The feeling doesn’t go away.
This is my space. Where Dylan the skeptic works while Alex the mystic burns sage at home.
I toss the folders down on the nearest table and get to work.
Alone.
Usually Amber would take half. We’d divide the boxes, work separate tables, finish by midnight.
Now it’s just me and however long this takes.
And one more year assumes so much.
Assumes I’ll pass the bar on the first try.
Assumes Dom won’t find another way to trap me here—another NDA, another opportunity that’s really just golden handcuffs.
What if one year becomes two? Three? What if I look up one day and I’m Dom’s age, still here, still organizing files for guilty men?
Discovery documents stacked against the far wall. Crime scene photos. Witness statements. Chain of custody logs. Exhibit tags. All of it needs to be organized chronologically, cross-referenced, indexed.
Trial deaths. Twenty-three people who signed up for a drug trial and never came home. Parents, children, someone’s bestfriend. They trusted the system would tell the truth if something went sideways.
They were wrong.
And I’m organizing the documents that will help the man who killed them walk free.
Somewhere, families are still waiting. Still hoping. Still searching for answers that are sitting in these boxes.
I’m burying them.
This is what paralegals do. We organize the evidence. Create the timelines. Find the inconsistencies that create reasonable doubt. We don’t judge—we just make sure the lawyers have what they need.
Except I am judging. I have been for months.
Alex would ask me if this is who I want to be.
It’s a question I try not to think about because we both already know the answer.
I pull the first box toward me.
The fluorescent lights buzz. They’ve always buzzed, but down here the sound fills every corner.
I organize documents into chronological order. Tag exhibits. Create witness folders.
Somewhere above me, pipes clank. Old building, old pipes.
Another clank. Louder this time. Closer.
I don’t look up.
I’m halfway through the second box when footsteps echo behind me.
I look up.
Dom appears with a bag from Sang Kee.
“Pad see ew.” He sets it on the table. “Mango boba.” He places the drink beside it.
