My mouth goes dry. “What did you say?”
She shrugs. “That you’re smarter than any of the men here, and that if you wanted to fuck your way to the top, you’d already be running the place.”
My cheeks flare red. “Eliza, please, that’s so blunt!”
She holds up a hand. “No judgment, Marn. But you need to be careful because Jenkins is like a Komodo dragon—she’ll watch you for weeks before she bites, but then it’s fatal. And now she’s onto you.”
I nod, trying to process. “Thank you,” I manage. “Really.”
“Anytime,” she says, then squeezes my arm and saunters away, leaving me with a fog of adrenaline and a stack of documents I can barely hold.
I’m reeling. The sex is one thing, an island in time, safe and perfect and outside of reality. But this is the opposite: every mistake is on display, and there are people whose entire job is to catch them. Still, what would Ms. Jenkins do? Fire me? Fire Brent and James? They’re partners here at the firm. Name partners, even. But I know there are other attorneys too, and that they aren’t the only ones in leadership positions. Shit.
I pull myself together, hug the documents to my chest, and head for the stairs—no way am I taking the elevators when the sharks are circling.
That’s when I run into Walter Hoffman.
He’s blocking the doorway at the top of the stairs, all six feet two and seventy years of old money and bad attitude. His suit is perfect, his shoes shined to a blinding gleam, but his face is a map of disappointment. He’s the only living relic from the Carter and Hughes era, the kind of lawyer who still refuses to use a computer, and keeps a cigar in his breast pocket, even though you haven’t been able to smoke in this building since 2009.
“Miss Williams,” he says, voice soft as a threat. “A word?”
I don’t have a choice. I nod and follow as he leads me to a tiny alcove off the main corridor. There’s a bench, a potted fern, and a print of the skyline that’s hung here since the firm opened.
Walter sits. He doesn’t offer me a seat.
“I understand you’ve been accessing old case files,” he says, voice low.
I grip my files tighter, every instinct screaming at me to run. “It’s part of my assignment for Mr. Grant,” I say, careful to keep my tone even. “He asked me to review the Levenson matter.”
Walter smiles, thin and cold. “And in the process, you found your father’s case.”
How did he know about Stanley? Oh shit, I’ve been talking to too many people, and it’s my own fault. Shit shit shit, I’ve been such a dumbass! But it’s too late, so I have to answer. “It came up in the cross-references, yes.”
He studies me, eyes like a lizard. “That case is long settled. There is nothing left to learn from it.”
I blink, trying not to show fear. “That’s not what Mr. Grant said.”
Walter’s smile grows. “Mr. Grant has a way of making things complicated.” He leans forward, hands steepled. “Let me be clear, Miss Williams. Unauthorized access to confidential files is grounds for immediate termination. Do you understand?”
My jaw locks. “I was authorized. Bybothnamepartners.”
He tilts his head, almost pitying. “And do you think that will save you when the State Bar reviews your actions? Do you think the partnership will risk the reputation of this firm for a paralegal with a personal agenda?”
My hands tremble, but I force them still. “I’m just doing my job. Besides, I’m a paralegal. I don’t have a license to practice law, so I don’t know why the bar would even be interested in me.”
He stands, blocking the exit. His voice is a whisper. “Yes, but do youwantto be a lawyer one day? They can always refuse to bar you, you know. So take care, Miss Williams. You’re not your father, so don’t make the same mistakes he did.”
What the fuck? Has this dude been watching too many bad detective movies? This is almost comedically atrocious. Nonetheless, the old man smiles, his teeth gross and brown. “Enjoy your afternoon.”
I walk past him, numb, not sure if I want to laugh or cry. Down the hall, the laughter and chatter of the office goes on as if nothing has changed.
But everything has.
I don’t go back to my desk. I duck into the third-floor ladies’ room and lock myself in a stall, chest heaving. The files dig into my ribs where I’m clutching them, and for a second I hate everything—the suspicion, my co-workers, the firm, and even my own body for making me so visible.
But then the hate burns off, and what’s left is something hard and bright.
I wipe my face, smooth my skirt, and check the hallway before leaving.
