around me, purring softly. I give him a quick scratch behind the ears and toss my work bag onto the couch, feeling a strange mix of defeat and relief knowing I haven’t tanked my career—yet. Though I guess I also haven’t helped things much either.
It looks like it’s back to research memos for me. No more court hearings. No more War Room. No more career-making cases. Just… mediocrity.
Later that night, I make dinner for Madison while she watches one of her silly reality TV shows on Bravo. I try to focus on the familiar motions of chopping vegetables and stirring sauces. My little sister is in a good mood, chattering away about her classes and the latest drama with her girlfriends. I nod in all the right places, but my mind keeps drifting back to the case I just walked away from.
Damien Blackhollow—the billion-dollar client with the biggest murder case in years. Though every instinct tells me I made the right decision leaving the trial team, it still feels a bit like swallowing glass, knowing what I might be missing out on. Cases like this don’t just come around.
And if, by some miracle, we actually won? That would be like earning a fast pass to the top of the career ladder. One big win could cement my name, get me noticed by the partners, maybe even line up a promotion to senior associate way ahead of schedule. I’d have more control over my caseload, more respect from people—even assholes like Mark—and maybe I wouldn’t feel this desperate need to prove myself all the time.
What if I made the wrong choice?
After we eat dinner and Madison goes to sleep, I lie down on the couch with the TV remote in hand. The news is already buzzing with the latest developments in the HalloweenHeiress Murder case. Damien’s face flashes across the screen as they show clips of him from various high society events. The Boston Philharmonic Gala. The Kennedy Center Honors. The New England Aquarium’s Blue Ball. The Met Gala.
I can’t help but stare. Even if the man may be guilty as sin, there’s no denying how impossibly good-looking he is. Even the female journalists who are supposed to be objectively reporting about a dangerous murder suspect are eating it up.
“Many don’t believe Blackhollow could commit such a heinous crime. A man of his stature—so wealthy, so respected—it’s sending shockwaves through the city,” the pretty blonde evening news anchor says, her eyes gleaming. “The evidence looks bad, but his reputation remains strong. His legion of supporters remain firmly in his corner.”
“That’s right, Diana,” the second female anchor adds. “Blackhollow is a pillar of the New England community, supporting local institutions like the Boston Children’s Hospital and the New England Historical and Cultural Heritage Museum. His foundation funds countless scholarships and youth programs. And he’s not too hard on the eyes either! Am I right?” She winks conspiratorially at her co-host. “Many believe this arrest is a political move, a ploy by DA Don Smith to gain traction as he kicks off his Attorney General campaign.”
I turn off the TV. These women are seriously deluded, fooled by a pretty face and a big wallet.
My eyes start to close. I’m too tired to even get off the couch as sleep comes to me. Exhausted but also strangely at peace, knowing I’ve made the right decision. Guys like Damien—men with money, power,andlooks—they can’t be trusted. I learned that the hard way with my very recently ex-boyfriend, William Winthrop.
Fucking William.
I’d dated him for all three years of law school. William Winthrop III was a Harvard Law legacy; both his father and grandfather had gone there. He’d seemed like the perfect guy, the one I was certain was going to marry me—until I caught him in bed with one of my best friends. Men like William and Damien take what they want and leave destruction in their wake. Best to stay the hell away from the detonation.
Hours later, I wake to the sound of my phone buzzing on the floor. I squint at the screen.
It’s Quinn.
“Woodsen!” His voice is clipped, urgent. “We need you in the office. Can you get here within the hour?”
“Huh?” I ask, my voice groggy as I wipe sleep from my eyes. “What’s going on?”
“You’re back on the case.”
“Quinn, no!” I bolt up, suddenly wide awake. “I already told you. I’m not doing it.”
“Sorry, but you don’t have a choice. Neither of us do.” Quinn sighs into the phone, resignation heavy in his voice.
“I—I don’t understand.”
“The firm’s in full panic mode. As soon as he heard you were off the case, he snapped. He’s threatening to pull his business and find another defense team,” he says. There’s a pause, then the faint sound of him exhaling sharply, like he’s trying—and failing—to keep his frustration in check. “Blackhollow wants you back or he walks.”
October 12 (Three Weeks Until Halloween)
The next few days are packed with research and drafting motions and discovery requests for our case. Damien’s trial is set for early April, which sounds far off, but actually isn’t all that much time to prepare for a trial of this magnitude.
The media circus hasn’t let up since Damien’s high-profile arrest and bail hearing; it’s only gotten worse. Every major newspaper in New England is covering the story, and Damien’s name is plastered daily across every local news channel. Public fascination is at a fever pitch.
I still can’t shake the nagging feeling that this whole thing is unraveling before we’ve even begun. Every night, I lie awake wondering if I made the wrong call agreeing to stay on—not that Quinn or the firm gave me much of a choice. Mark has been insufferable as well, of course. Every chance he gets to make me look dumb or incompetent, he takes. The guy lives to make me feel like I don’t belong on the team.
