Page 51 of Motion to Dismiss

“Then count your days.”

“I’m the last person you want to threaten, Mr. Hunter.” I adjust my cuff. “I know where all the bodies are buried.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“Then I’ll just call the police and tell them I smelled something strange near one of the old wells on your estate.”

His expression shifts from rage to concern.

“There it is.” I smile. “The question isn’t ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ It’s ‘Why is there a conflict of interest?’”

“There isn’t one,” he hisses. “You’re dropping me because you’re chicken shit and scared that you might have to put in extra work to keep your winning record.”

“No, I just added a new policy to my firm regarding the type of clients we take.” I adjust my tie. “But in your case, it doesn’t really apply. The real conflict is me dating your daughter.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, that’s incorrect.” I glance at my watch. “It’s being in love with your daughter—the one you don’t seem to care for. Highly inappropriate and a very long story, but I have a flight to catch to see her, so…”

I hand him my briefcase.

“Every password to every file I have on you is in there.” I take a step back. “And there’s no need to attempt to kill me. I can’t say a bad word about you, and since I’m still the best fucking lawyer I know, I’m also forever bound by attorney-client privilege.”

LAPSE (V.):

TO FAIL TO OCCUR, PARTICULARLY A GIFT MADE IN A WILL.

SCARLETT

I’m going to choke onstage tonight.

I can feel it.

The opening nights and previews were filled with people who naturally loved theater—aspiring actors, devoted fans, and critics who wanted the show to succeed.

Tonight is different.

The people in the crowd are all new, all foreign. There are two busloads of high school students in the balcony, and I can already feel them preparing to hate this.

All the progress I’ve made over the past few months feels like it’s slipping away, and I’m tempted to tell the understudy to get dressed before the curtain goes up.

Calm down, Scarlett. Calm down.

It’s not working.

I slip into my dressing room and stare at my costume hanging on the wall.

Grabbing it, I hold it against my chest and challenge myself to say my first line.

“There’s nothing like falling in…” I stutter. “There’s nothing like…”

The rest of the sentence stalls on my lips.

“Four hours until showtime, everybody!” the director yells from the other side of my door. “Let’s make tonight count!”

My stomach twists.

I pick up my phone and start to call my mother, but she’s at a spa, getting ready for her debut in the front row.