Elena
I don’t even make it to my desk.
The elevator doors slide open, and before I can step off, the receptionist leans out from behind her monitor like she’s been waiting for me. “Elena? Mr. Hart would like to see you right away.”
My jaw tightens.
“Sure,” I say, and my voice is flat enough to iron a shirt. “I’ll drop my bag—”
“He said now.”
Right. Of course he did.
I adjust the strap on my shoulder, swallow a sip of the tea I made in a travel mug, and walk the familiar corridor. Doors, plaques, frosted glass with names etched on them.
I pass my own door and don’t look at the stack of files through the glass. Hart’s office is at the end, corner of course, bigger than anyone else’s, a window that takes in the river, and the slice of ocean if the day is clear. I’ve sat across from that view plenty of times: charging decisions, plea posture, trial prep.
Never like this.
His assistant, Mara, taps her keyboard and looks up at me with a professional expression that doesn’t hide the flicker of something else. Curiosity? Pity? “He’s expecting you,” she says. “Go on in.”
I knock once anyway because, you know, manners.
“Come,” Hart calls evenly, giving away nothing.
I step inside and shut the door behind me. The blinds are half open, the light slicing his diplomas into clean rectangles. A photo on the credenza of him with a senator I recognize, both of them squinting in the sunshine.
“Pennino,” he says, not standing. He gestures to the chair opposite. “Have a seat.”
I don’t, not yet. I take in the second chair and the small, neat stack of folders beside his legal pad. A man who doesn’t leave much to chance. Hart is in his late forties, iron-gray at the temples, tie with a knot so tight it could stop a leak.
He’s the kind of boss who believes in the law and that justice is the most important thing. Usually, I appreciate that.
“Is this a friendly chat, Miles?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral, hands wrapped around my travel mug, because it gives me something to hold. “Or should I call my union rep?”
One of his eyebrows twitches. “Sit, Elena.”
All right then. I sit. I set the mug down on the carpet by my heel, because putting anything on his desk that he hasn't invited feels wrong today.
He flips a page in his pad without looking at it. “How was New York?” he asks, conversational in a way that makes my guard spike. “Did you enjoy the Leone show?”
“Productive,” I say carefully. “Jury selected yesterday. Openings this morning. I’m back here for the rest of the week.”
“Hm.” His mouth flattens into something that isn’t a smile. “Calendar says you were out of office for a medical appointment yesterday morning.”
So much for small talk. “Yes.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, and it’s such an effortless lie I want to kick something. My stomach does that odd swivel that may or may not be about nausea. I press two fingers to my wrist under the table and count to four, then release.
He studies me like I’m a witness who doesn’t know I’ve already impeached myself. “Elena, we’ve worked together long enough that I’ll skip the preamble. I’m going to ask you questions. You’re going to answer them fully and honestly. If you need counsel, say so.”
“If you’re opening a Garrity interview, Miles, you need to say those words.” I’m referring to an interview conducted with public employees. Garrity rights are like Miranda rights for public employees. “Last I checked, rumors aren’t predicate.”
“Not Garrity,” he says, deadpan. “Not yet. Administrative. Internal.” He taps the legal pad with his pen, a steady click. “Do you have any sort of personal relationship with any member of the Conti family?”
My mouth goes cotton-dry. I feel the moment like a camera flash: I’m a deer; the brush is suddenly quiet. The air tastes metallic.
