Chapter 2
Lumps of Coal
Idragged my body through the glass doors of Bartlett it carried a strange, hollow resonance that seemed to echo even with the conference room’s acoustic panels. Had the lights dimmed? Was that frost forming on the windows?
Mrs. Weston’s mouth opened and closed like a disoriented fish.
Mr. Weston’s face had gone an alarming shade of purple. “Who exactly do you think—”
“Ms. North.” Bartlett’s eyebrows arched so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline as he stood and nodded to the door. “A word.”
I blinked, the spell suddenly broken. Holy shit. Holy actual shit. Had I just said that out loud? To clients?
I forced out a laugh that sounded like I was being strangled. “Sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Following Bartlett out of the room felt like following the executioner to the guillotine. The door shut behind us with an ominous click.
“Ms. North.” His voice was the carefully neutral tone of someone deciding whether to fire me on the spot or wait until after the holiday bonus payouts. “While I appreciate your... passionate advocacy, perhaps save it for your own future clients once you pass the bar.”
Ouch. Did he really need to throw my inability to pass that damned test right in my face?
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Bartlett. I don’t know what came over me.
Sleep deprivation and...” I flailed my hands uselessly in the air, searching for any explanation that wouldn’t sound completely unhinged.
“Maybe low blood sugar? Or a temporary psychotic break? I’ve never…
I would never…” My voice cracked embarrassingly as I watched his face remain perfectly impassive, like he was examining a disappointing legal brief.
“I can go apologize right now. Or draft a formal letter? Or do you want me to clean out my desk immediately?”
“Take the rest of the day. You look unwell.” He didn’t wait for my response before striding back into the conference room.
I closed my door behind me and pressed my back to it, keys slipping from my fingers. My chest heaved like I’d outrun something, but the only thing chasing me was my own damn reaction.
Smart move, heart. I’d run from me too right now.
Every memory from the conference room replayed in my mind with excruciating, high-definition clarity. The look of shock on Mrs. Weston’s face. How my voice had shifted into something that didn’t even sound like me. The way the windows had frosted over in eighty-degree Palm Springs weather.
I peeled myself off the door and stumbled into my bedroom, ripping off my pencil skirt and blouse like they were burning my skin. After rummaging through my drawers, I pulled on black shorts and an oversized T-shirt.
My house felt wrong somehow. The walls seemed to pulse inward, like they were slowly constricting around me. The air felt thick and unbreathable.
I needed to get out. Now.
Grabbing my phone from my purse and my keys from the floor where I’d dropped them, I bolted outside.
The sun hit my face, a physical sensation I could latch onto. The sun was real. The sun was hot. The sun made sense. Unlike whatever the hell was happening to me.
My feet carried me down the sidewalk, past the manicured desert landscaping of my neighborhood. Each step on solid ground should have helped, but the buzzing under my skin only intensified as I moved. The sun that had initially felt grounding now seemed to press down, heavy and oppressive.