Page 3 of Salem's Fall
This is nothing new. We’re Whitehall & Rowe. We get new high-profile murder cases every week.
“It’s the Halloween Heiress Murder, Woodsen!” he snaps.
I suck in a deep breath.
“No way…”
The Halloween Heiress Murder is the murder case of the decade—maybe the century. It’s been all over the news for the past year.
Vivienne Van Buren, a high-profile socialite, was found stabbed to death last Halloween. There was talk of dark cults and satanic panic. No one knew what was real and what wasn’t. The murder itself was beyond bloody and gruesome, but that alone wasn’t what made it so notorious. It was the fact that she was the fiancée of Damien Blackhollow—the gorgeous billionaire mogul whose family owns half of New England.
“Someone’s finally been arrested?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. This is huge!
“Someone, yeah.” Quinn makes a strange sound in the back of his throat. “You could definitely say that…”
A flash of disappointment hits me, and I sink low into my chair. I can’t believe our firm has the Halloween Heiress Murder, and I’m going to be stuck writing damn memos for the foreseeable future.
“That’s awesome, Quinn. Congrats.”
“You’re the only one in the office right now, Woodsen? Are you sure there’s no one else?” he prods. “Anyone else?”
I groan, looking around the empty office. “Yeah, Quinn. I’m sure.”
He sighs. “Okay, listen up. I need you to meet me at the criminal courthouse in five hours for the bail hearing.” He pauses hesitantly. “Can you do that? No screwups this time.”
I try not to feel insulted by his tone. Sure, I understand this is a huge case, and right now, my reputation is on the rocks, but posting bail is something a damn paralegal can do. Not that I have anything against paralegals, but, well, it’s a bit of an ego knock.
“Yeah, Quinn. Of course I can do that.” I take a deep breath. “But listen, I understand if you still don’t trust me. I’m sure you can find someone else when the office opens in a few hours?”
“Can’t wait!” he snaps. “We have to get the client out of there before the media gets hold of this. It’s going to be a fucking shitshow once word gets out.”
“I won’t let you down again, Quinn,” I say and hit send on my email, shooting off my expungement research memo. “I promise.”
“I hope not. I’ll send you the details.”
“Okay, got it,” I say, excitement curling in my belly as I grab my laptop and my dog-eared copy of the local court rules, and tuck Lucky into my tote bag. He mewls loudly,annoyed to be woken up from his beauty sleep. “Wait—Quinn, who is it? Who’s the client?”
“Six a.m. on the dot,” he says, ignoring my question. “Donotbe late!”
The line goes dead, and I’m left staring at the phone, still in disbelief.
Holy shit.
The Halloween Heiress Murder. The case every criminal defense lawyer in the state wants, and it’s landed right in my lap. I don’t know whether to feel ecstatic or terrified. Maybe both. But one thing’s for sure—I’m not writing any more memos this weekend. If things go well tomorrow, I’m about to be sitting front and center at the biggest murder case of the year.
The early morning sky is still dull with the remnants of dawn as I approach the Boston Criminal Courthouse steps. My heart beats with exhilaration as I stare up at the massive building, an imposing fortress of glass and concrete that both intimidates and draws me in. It’s a place where lives are literally remade or undone, and I can’t help but feel excited by the sight before me.
At the top of the stairs stands Quinn, strikingly young and devastatingly handsome, the firm’s golden boy and favorite son of New England’s political elite. Tall and effortlessly charismatic, his face is all chiseled angles and controlled expression, commanding attention without a word. It’s a face made for the cover of a magazine, though he prefers high-powered boardrooms and court hearings instead.
I first met Quinn when I was in my second year of law school, nervous but determined, as I walked into the interview room at Whitehall & Rowe. I’d expected to see some aging, uptight, gray-haired man, just like I’d met with at almost every other white-shoe law firm I’d interviewed at. Instead, I encountered this young hotshot in a sleek suit, not all that much older than me, but already carrying himself with a quiet, magnetic confidence. I felt starstruck, unprepared, like I’d walked onto a movie set instead of a law firm.But then he smiled, warm and encouraging, and all my nerves settled.
We connected right away. He must have pulled for me behind the scenes because I got the summer associate job, and he’s been a mentor and friend to me ever since.
“Woodsen,” he greets me, his tone neutral, not unkind, but there’s an edge that wasn’t there weeks ago. I still feel horrible. I know I let down more than just myself when I screwed up our last case.
I’d been the junior associate on the team representing Allan Michelle, a prominent real estate broker accused of murdering his business partner. Buried in a stack of lab files was a forensic report I’d skimmed too quickly—a partial DNA match that helped our client and pointed to someone else. It wasn’t the smoking gun, and someone else would’ve caught it eventually. Still, it was my job to catch it first.
I’d been exhausted, eager to move past the tedious document review, impatient to prove myself on a bigger stage. And in my rush, I got sloppy. Missed something I shouldn’t have. It also didn’t help that I wasn’t trained to read lab reports—not exactly a skill they teach in law school.
