The words crumble into sobs.Tears streak down my cheeks as my mom pulls me into her arms.I bury my face against her shoulder.
“I don’t love him,” I whisper.“But the guilt is eating me alive, Mom.My heart’s such a mess right now.”
She strokes my hair and keeps patting my back, her warmth steady and patient.The scent of her shampoo swirls to my nose, reminding me how much I’ve missed her.And for a moment, I’m just a little girl again, lost and clueless about the world.
“You do you,” she murmurs.“Focus on your own happiness first.”Her voice is soft, and the room is finally quiet again.
18
Desperate Measure
Laird
Iwalk further into the building, passing wooden doors along the corridor.I stop at the end of the dead-end hallway.Doubt freezes my hand midair.Am I really gonna do this?Is this the right thing?
I weigh my decision.Come on, I’ve made it this far.It’d be ridiculous to turn back now just because of old grudges.I should finish this fast.
I clear my throat, summoning the courage to knock on the enemy’s door.I wait, fidgeting with my tie, rolling my shoulders.My forehead tightens when nobody answers.
The receptionist said Prosecutor Golden’s confirmed to be in.He’s really back working for the New York DA’s office instead of the feds.Then why isn’t he answering my call?I knock three more times, just to be sure.
“Go away, Evans!”
That harsh, gravelly voice from inside makes me snort.I glance up at the tiny CCTV camera above the door, watching me.Instead of leaving, I lean closer, both hands on the frame.
“This is about Alan Schmidt,” I say to the closed door.
Silence.For a few seconds, nothing.When I lift my hand to knock again, the door swings open.
Prosecutor Golden stands there, eyes sharp, mouth pulled in a scowl.“If you’re here to whine about that scandal, go to the shrink.”
“I want you to arrest him.”My tone is steady, deliberate.
He raises a brow.We stare each other down until he steps back and gives me room to enter.
His office isn’t big, but it’s enough.There’s a long conference table, a few chairs, and three assistant desks.At the far end sits a large black wooden desk with a small nameplate—Assistant District Attorney Golden.
Piles of documents and boxes clutter the floor.Metal cabinets line the wall.The smell of stale coffee hits me—God, I know that scent.
The chaos of criminal cases used to fill this place like background noise.Those midnight hours from my college internship flood back, hitting me with a reminder of why I shouldn’t have dragged this law career any further.
“I don’t have coffee for you,” he says flatly.
“That’s fine.Mind if I sit?”
“Whatever.”He shrugs.
He sits across from me at the table, gaze sharp and probing.I don’t flinch.This time, I have to face my demon and make it my weapon.
“I see your assistants have gone home.”
“I only have one.And he’s in Andover with your hiredsnitch.”His voice drips with sarcasm.
“Oh, come on.He’s your former assistant.Don’t call him that.”I let out a quiet laugh.
“I’ll call people whatever I damn please.If you don’t like it, leave.”His thumb flicks toward the door.
“I thought you’d be interested in working with me, about Alan Schmidt.”
