Chapter 33
Allison
I set down the draft and turn to Aaron Starks. “This is excellent work,” I tell him. “You almost have me convinced the court should dismiss the congressman’s charges.”
He seems to appreciate the praise, as best as you can read him.
Even after spending a lot of time with Viv and me, Aaron still elevates “reserved” to an art form.
I’ve scarcely seen him smile in the month that he’s done work for me.
And here he is, staying well past work hours, but still wearing his suit coat, tie still pinching his collar, as we sit in my office eating dinner.
“It’s not often we see partners working these kinds of hours around here,” he says. “You do it every night.”
“We’re in sprint mode now.” I dump the dressing into my salad, close the lid, and shake it up. “We’re down to, what, fifty-four days? Today’s the eighteenth? Or is it the nineteenth?”
“Wednesday, March eighteenth,” he says. “The year is 2026, by the way.”
I laugh. The days are blurring together.
I’ve been working round the clock. But it’s not like there’s anything at home for me.
I doubt Finley’s even there. He’s probably out with his buddies or screwing some woman, Trinity or who knows who else.
With my leaving him alone every night, he’s been given a complete hall pass. No need to invent excuses.
When the congressman’s trial is over, I remind myself. Six months from today, tops. Then I’ll be ready to cut the cord and deal with the drama.
Aaron turns to me. “You really don’t think we’ll win the motion to dismiss the superseding indictment?” he asks. “I like our argument.”
“Oh, no. The judge will give the government a chance to prove the quid pro quo by inference, circumstantially. That’s what I’d do if I were the judge.” I wave a hand. “Maybe there’s too much of the former prosecutor left in me.”
He leans back in his seat. “ ‘The day we accept graft as just the cost of doing business, as just politics, is the day we start to give our country away, bribe by bribe, favor by favor.’ ”
I draw back. “Are you quoting—”
He raises a finger, shushing me. “ ‘This isn’t their government. It’s your government. Take it back today with your verdict.’ Rebuttal doesn’t get any better than that.”
I feel color spread across my face. He must have read my closing argument when I prosecuted Senator Bridges. “What, you found the transcript online?”
“I was there,” he says.
“You—you were at the trial?”
“Yeah, in the ceremonial courtroom. Standing room only. I was a first-year in the D.C. branch at the time. But I was in Chicago. I finagled one of the tickets our firm had. I got chills listening to you. People say prosecutors have to be sober. Just-the-facts. But that was more than just the facts. That was emotional.” He makes a fist. “That was…inspirational.”
I look away, instinctively ready to deflect praise, as I was raised to do, as I’m programmed to do. But I can’t stifle the heat rising within me, as if someone dialed up my internal thermometer.
“That day,” he says, “I promised myself that I would be as good a lawyer as you. I never dreamed I’d get a chance to work with you.”
Our eyes meet. It’s supposed to be a quick, inadvertent glance. Instead it lingers, stretches. A beat too long. Then another. My breath slips, shallow in my chest. He doesn’t look away. I don’t, either.
The room feels suddenly smaller.
He shifts in his chair, slow, deliberate, as though he’s giving me every chance to stop him.
A subtle lean across the table. The soft catch of his breath.
And then he tilts toward me, close enough that I can feel his warmth over the scattered documents, close enough that the world outside our little glass box disappears.
For a moment—God help me—I lean in, too.
I let the possibility wash over me, warm and dangerous. His mouth inches closer, the air between us charged, my pulse knocking at my throat. I haven’t felt wanted like this in…I can’t remember how long.
Then something inside me lurches.
I pull back, abruptly enough that the chair legs scrape the carpet. “I…can’t.” My voice comes out low, strained.
He freezes, eyes searching mine, not pushing, not angry. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“No, Aaron—I’m as much to blame as you.” I bring my hands to my face. “Jesus.”
“That was totally inappropriate of me,” he says. “For many reasons.”
Not many reasons. Lord knows, it would not be the first dalliance between colleagues at this law firm, which will basically turn a blind eye to interoffice romance as long as both parties are happy and the money keeps flowing.
But one reason above all others: I am married. I am not Finley. I will respect that bond, even if I am the only one, even if it’s a marriage in name only.
It’s been nine months since I first learned of Finley’s cheating.
Two months since I saw him with Trinity.
I have let it simmer below the surface, stalling for various reasons—Grayson, our short-lived reconciliation after his knee injury, the Childress trial.
I’ve let it fade to a dull ache. Maybe it took a moment like this, a split second of near surrender, to slap me in the face.
It’s close to ten o’clock when Finley saunters in through the mudroom. I’m sitting on the couch in the family room nursing a glass of wine. My feelings have had hours to fester. The notion of spending even one more night under the same roof with him now feels intolerable.
He startles when he sees me. “Oh—I didn’t know you’d be home.”
“Out playing cards?” I ask. “Wednesday night is poker night, right?”
He senses something’s off and doesn’t know how to react. “I should shower, get this cigar smell—”
“I don’t smell cigar,” I say. I get off the couch and approach him, lift my head and sniff. “I smell cheap perfume. You didn’t expect me home, so you didn’t try to hide her scent.”
“What? Whose scent?” he says, though his voice is weak, pitch too high.
“You tell me, Fin. How many mistresses do you have? Have you brought back Anna Cortese out of retirement?”
“I…” He tries to look confused, but his expression reads panic. “Where’s this coming—”
“God, you are such a coward.” I throw up my hands. “Doesn’t it get tiring?”
“Hang on, babe—”
“I’m not your babe,” I say. “And I’m not your wife anymore, either. Get out, Fin. Pack a bag and get the fuck out.”