Page 7 of Salem's Fall
What if he’s right?
Damien Blackhollow is released from jail and pays his eye-watering two-million-dollar bail the way most people order coffee—effortlessly.
It takes under an hour for his financial team to wire the money to the court. I can almost picture it: some fancy accountant transferring all that cash with a bored yawn, as if this is just another day for Damien. Meanwhile, here I am, stretching my paycheck so I can afford to take care of me and my sister, keeping a roof over our heads and putting three square meals on the table.
It wasn’t always like this.
When we were growing up, our parents did all right when they were both working. Dad worked in IT for Blackhollow Industries, Mom an executive administrative assistant at the company. It may seem quite the coincidence that both my parents worked for Damien’s family company, except that half the town is also employed there. Blackhollow Industries pays well too, but my parents were never good at saving. Dad burned through what little they had for his defense after he was accused of Mom’s murder.
I was just sixteen when Mom was killed; Maddie twelve. After Dad’s trial and conviction, we went to live with Mom’s older sister, Aunt Aggie. Aunt Aggie did the best she could, butshe was a single mom who barely had enough money for her own kids, much less two new mouths to feed. I got small jobs after school to help out as best I could, like babysitting and dog-walking, but it didn’t make much of a dent in Aunt Aggie’s bills. Even so, she insisted we stay with her, even after I turned eighteen and legally could be on my own.
I’m sure it was difficult, but Aunt Aggie was the best. Things got easier after high school. I could get higher paying part-time jobs while going to college and then law school. Waiting tables. Driving for Uber. I’d even sold my plasma a few times. Not so fun, but it paid pretty well. Suffice it to say, I couldn't at all relate to a man like Damien who could transfer millions in the blink of an eye.
The rest of my Saturday is consumed with coordinating to make sure Damien returns safely and comfortably to his posh mansion in wealthy Beacon Hill and is following all the rules of his release. There he’ll remain under house arrest, but with the kind of sway he has and with Quinn’s finagling, the judge has expanded “house” to loosely mean the entire state of Massachusetts.
Sure, Damien has to wear an ankle bracelet hidden beneath one of his custom-tailored thousand-plus-dollar suits and he surrendered his passport, but I get the feeling that if he wanted to leave the country, that won’t stop him. The man has a fleet of private jets at his disposal. He can be halfway across the world before anyone notices.
Then I spend the evening memorizing the entire arrest file Quinn showed me at the courthouse and reading everything about the Halloween Heiress Murder I can find online. Quinn and Mark are taking the lead on drafting the outline for tomorrow’s client meeting, but I try to be helpful, staying up late to put together additional questions for them to include.
By Sunday morning, I’m running on just a few hours’ sleep—surviving on caffeine and pure adrenaline—as I stepinto the biggest conference room we have at Whitehall & Rowe. Affectionately dubbed the “War Room,” the space is equipped with state-of-the-art technology: a massive, wall-to-wall digital screen dominates one side and discreet speakers and microphones are embedded in the ceiling. Soundproof glass walls ensure complete privacy. A sleek, polished oak table stretches the length of the room, and the gourmet coffee station in the corner is already stocked with the firm’s best espresso beans. It’s a room meant for high-stakes battles; every detail curated for success.
I’m almost thirty minutes early for our meeting, so I’m surprised to see everyone already in their seats at the conference room table. Quinn sits at the head of the table, tapping away on his iPad. Next to him is an empty chair, reserved for the client. On the other side of the empty chair is Mark, leaning back with an air of self-satisfaction. His overpowering cologne—a mix of heavy sandalwood and cheap synthetic musk—floats toward me as I approach, thick enough to choke on.
I notice with annoyance that the rest of the seats closest to the client’s spot are also filled. Holly, Quinn’s secretary, types away on her laptop as if her life depends on it, while Alex, our lead paralegal, sifts through stacks of documents. He’s got a junior paralegal with him that I don’t recognize.
They all look up as I take my seat—at the end of the table, the absolute furthest from the client. Great. Exactly where every ambitious attorney wants to be.
“Nice of you to join us,” Quinn says, a flicker of displeasure on his handsome face.
“I thought we were starting at eight-thirty?” I ask, looking at the clock, confused.
“Eight-thirty?” Quinn repeats, like I’m speaking a different language. “We’ve all been here since six a.m.,finalizing the outline for the client meeting. Blackhollow will be here any minute.”
Mark makes a loud, patronizing clucking sound. “You really should check your email. I sent you the new time hours ago,” he says with a smug expression on his face, looking far too pleased with himself.
I know immediately I’ve been set up. I check my inbox religiously. There was no email from Mark.
“Please try to be on time, James,” Holly says, giving me a dirty look over the top of her laptop. “I know you’re still new at this, but it’s disrespectful to the rest of the team.”
Holly hates me.
The woman is in her late thirties, with a messy, grown-out bob and sharp-winged eyeliner that emphasizes her permanent scowl. She’s built sturdy and practical, like a workhorse, always wearing unflattering floral blouses that are a size too tight around her chest. And she’s hopelessly in love with Quinn, not that he’d ever notice.
“Great advice, Holly,” Mark says, condescension dripping from every word.
Alex, the paralegal, gives me a sympathetic nod. “It’s fine. She’s still learning.”
As much as I want to lay into Mark—and Holly too—I bite my lip and pull out my laptop. I need to redeem myself with Quinn, but being a tattletale isn’t the way to do it. I’m not sure anyone will believe me anyway. Mark, for all his dastardly machinations, has an excellent reputation at the firm and has been here far longer than me.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “Must have missed it.”
“Don’t apologize,” Quinn snaps. “A good attorney never apologizes. Just don’t do it again. And Mark”—he turns to face the senior associate—“next time, send a text. You know emails can be missed in a time crunch.”
Quinn subtly catches my eye, the corners of his lips tipping up, and I can tell he knows Mark is full of shit. But Quinn has to be careful. He can’t be seen taking my side or playing favorites. Quinn is no idiot. He’s heard the rumors about us as well, and I know he doesn’t want to feed into them.
I look down, hiding my own smirk.
The door to the War Room opens right at 8:30 a.m., and the energy inside immediately shifts as Damien Blackhollow strolls in. He’s perfectly dressed, of course, in another dark designer suit that looks like it was made just for him—which I’m sure it was.
