Page 8 of Salem's Fall
He doesn’t rush to sit but looks around the room with cold, calm arrogance. His presence creates a disturbance in the air. The man commands attention without even trying. It’s like nothing I’ve ever been around before, and I’ve been around some heavy hitters. At Harvard, I was surrounded by brilliant, pretentious classmates and esteemed professors who thought they ran the world. Now, at the firm, we have power players dropping in daily—mayors, governors, even the occasional senator, like Quinn’s father.
Damien’s gaze lingers on me a fraction too long, a quiet intensity that makes my pulse stutter. Then he strides past Quinn, Mark, Holly, and even the paralegals before finally taking the empty seat beside me. Mark’s expression tightens, and it’s all I can do not to flip him the finger and gloat.
“Shall we begin?” Damien asks, his voice smooth.
Quinn nods, clearing his throat and glancing at his meeting outline on his iPad. As he dives in, I pull up my copy on my laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard as I take copious notes.
“We’d like to start by reviewing the charges and hearing your side of the story so we can build your defense,” Quinn says. “I know we briefly went over attorney-client privilege atour first meeting at the county jail. You understand how that works, yes?”
“I say whatever I want. You keep your mouth shut.” Damien grins. “That pretty much sum it up?”
Silence stretches for a beat. No reaction from Quinn—not a smirk, not a glare, nothing. Just the steady calm he wears like armor.
“We have your arrest file and some preliminary discovery from the prosecution,” Quinn says, pointing to the stack of folders in front of him. “But it’s incomplete. We’ll work on getting more from the DA’s office.”
Damien leans back, exuding confidence. “What exactly do they think they have on me?”
“The prosecution is focusing heavily on the ritualistic elements of the crime.” Quinn signals to Alex to begin distributing the crime scene photos to the team. Alex moves methodically, sliding each glossy image across the table. “I’m sorry, this will be graphic, but we have to get all the facts.”
“I understand,” Damien says.
“Your fiancée’s body was found on the grounds of your Beacon Hill estate,” Quinn says. “The reports state that her body was mutilated. Ms. Van Buren had multiple deep lacerations across her body, carved in such a way that investigators believe they were intentional symbols—symbols tied to occult rituals.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat as the photos make their way around the table and land in front of me. I’ve already read all the public details available, but the pictures from the DA’s files are far more horrifying than any images my mind could conjure up.
That poor woman…
The crime scene is filled with symbols. Vivienne Van Buren’s slaughtered body is marked from head to toe—intricate designs etched onto her skin—while the same ominouspatterns stain the floor and walls, drawn in her fresh blood. The symbols are intricate, twisted, with no clear meaning. At least, not one that anyone can easily ascertain. Every amateur sleuth and true crime podcaster from Boston to the Berkshires who’s been covering the case since last fall is convinced the symbols prove this isn’t just a crime of passion or domestic dispute. They believe it points to something far darker.
“We’ll have to be very careful with the media. They’ll be ruthless,” Mark says, leaning forward, almost eagerly. “They’re going to milk the occult angle for all it’s worth, especially with the murder taking place so close to Salem’s Fall and Halloween right around the corner.”
Damien doesn’t flinch as he looks at the photos. He eyes the images of his dead, brutalized fiancée with the same level of interest someone might have scrolling through their Instagram feed.
“We’ll need to address your alibi,” Quinn says to Damien, pressing on. “The prosecution will argue for more than just a crime of passion due to the…severe nature… of the killing.” He swallows hard. “They’re going to try to prove premeditation. They’ll say it takes time to make marks like that on a body. Lots of time to think while cutting. But if we can establish a clear timeline and alibi, we might be able to discredit their case.”
Damien smiles, but there’s nothing warm about it.
“My alibi is simple,” he says. “I was at the All Hallows Gala, like I am every year. Blackhollow Industries is the biggest donor to the New England Historical and Cultural Heritage Museum. Vivienne got sick that night—bad case of stomach poisoning. She stayed in.”
“That’s good.” Mark, the suck-up, nods along approvingly. “Very good.”
Quinn, however, looks suspicious.
“I was there that night, Blackhollow,” he says. “I don’trecall seeing you after the band came on around eight p.m., and the coroner is estimating the murder took place shortly before midnight.”
“Gee, Quinn, I didn’t realize you were keeping such close tabs on me,” Damien says, lifting a dark brow.
Quinn ignores the jab. “Can anyone attest to your attendance at the Gala closer to the actual time of the murder?”
“Of course. I had company later that night.” Damien’s smile sharpens. “There was a woman. Blonde. Gorgeous. She was… enthusiastic.”
I gasp, fingers pausing over my keyboard, unable to hold in my shock and disgust. “You were with another woman just hours before your fiancée’s murder?”
Quinn shoots me a silencing look across the table. I freeze.
Shit.
I can tell I’m in trouble. I’m just a junior associate. I’m not supposed to speak much at these client meetings, and I’m definitely not supposed to chastise the client, but seriously? How gross can you get?
