Alone in my office, I quickly busy myself with writing up the proposal to present to the higher-ups regarding Winston’s case. Missy’s boyfriend has to know by now that the writing is on the wall. When the phone rings, I’ve nearly finished, but it doesn’t matter.
It’s Carl, Winston’s lawyer. He already handed over his girlfriend and confessed everything. “Get the testimony and I’ll sign off on everything then present it to the judge tomorrow.”
The asymmetric smile on my lips grows to a full-on grin. I’ll take my win however I can get it.
Hanging up the phone and relaxing into my chair, I check my cell phone. I’ve never wanted to share my victories before. Not even with my sister. She doesn’t like to hear the details and it’s impossible for me not to give them. But right now, I want to tell Cody. I know he’d get it. He’d understand the high of nailing both of them—that’s real justice. But he’d also get the draining feeling after the adrenaline dissipates. When it all comes down and the next case hits my desk.
Dropping the phone to my desk on a stack of folders, I opt for a glass of wine from the mini fridge of my office. The small door opens and reveals there’s not a damn thing in it but a half-eaten sandwich that I should probably throw out and a nearly empty bottle. I can’t believe I left that small of an amount in it. It’s maybe a quarter of a glass, if that.
Well damn, I think with pursed lips and kick the door to the fridge shut with a gentle nudge, the bottle in hand.
I pour it all out into a clean mug from my desk that’s supposed to be used for coffee and boasts some company’s logo on it. The sip is sweet and I savor it. Letting my eyes close for a minute, the moment they open I stare at my phone.
I can put away murderers and pit lovers against each other… but I can’t text a man I’m sleeping with. A ridiculous huff forces me to shake my head and I down the last bit of wine; it’s practically a shot.
I check our messages.
There are no new texts from him. We last spoke when he called two days ago and it was a quick conversation, but still, he called. He made that move. He showed he was interested. My inner voice tsks that I’m trying to make a pros and cons list in my head rather than having the balls to just message the man.
I could text him. I could tell him how proud I am that I got a conviction without having to rely on a fickle jury for a guilty verdict.
Still, I hesitate for one reason. I’ve never leaned on anyone before, simply because I don’t want to. I don’t want to get in the habit of having someone there, only for them to leave one day.
I’m already a little too close. A little too eager.
A knock at my door shuts down my thoughts and I set my phone aside once and for all, facedown before slipping my heels back on and answering it.
It’s late now; most of the people in the office should be gone. Nearly everyone left at 6:00 for a celebratory drink I turned down to work on this plea deal. The door opens with a click as I ask, “yes?”
To no one.
No one is there and as I lean out of my office, checking left and then right down the empty hall, the chill comes back, that prickling along my neck which then flows down my arms.
It’s as I’m closing the door that I see the note.
At least I think it’s a note. I’m quick to pick it up and even quicker to close the door and then lock it. The freezing cold runs through me and it’s followed by confusion as I turn over the thick rectangular white paper, finding it to be blank.
What?
Swallowing thickly, my throat dry and a nervous heat coursing through me, I stare at the closed door, wondering what the hell is going on and finding myself more anxious or nervous or possibly even scared than I’d like to be.
“It’s only a piece of paper,” I chide myself out loud and move to toss it in the trash can along with the empty bottle of wine, but as I slip my fingers down it to throw it away, I feel a groove in the paper, an etching along the crisp page.
It takes me a moment of standing there alone in my office as the sun sets deep and low, stealing the lighter colors of the evening sunset with it, before I reach into my desk for the only pencil I have. I’m careful as I angle the tip along the one groove I feel. I follow it along the paper, listening to the ticking clock seemingly slowing down as my heartbeat picks up and I read what it says.