She didn’t know I’d never met my parents. Didn’t know my last name came from a system, not a family. A label assigned to make paperwork easier for someone who didn’t plan on keeping me around long enough for it to matter.
She had no idea the closest thing I’d ever had to a home was a foster house in a run-down part of town—a place where broken kids went when no one wanted to deal with them anymore. A foster father who communicated through closed fists, and a foster mother whose coping strategy was measured in empty bottles.
Valentina didn’t know that she, with her pretty smile, reckless mouth, and her tendency to drown her problems in liquor, reminded me of her.
And I hated Valentina a little more every time she reminded me of how helpless I’d been back then, because it meant I was still helpless now.
“Why does it matter?”
She smirked again. “I was just curious. You don’t look the part.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The part?”
She gestured lazily. “Black hair, blue eyes. Too American.”
She was right. I didn’t look the part. I didn’t bother to explain myself.
The room went quiet. Valentina didn’t seem to mind. She leaned back in her chair, flipping through one of the case files on my desk, her eyes skimming the words as if she actually gave a shit.
I watched her carefully, wondering if she even understood half of what she was reading, or if she was just flipping through pages to irritate me. Probably the latter. Valentina wasn’t the type to admit ignorance, even when it was obvious. It was part of her charm—or annoyance, depending on the day.
She paused at a page, her brow pinching slightly as she pretended to study the notes scribbled in the margin. She turned a page, humming slightly.
“This guy’s totally guilty.”
I glanced at the file in her hands. “Doesn’t matter.”
She looked up, brows raised. “It should.”
“My job isn’t to care if someone’s guilty, Valentina. My job is to defend them.”
She scoffed dramatically. “It’s wrong.”
“I defend you, don’t I?” I finally looked up at her. “You’re not exactly innocent.”
She sat up straighter, crossing her arms. “I’m not a criminal.”
“You lie.”
“That’s not a crime.”
I cocked my head. “Depends on who you’re lying to.”
She narrowed her eyes, clearly not liking that. “I lie, and you defend me.”
I called her out for lying, implying her deception was something to be judged. If I truly believed morality was irrelevant in my line of work, then I wouldn’t hold her lies against her.
“Guess that makes me a hypocrite.”
Valentina didn’t argue. She turned back to the file, flipping it open again as if I hadn’t just called her out.
A lie by omission. The worst kind. The kind she thought I wouldn’t notice.
I let it go. For now.
The office settled into silence, the only sound the faint scratch of pages turning as she skimmed my case notes, occasionally scoffing at something she read, probably just to irritate me. I didn’t react. Didn’t give her the satisfaction.
But I watched her.
