Chapter 1
One
Twilight.
Magic awakens at twilight.
That’s what Alex says, anyway, and I’ve learned not to argue when she gets that look—half mystic, half scientist, all certainty.
But I get it now. Not the magic part—though maybe. Twilight is the only hour of my day where I’m not thinking about the stacks or NDAs or cases. Not the lie about my dad or the bar exam or the creeping feeling that I’ve signed my life away for a job I’m not sure I want anymore.
This is the only time I let myself stop moving.
Maybe that’s the magic Alex is always talking about.
The ritual. Our ritual.
Every night, we step onto the terrace of our loft with a bottle of wine, a blanket, and straws we’ve constructed from ones stolen from her dad’s restaurant.
Alex started it. The straw thing. Said it was more fun to commit petty crimes together. I said it was weird. Now I can’t drink wine without one.
Plus, is it really a petty crime if we’re stealing from her parents?
I step onto the terrace as the last light sinks below the horizon. The stars are just coming out above the city.
Then Alex slurps her wine.
So much for the magic of twilight.
“You know,” she says, lifting the straw from her rosé, “eventually it’ll be too cold to step out here.”
“We have blankets.” I tug my own around me tighter, then my hat down over my ears. “And wine. Wine will keep us warm.”
Alex settles beside me on the lounger. The wind whips through the space, scattering our forgotten herbs around the terrace and breaking them off.
“I should bring them inside,” Alex says, not moving. “They’re dying.”
“They’re already dead, babe.”
“Still.” She touches a brittle stem. “Feels wrong to leave them.”
She’s still trying to save them. Even now.
That’s Alex.
I don’t know why that thought makes my chest hurt.
She snuggles in close. Letting the quiet settle over us.
I memorize this for the future—when we’re both married, when kids or chaos replace this quiet.
How she breathes beside me. The way her head fits on my shoulder, her obnoxiously long hair getting in my face every time the wind picks up.
The way she slurps through her straw.
Alex twitches, unable to bear the silence anymore. She turns to face me, sweater falling over one shoulder, a smile stretching across her face. “Alright, you have had at least ten minutes to decompress, and I am itching to talk about my day.”
It’s pointless to fight her. She will just bounce and twitch until I cave. And honestly, I never make her wait too long.
After twilight fades, it’s Alex’s favorite time of day.
When we take the time to talk about our day.
And by talk, I mean gossip like it is our job.
“Please, Dylan.” Her voice goes up an octave. “I have got to tell you who I found in the supply closet.”
Sipping my own rosé through my extended straw, I face her. “I want to hear everything, and then I need to tell you what happened to Sidney.”
“Oh my God, Sidney with an i or Sydney with a y?”
“Definitely Sidney with an i.” I sip the wine, letting the warmth drive away the chill of the January night. “It smells like snow. Do you smell snow?”
Her nose twitches. Like a rabbit. It’s weird, and I love it. “I smell snow.” She pauses, and something flickers across her face. Fear? No. Not fear. Something else. Then it’s gone.
“What?” I ask.
She shakes her head, already bouncing back. “Nothing. Okay, so I went to get paper—” She pauses, snaps her fingers. “Remind me to tell you about Sydney with a y then.”
“Mental note made.” Sydney with a y, and Sidney with an i.
“Okay, so I went to get paper, because I had to print out the fourth-quarter reports, right? And there is never any paper because, of course, Janet from reception gets bored and prints out all those crochet patterns.”
“Seriously, she makes the cutest little gargoyles with the yarn.”
“Right?” Alex adds. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not mad at all the gargoyles. We all have our coping mechanisms, but this is the third time I’m changing paper this month.”
“Your anger is valid. It’s seriously only the ninth. Of January. It’s a little aggressive at this point.”
“That is what I said.” She blows a raspberry. “Okay, so there I was heading to get more paper, then I open the supply door and—” She pauses for dramatic effect, eyes sparkling. “—guess who I found getting railed against the wall?”
“You’re lying.” My straw drops into the bottle. I don’t even care that I have to fish it out. “Who?”
Alex nods, excitement humming in her eyes. When she’s this excited, it’s good for her and bad for them.
“Byron and Amber.”
“Get out.”
“I can’t lie.” She sips. “I saw his bare ass and all.”
“What did you do?” This isn’t the first time this has happened at Draven she’s already a CPA. But the we gives me all the warm fuzzies.
“What did you do with the picture?”
“Telling you would implicate you.” She teases me with a smile.
Guarantee she is holding it over their heads.
Alex doesn’t destroy evidence. She stockpiles it.
“What are we doing tonight?” She changes the subject fast enough to tell me I do not want to learn the outcome of the picture scandal.
“I thought about staying in.” I hug my blanket closer to me.
“No.” She cries a little. It’s obviously fake. Oh, and now she’s adding a little pout to it.
“Tell me about Sydney with a y.” I change the subject.
“Oh, she got fired.”
“For what?”
“Bossman was not having it.” Alex shakes her head. “Found out she used the petty cash for a pedi.”
“Yeah, that’ll do it.”
Alex’s phone buzzes. She glances at it, and her eyes go wide.
“What?”
She turns the screen toward me. It’s a text.
Sharon: Amber’s gone. Cleared out her desk. Bossman’s on a rampage. Looks like she tossed a used condom in his trashcan.
“She tried to frame him?” I shake my head. “That’s bold. And stupid.”
“Yep. I saw Amber drop the condom in Bossman’s trash can earlier.”
“Bad move.”
“Bad move.” She parrots. Then her nose wrinkles. “Which also means you’re now Dom’s only paralegal.”
The words land like a stone in my stomach.
Fuck. Amber might have been a big pain in my ass, but she was also my buffer. Now when Dom calls at midnight, there’s no one else. When he needs weekend work, it’s just me. When he takes a case that makes me want to shower after reading the files, I can’t pass it to Amber anymore.
Alex pockets her phone. Studies me for a moment.
“Does Dom still ask about your dad?”
The question hits like it always does—guilt wrapped in absurdity wrapped in five years of elaborate deception.
“Every week,” I answer, drawing out the words. “Last time I told him the puppy learned to sit.”
“You’re in too deep.”
“I’m in too deep.”
Five years ago, I panicked when Dom called me in for weekend work. Told him I couldn’t—my dad was in the hospital.
My dad died when I was twelve in a car accident right after beating cancer.
But Dom was so sympathetic. Asked about him every week. So I kept making up stories. New puppy. Health updates. The whole thing. Alex helps me keep the timeline straight.
Twenty-seven years old and I’m still lying about my dead father.
It’s a terrible lie. One that makes me feel worse every single time it comes up.
“Just let me know how his health is on Sunday so I can keep it going,” Alex says.
My phone rings. Perfect fucking timing.
Dom.
My stomach drops. My hand tightens around the wine bottle. Friday night at 8 PM. This is never good.
“Sir,” I answer, hoping I am not giving away I’ve been drinking.
“Dylan. Good.” He pauses, and in the background I can hear papers shuffling. “I need you.”
Not Can you come in? Not Dylan, I need help with something specific.
Dylan, I need you.
Like I’m his. Like my Friday night was never really mine to begin with.
“Sir, what can I help you with?” I set my wine aside despite Alex’s pout.
“I need you in the stacks. Discovery documents for the Patterson case need organizing and indexing by tomorrow morning.”
Patterson. The pharmaceutical exec accused of covering up trial deaths. Of course it needs to be done this weekend. Dom’s big cases always need weekend work, and I’m always the one who does it.
The stacks. The creepiest room at Draven & Associates. Basement-level archives with emergency stairs that have fluorescent lights. Where I’m convinced ghosts of bad legal decisions go to die.
And it’s Friday night. I literally just left the office three hours ago.
“Of course, sir. I’ll be there within the hour.”
He hangs up. Doesn’t wait for an answer.
Of course not. He never does.
“Fuck.” I drop my phone in my lap.
“I’m heading downtown.” She pats my thigh before standing and walking inside. “Meet me when you’re out?”
“I hate that you know I’m going in.” I slip into one heel and look around for the other.
Where the hell did I leave that thing?
She calls over her shoulder, “You have goals. I do not.”
“You have goals,” I argue. “They just have nothing to do with your career.”
“You definitely aren’t wrong.” She winks. “I’ll have my location on.”
“Thanks.” I toss the blanket aside as I head back in to find my missing heel. “I’ll find you.”
Alex steps into view close to the front door, holding out my other heel. “Go get ‘em, counselor.”
“Not yet,” I remind her. “One more year.”
“One more year,” she repeats, and pulls me into a hug. “Text me when you’re done. I’ll be at Bob & Barbara’s.”
I grab my bag, check for my keys, and head for the door.
Behind me, Alex calls out, “Hey, Dylan?”
I turn.
She’s standing in the doorway, and something in her expression makes me pause. Not worry, exactly. Something else.
“Be careful in the stacks,” she says. Her voice holds that quality—the one she gets when she’s reading tarot and the cards won’t cooperate. When she pulls the Tower and doesn’t want to say it.
“It’s just old files,” I say. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Alex doesn’t smile. She should smile—it’s obviously a joke. But she doesn’t.
She’s still standing there when I close the door. Her silhouette framed by the soft hall light.
I should turn around. I should go back in. Tell Dom to fuck off for once.
But I don’t.
I never do.
I head for the stairs.