Page 2 of Salem's Fall
“Aww, don’t be like that. This is your fault anyway.” I can practically hear her pouting into the phone. “We were supposed to go to dinner tonight, remember? And you flaked.Again.”
“Hey, someone’s gotta pay rent and keep the pantry stocked with your organic gluten-free mac ‘n’ cheese and overpriced protein bars,” I fire back.
“Ha ha, very funny.” She huffs. “C’mon, Jamie. You always do this. You’re always blowing me off for some stupid work thing?—”
“Hanging up now?—”
“Fine, whatever. Can you Venmo me drink money at least?” Her voice turns pleading, and I can picture her standing inside some too-crowded bar, swaying in her high heels and some cute new dress she probably charged to my credit card without asking. “We want to get another round.”
“You promised you’d stay in and study tonight,” I say, trying to sound stern, though a part of me wishes I could trade places with her.
God, I’d love to be out. Dancing. Drinking. Forgetting all about this damn job for a few hours. But unlike Maddie—a college junior with a decent fake ID and no real responsibilities—I don’t have that luxury. I never have, not even when I was her age. I’d always been too busy working side jobs and hustling, taking care of her.
“Just one more drink, I promise! He’s soooo cute. You’d really like him?—”
“Madison—”
“Come on, help a sister out,” she says. “Remember, you’re the one that taught me not to let guys buy my drinks at the bar. So really, I’m just doing what you told me…”
I sigh. I’m supposed to be the hotshot lawyer, but, even wasted, my little sister can negotiate circles around me. If only she’d apply those skills to her studies.
“Strangers,”I correct. “I told you not to let strangers buy your drinks. Let this David idiot buy you all the drinks he wants. He can probably afford it–unlike me.” I glance at the clock. It’s almost midnight, and I’m too tired to keep arguing. “I’ll send enough for one more round. Then straight home, okay?”
“Thanks! Love youuuuuu!”
Madison hangs up, and I quickly pull up the app, sending her money. I lean back in my chair, wondering for a moment what it must be like to be Madison. How would it feel to be free of all responsibility and worry? My constant and draining sense of duty. My fear of failure. Ever since our mother died—and Dad went to prison for her murder—it’s been my job to take care of Madison. She doesn’t know the half of what it costs me, but if I don’t take care of her, who will?
Lucky nudges me impatiently with his cold nose, hungry for a treat. I give him a few catnip crunchies from my bag, and after eating them, he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep. Off in the distance, the firm’s main phone line starts to ring over and over. Even the late-night receptionist has gone home by now.
I settle back at my desk, staring angrily at my memo again. I’m supposed to be summarizing the current state of the law for expungement of criminal records for minors, listing out all the procedures. Some senior partner’s spoiled teenage daughter got caught shoplifting, and I need to help clear her record so she can get into an Ivy League school her daddy probably bought her way into. Not exactly the thrilling work I dreamed of during my law school days.
I skim through a few Westlaw articles online, my eyes darting between the text on the screen and my own half-written sentences. The assigning partner is expecting this on his desk tomorrow at 7 a.m., sharp. My fingers hover over the keyboard as I glance at the clock again. My deadline is looming, and I can’t afford another screwup, even on something as dumb as this.
I type into the search bar the address to a somewhat controversial legal website my best friend from law school, Katherine “Katie” Tang, told me about. They have old memos and briefs on there. It’s not something any self-respecting attorney would ordinarily use—sometimes the research is outdated. And relying on it too heavily? That’s plagiarism.
Still, this is stupid busy work, and I could use a few hours of sleep tonight. Plus, someone’s gotta get home and make sure my rascal of a sister makes it back at a decent hour.
For a moment, I contemplate sleep and Maddie versus a teeny, tiny little ethics flub. My moral compass quickly loses, and it’s not even close. Just this once, right? It’s not like anyone’s going to know. It’s just a minor expungement, erasing a stupid shoplifting case for an entitled brat. This isn’t exactly life-or-death.
“Whatever it takes,” I murmur, taking a deep breath and copying and pasting.
After that, all that’s left is a spell check. I’m almost done with the memo when my desk phone rings, the sound jarring in the otherwise silent building.
“James Woodsen,” I say, putting the call on speaker so I can keep typing.
“Where the hell is everyone?”
The booming voice on the other end is Quinn Kensington, one of the firm’s most powerful partners.
I straighten in my seat, a jolt of adrenaline coursing through my system. At only thirty-one, Quinn Kensington is the youngest senior partner at the firm. He was just named a “Top 40 Under 40 Attorney” in the entire metro area and is the only son of state Senator George Kensington. He’s also movie-star handsome to boot.
Quinn is the partner responsible for hiring me, which is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because being under Quinn’s wing is the perfect place for any ambitious junior associate—unless said ambitious junior associate is also a pretty blonde, and then everyone assumes you were only hired because you must be sleeping with him. And I am very definitelynot.
“They’re all in prep for the Brandt trial,” I answer. “Why? What’s going on?”
“We’ve just been assigned a new high-profile murder case.” He speaks fast, his words sharp.
“Okay… and?”
