Don’t say: I can’t lose this, too.
He watches me realize the edge I’m standing on and continues. “If there’s something else going on,” he says, gentler now. “If you need time, or— El, are you okay?”
The nickname makes a muscle jump in my jaw. Only my mother called me that without consequences. I choose a point on the grain of his desk and fix my eyes there until the urge to punch and cry thins into something manageable.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll do arraignments.”
“Good.” He nods once, slides a sheet across. “Administration needs you to sign this acknowledgment of reassignment.”
There’s a space for my name. The letters look foreign. I pick up his pen because not taking it would be theater, and I don’t havethe energy for more drama. My hand stays steady as I sign. The ink sinks into the paper.
He takes the sheet back, clips it atop the folder. “I’ll inform the court. I’ll call Roberto Conti.” His mouth twists around the name. “Keating will get you the briefing book for arraignments. Take the rest of the morning. Clear your desk of the Conti binders. Turn over your notes.”
“Some of those are my personal thought process,” I say automatically. “Deliberative.”
“Anything material to the government’s case goes to the government,” he counters, and we’re both back on professional talk because it’s safer. “If there’s attorney work product you think needs to remain segregated, flag it for me. I’ll review.”
“You’ll redact my mind for me,” I say, and the bitterness is back, ugly and real.
“Elena,” he says, the warning embedded.
I stand. The chair leg squeaks against the carpet, and that tiny vulgar sound satisfies me somehow. I reach down, snag my travel mug by the handle.
He stands too, because optics matter even when not in the public eye. “This doesn’t have to be adversarial,” he says, softening his words like we’re colleagues, like we’re friends. “You can be angry at me. That’s fine. But keep your eyes on the ball.”
“The ball,” I repeat, because if I don’t echo, I will say a different word—baby—and the room will explode. “Right.”
We stare at each other two seconds longer than is merely professional. Then I nod once and turn toward the door.
“Elena,” he says, before I reach the handle.
I stop but don’t turn.
“If there is something,” he says, choosing each word like it’s glass he doesn’t want to break. “Tell me before someone else does.”
My hand tightens around the mug so hard the plastic creaks. “Duly noted,” I say, and walk out.
I drive without remembering any of the turns.
The courthouse and its clean glass edges drop into the rearview like a mirage. The radio’s on a station I don’t recognize, then off because I can’t bear anyone else’s voice.
My phone keeps lighting up in the console with notifications I don’t check—calendar placeholders, an email from Keating with “Arraignments” in the subject line, a text from a number I’vealready saved under a different name because the right one isn’t allowed.
Luca:7 tonight?
I stare at the bubble until the light times out. I should type yes. I should let the softness from last night soak me again, let it dull the sharp corners of the day. Instead, I thumb out the two words that feel like a mouthful of glass.
Rain check.
Three dots blink. Then:What happened?
I put the phone facedown. The steering wheel is too hot under my palms. The whole world is too loud and too bright, and I can’t make my thoughts line up. My pulse is a staccato, high and fast, like it’s trying to keep up with something.
The next text comes a minute later.
Talk to me.
I type, delete, type again, delete again. Then:Not tonight. I need to sleep.
