Page 34
I answer honestly, “Because I wanted to be.”
Phoenix looks at me with a wariness that makes me want to wrap her in my arms. “You should go. I don’t have the capacity to deal with you. You don’t get to come into my life, with my people, after what you did. This”—she points around to the party—“is mine. You don’t deserve access here.”
She says it quietly, but there’s nothing uncertain about it.
I nod once, forcing the lump in my throat down. “Alright.”
I’m not going to push. Not here. I step back, giving her the space she clearly wants—but not before I catch it: fingers pressed briefly to her temple, like she’s holding something in place. The rough edge in her exhale. She’s been pale all night.
“You okay?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
Her eyes flick up to mine, and for a second it feels like being cross-examined.
“I’m fine.”
It’s immediate, an automatic response. I almost let it go—then she coughs. Once. Small. Muffled behind her hand a beat too late.
“Right,” I say, because she’s already done with the conversation.
I don’t push, but I see it. The tension in her shoulders, the exhaustion in her eyes. I step back another pace, noting these symptoms. I have been filing things about Phoenix away for months and I am not going to stop now.
“Goodnight, Phoenix,” I force out.
She nods, already turning away, already moving on like I’m no longer part of the equation.
I don’t leave right away, watching long enough to see her reach for her drink and stop halfway, like she forgot what she was doing. She shakes her head subtly and heads to the table for a refill.
I’m not surprised when she reaches for the Atlas Cabernet—the one she orders after brutal court days and mediation hearings that leave her grinding her teeth in her sleep.
Her eyes flick briefly toward me, and I look away first.
As I watch her rejoin her friends, I think about the report sitting in Cassandra’s files with Lena Castellanos’s name and my signature at the bottom. I gave Cassandra the information. I told myself it was procedural, necessary for my purpose at Cascadia. I didn’t ask what she was going to do with it, and that omission cost me.
I made a defensible call. I told myself I was protecting the firm, but that justification feels thinner every time I look at Phoenix.
As I turn to leave, Sam and Jared materialize, as if it were a coordinated execution. They walk with me toward my car.
Jared leans toward Sam slightly. “We cannot be seen doing this. The girls will actually murder us.”
“It’s not like we’re helping him,” Sam mutters.
“You’re right,” Jared agrees. “We’re … assessing him.”
“Yup, we’re not doing anything,” Sam says evenly. “We’re walking to the cooler.”
“The cooler is in the other direction,” Jared mutters.
“Jared,” Sam corrects sharply.
“Right. Walking.” He continues on his mission beside me.
I unlock my car, choosing not to point out that neither one of them are good at covert ops. “Thanks for having me.”
Sam stops, carefully choosing his next words. “Wednesday nights, at a place called The Summit, we do a cornhole league,” he says. “Starts at seven. Can’t stop someone from showing up to a public bar.”
I look at him, confused. “Why are you telling me this?”
Sam considers this for a moment. “You know what the difference is between a man who’s actually sorry and one who just wants everyone to stop being pissed at him?”
