Chapter Text
Charlie hadn’t meant to let the front door slam behind her. She knows the rickety thing all too well—warped frame, faulty hinge, and the building’s structural imbalance that guarantees a loud bang and shaking walls unless it’s coaxed shut with careful hands.
The crack startles her, and so does the sound of her housemate’s shout from his bedroom.
“Yo, mind the fucking door!”
“Sorry!” she yells back with forced brightness, toeing off her shoes at the landing and nudging them aside.
Angel’s annoyance feels distant compared to the pounding behind her eyes, the heat blooming at her temples—collateral from replaying her last few hours on a loop, trying to figure out how she might’ve handled things differently. Keys clatter onto the kitchen counter followed by palms landing on stained laminate. She exhales.
The strap of her satchel slides off her arm, leading to the bag thudding against a mismatched stool, but her back feels no less burdened. After a moment, she hauls it fully onto the patchwork seat before it can tip and spill paperwork across the hardwood floor.
She draws out her phone from the inner pocket of her blazer and swipes through notifications: clickbait texts from a political group she’d donated to once, promotional messages from stores she’d allowed herself to be pressured into joining. Nothing else. Nothing new.
Unwilling to look at the reminders of her lack of a life, she shoves the phone into her back pocket, fills a glass at the sink, and slips down the crooked hall to the smallest bedroom—her shoebox sanctuary—setting the cup on her nightstand then flopping face-down onto the twin mattress. Chipped mauve nails worry a loose thread in her blanket.
Don’t think about work, she orders herself. Her eyes lose focus as her brain drags her back to an hour and thirty-six minutes earlier anyway. Everything but a single point blurs to nothing.
Thea is the name of her most recent client—a woman she’d spent weeks coaxing toward safer harbors. To stay at a women’s shelter, at least temporarily. She thinks of that adage about leading a horse to water.
“We’re okay now,” Thea had said. “We talked. I really think it’s different this time. And he told me he had a surprise waiting at his place for me to prove it.”
How her throat had constricted during that call as she’d forced a smile. As all their work, pep talks, and heartfelt promises circled the drain, flushed away with a charming, apologetic text from some man she was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt had not, in fact, changed.
But Charlie knows too well that the gilded cage is difficult to resist. A king-sized bed, surrounded by finery in a sunlit room, is the easier choice compared to a cot in a crowded dorm with twenty strangers. She isn’t living that young woman’s life; doesn’t know the exact pressures that tipped the scales toward Thea making that decision.
For Charlie, the iron underneath the gold isn’t worth the price. All she can do now is worry and hope this story doesn’t end like her very first case.
Memory surges before she can dam it away: a sweetness gone rotten, sticking in her throat, and a body slumped beneath a blood-stained duvet.
You promised you’d help me.
Charlie jolts upright. She grabs the water from the nightstand and gulps down mouthfuls as if the act might wash the sensations from her head. When her chest starts to hurt, she forces herself to slow down; to run through the breathing exercises. Inhale for four seconds, exhale six. Name five things in the space around her.
The DV cases that followed were never so bad as that first one. The worst thing she’d ever seen, ever lived through—ever allowed to happen. After four years, it remains a blight on her conscience.
Malina.
Surely, nothing else could come close. Surely, she wouldn’t see something so awful once more. Until the retrial, at least. She would have to see pictures again, wouldn’t she?
The smile that unfurls on her face is humorless. No use wringing her hands over it now.
Instead, she thinks of Thea—another young woman with next to nothing. No one to turn to but the man she fears. Perhaps his wealth and status would make him more discerning and careful not to let things escalate to irreversible harm. Or perhaps that affluence would allow him cover his tracks if he wanted to.
Charlie curls around her empty glass and cycles her breathing.
A life with nobody to catch you seems so…terrifying. How different would hers be without her people? Without Angel’s humor that keeps the mood from sinking too far, or Vaggie’s grounding practicality that makes every challenge seem surmountable. They bicker, get under each other’s skin, and still: they split groceries, cook for each other, remember the small things, show up when it matters. Frustrating, messy, but dependable; like the apartment they inhabit: three bedrooms along a wide, crooked hall plastered with photos, mismatched art and silly nonsensical decor. The living room cluttered with clashing thrift-store furniture, well-cared-for plants crowding around windows, and Angel’s feather boas draped over the couch. The faint smells of detergent, a hint of potting soil, and someone’s leftover garlic pasta lingering in the air. More than enough for their odd little “found family.”
Charlie has much to be grateful for; but of course, even the small mercies come with their own caveats. Rent had jumped again, stretching her paycheck thinner than the paper it’d be printed on. Vaggie had offered to cover more, but Charlie refused, adamant about keeping things egalitarian.
No princess treatment. She’d had plenty of that to last a lifetime.
She just needs to rework her budgeting spreadsheet, maybe divert some cash flow from loan repayments. Cut a bit more from her “fun money.”
I can make it work, Charlie thinks to herself with newfound resolution. She reaches for her laptop, and her resolve lasts three seconds before she collapses like a toy run out of battery power. Had she eaten anything today? She should eat something. Maybe have a glass of wine or three. It’s Friday, after all.
She lies there immobile, staring up at the gray ceiling, gaze wide and blank. Thea again surfaces in the fog of her thoughts.
Without independence or money, you don’t get to choose.
The ache returns, but she’s too tired to think it all the way through. Too tired to move. It’s a warning sign, she knows—stress eroding her executive function, leaving her on the verge of a weekend-long bed-rot bender. She should probably fix that. Find a distraction, anything to release the pressure building in her skull.
Her phone buzzes. Probably a case update, or a late-night message from the agency chat—something she should answer. She sighs and fishes it out; bracing herself for another name, another crisis stamped urgent, or another spam text.
But the screen glows a name she hasn’t heard from in a while.
Niffty?
[Hey girlie! Wanna party?]
It takes her a moment to fully register it, so disconnected from the gloomy world she’d been stewing in for the better part of the day. Then it hits, unexpected and absurd, and the tension in her shoulders breaks with a breath that sounds almost like a laugh.
Charlie blinks, startled by the absurd timing. Another little incredulous laugh slips out.
The universe’s sense of humor is usually cruel. Today, its jokes seem merciful.
“Charliiiiiie!”
She hears Niffty before she sees her, that all too familiar high-pitched squeal slicing clear through the din of the eclectically styled lounge. Charlie turns to the sound of it, zeroing in on her friend kicked back in some impressive mix of lounging and sitting at the bar, frozen daiquiri hoisted over her head like a trophy. The fishbowl glass is almost three-quarters of her face.
They lock eyes; Niffty sips and gestures at the neighboring stool, currently occupied by her outstretched leg. The warbling shine of a stiletto greets Charlie as Niffty swings the heel down with a flourish.
“Saved you a spot.” The atomic redhead smiles with all her teeth.
Charlie slides onto the stool, smiling and shaking her head. “How long have you been sitting like that?”
“Since I got here! Place filled up real quick after six.” She chases the last bits of shaved iced at the rim of her glass with focused determination. “Coz of the nine-to-fivers stampeding in for cheap beer and ceviche. This place is the bomb though, trust.”
Charlie lets the stool spin and takes it all in; the tiki torches, neon palms and signage, 1950s vintage pinup posters of hula girls glutted on every wall with what she assumes is purposeful intent. The air is thick with the smell of coconut lotion and fried seafood. All gives off a kitschy, Maximalist vibe she can appreciate, if not find just a tad culturally inappropriate.
Despite Niffty’s comment, the little dive bar appears empty enough save for a few full booths, one table occupied by a couple having a relaxed conversation, and at the other end of the bar, a group of five watching and adding commentary to RuPaul’s Drag Race on the mounted television set.
Strangers having rambling conversations, enjoying themselves, shoulders brushing in casual comfort—the sight stirs a faint warmth in her chest, siphoning tension away from her spine. There’s something beautiful about the scene, like a fledgling catching air for the first time, or flowers after rain. Humanity unguarded.
She spins back to Niffty, still straw-sipping contentedly.
“I get it,” Charlie says with a shrug, smile small but genuine. She is glad she came. Gladder still to see the rambunctious girl had not changed one bit.
“Right? And the pomegranate daiquiris here are grr-eat! They don’t skimp on the rum. Want one?” Niffty cranes over the bar to flag the tender, nearly climbing it, but Charlie catches her hand and gently lowers it back to the counter. A ring of condensation seeps into her sleeve, and she winces. Please be water.
“Ah, no thanks. The size is a little… intimidating. Maybe something simpler?” Beer is far from her favorite—but likely to be the most affordable option. Niffty eyes her until Charlie sighs and asks, “What’s the cheapest drink here?” She is out for a good time, not for a sober rehash with dumb, depressing work and money thoughts rotating in her dumb carousel of a mind. If beer is her ticket off that ride, so be it.
Niffty giggles and waves the bartender, anyway. “I got you, Charlie; this one’s on me.”
“Wait, no, I was thinking maybe I’d try one of those lagers—” All attempts to redirect the intoxicated gremlin sail overhead.
“I saaaaid don’t worry about it. Consider this payback for bailing me out of jail when I fought that bitch at Denny’s!”
The volume of Niffty’s regaling is enough to turn a few heads. Charlie goes completely still then drums her fingers along the counter to exorcise the mortified energy from her body, realizing the futility of arguing. When the bartender arrives, she blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “A pina colada, please.”
When in Rome—or, in this case, when under tiki torches and blonde-haired, blue-eyed hula girls.
“On my tab, mister!” Niffty crows, “and another pommy.” She swirls her straw through the bottom of her fishbowl to catch the last ruby puddle and tips the whole thing back with a satisfied sigh. “Can you believe it? Old enough to get drinks. In the proper, legal way!” She flashes her license, proud of the achievement, as if it isn't a natural progression of life.
Charlie thanks the bartender as he sets about their order. She turns back with a teasing smile: “twenty-one going on twelve?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Niffty puts her ID card back into a fuzzy, bright pink wallet. “You say that, but I had you fooled too!”
Charlie remembers. Two years ago, and it may as well have happened yesterday. A different dive bar, Niffty’s fake ID clocked by an employee, and the both of them tossed out on their asses. She had to physically haul the shrieking teen away before the bouncer could make good on his threat to call the cops.
“You sure did. I don’t know how you got away with that for so long.” She rubs the bridge of her nose at the memory and recalls the subsequent meltdown she had at the diner, bemoaning over how she’d enabling such deviancy. By that point, they’d already had several alcohol-fueled “girls’ nights”; had even got tattoos (also after several drinks), but at least Niffty was old enough for that.
That incident also marked the last time they saw each other in person, with interactions dwindling to text messages of memes, updates, and the occasional vent, only for those to peter out as well. Charlie thought little of it, used to the ebb and flow of relationships, and buried as she was in coursework and practicum hours. She wonders what, if anything, has changed about Niffty. Is she on the up and up now?
“So how have you—”
“—I don’t know how else to say this, but you look like shit.”
It takes Charlie a second or two to recover from the barb. “Thanks, really needed that.”
“No, seriously.” Niffty leans in, lowering her voice. “You’ve got bags under your eyes I could pack all my issues into. What’s going on with you?”
“Uhh…work. We’re short-staffed again, so I’ve been dealing with double caseloads—”
“Cases?” Her companion perked up. “Law stuff?”
“Social work,” Charlie corrects gently. “Slacking can mean life or death.” Before dead bodies under blankets intrude her mind again, she pivots. “Also, rent went up. Again! My paycheck barely covers it, and I don’t know how long I can keep this up.”
The bartender returns with their drinks. Charlie begins guzzling the thing down without bothering to appreciate the taste.
Niffty leans on the bar, watching her thoughtfully. “So you’re saving the world, and the world is thanking you by screwing you with a bad dragon?”
Charlie almost chokes on the colada, wishing she didn’t understand the reference. Unfortunately, Niffty had gone into too much mortifying detail, with pictures, for it to not be seared into her skull. “That’s one way to put it. What about you, though? Finally decide to go back to school?”
“Ew, hell no, I already got a sweet gig. But speaking of getting screwed, err, sweet gigs—opportunity!”
This snags at Charlie’s attention.
Niffty takes a huge slurp from her drink before continuing. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. My boss leased a new place like a year ago, and he’s looking for someone to help out. Don’t remember the exact title but it sounded important. I can pull it up if you’re interested,” she said in a sing-song tone.
Charlie quirks a brow, trying to recall where Niffty had been working. “Your place is recruiting now?”
“Mm-hm,” Niffty hums, already digging through her purse for her phone. “Hang on, let me just…” A moment later, Charlie’s own phone buzzes from her blazer. She brings it out to see a new message from Niffty glowing on her screen:
[Law firm - Expert Witness]
“Uh, Niff, should there be a link to a job listing to go along with this? And are you sure about me being a good fit?”
“Nope, no listing, and… also nah. I don’t know about ‘good fit,’ but hey, I got this swanky job and I’m not doing so bad, so you could probably manage whatever the hell an ‘Expert Witness’ is. Little Miss PhD.”
“Do you at least want my resume? So, your boss will know what I specialize in,” Charlie tries to tamp down the tiny spike of excitement she feels. She could handle another job. Or she could freelance. “Is there a hiring process? Phone screenings? Meetings with HR—”
Niffty waves her hand like she’s brushing away dirt. “Please. I am HR. And my boss doesn’t care for stuff like that.” Niffty’s tongue sticks out between her lips as she taps furiously on her smartphone. “All you gotta do is show up. This address, at this time. Badabing badaboom.”
Charlie scans the details that pop up in their text conversation. The address isn’t that far from her apartment, but closer to the courts and civic legal offices. The place she shares with her friends is in that odd space between the rundown portions of the city and the recently gentrified area. A nice location to live, to be sure, though precautions are still needed when walking at night, along with making sure doors and windows have extra locks.
She’ll have to take the afternoon off, but if she’s successful, this job could solve a lot of her problems. She chews her lower lip. She trusts Niffty—mostly, anyway—but this isn’t the kind of work that just drops into someone’s lap. Networking aside, it’s also not something people typically hire the first applicant for. The application is likely a pivotal role for a law firm because an expert could mean the difference between conviction and acquittal. There would be interviews; she would need references and experience and—
—there is no way this could work.
“That’s not how hiring works, Niffty.”
“In my world it is!” The shorter woman kicks her legs as she takes another sip. “Look. Charlie. This is legit as it gets. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye. Or someone’s.”
Charlie hums, unconvinced.
“Come on! You’ll save me the trouble of creating a whole job listing and then dealing with idiots who don’t know their ass from their elbow. You’re smart; you know how people think. Just show up and I’ll take care of the rest. A little wham, bam, boom and poof! Magic!” Niffty wiggles her fingers while sucking a mouthful through her straw. Charlie is no more convinced than she was twenty seconds ago.
“I just. Well. This seems kind of dubious, to be honest.” It sounds extremely dubious. “Is this the same ‘boss’ you’ve been working for since I met you? How have you never told me he practices law?” Unexpectedly, Charlie feels her pulse spike. She shakes her head.
“I did different work for him at first, yeah.”
“Just who exact—”
“Look.” Niffty shoves her phone into Charlie’s face. “This is how much I make. What do you think an expert witness or whatever would be paid?”
The zeros swim before Charlie’s eyes, and she takes a minute to find her voice again.
“Oh wow, gee. Those are… numbers. W-well. Do you have a website at least? A business card, or… something?”
“No website, and ugh, business cards are such an old people thing. Plus, where would I keep it?” An eye roll accompanies the question, and she glances around them as if to find someone who’d agree with her. “Boss might have a few though; he can be old school sometimes. Ugh, CHARLIE. Stop thinking! Just show up and give it a shot. Where’s the crazy bitch I had fun with a few years ago!?”
“Okay, okay.” Her hands fly up in a placating gesture. Worst-case scenario, she doesn’t get the job and takes a well-needed day off to hang out with an old friend. Niffty is probably the best person to be with, she figures, whenever she burns herself out on her own altruism.
Charlie buys herself some time by taking a long pull from her drink. Then: “I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Sounds like a great excuse to go shopping to me,” Niffty croons triumphantly, pumping a fist in the air.
“Err, that sounds nice, but it’s really not in the cards for me right now.”
"Ugh, that’s right. You're broke." The petite redhead flashes her a wide grin. “Fine. I have another idea.”
Charlie smiles with the instinctive knowledge that Niffty would not suffer any further pushbacks. This will not end well. She can feel it in her bones.
Charlie tugs at her skirt, scaling the steep stairs to the brownstone at the address Niffty provided. The hem keeps creeping up the meat of her thighs, refusing to fall back into place, so she surrenders to the inevitable until she reaches the landing.
She’s still wrestling with her outfit, skirt stubborn and refusing to stay lower than mid-thigh, when a chime sounds and the lock on the door clicks. A wall of cold air hits as she hauls open the stained oak monstrosity and steps inside.
At the foyer, she notes a long corridor to her left, and immediately in front of her is a wide arched entrance to what she presumes is the reception area, raised by two steps. Clean, polished stonework and lacquered wood, maybe even a touch on the fancy side. A brownstone renovated, likely to fit the needs of the business.
Old bones with new polish, she thinks, impressed to see its architecture and aesthetic mostly intact. It’s almost like stepping into a building from the nineteen-twenties or thirties, unspoiled by time. Half of her had expected to see peeling wallpaper and leaky pipes.
The walls appear to have been opened to house a large wraparound desk, where she spots a head of bright red hair over the privacy paneling and hears the clack of furious typing. Niffty.
As Charlie draws closer, she sees a little more of Niffty’s workspace and is reminded of a magpie’s nest: photos in a variety of colorful frames, a red stapler with ladybug spots, a glass bowl brimming with butterscotch lollipops, and neon sticky notes fanned about every available surface. Niffty glances up, doing a tiny double take before breaking into a delighted grin.
“Yay, you made it!”
Charlie half expects her to vault the desk, but for once, the young woman walks around it like a normal person.
“Oh my god. Wowie. You look great! He’s gonna…I mean, you look super professional. It’s perfect!”
Charlie suppresses a fidget while Niffty circles her: pencil skirt clearly designed for someone shorter, chiffon mock-neck blouse with “loose” sleeves that ride up to show her bracelet. Nude tights. Low pumps. Objectively, Charlie knows she looks good—hot, even—but the skirt’s ambition to become a belt and the blouse’s cling makes her aware of every place the chilled air kisses skin.
“Nif…are you sure about this? I mean, really sure?”
“Pfft. Yeah. It’s fine. It’s gonna be great.” Niffty swats doubt away like smoke and turns Charlie towards one corner of the room. “He’s expecting you; just take the elevator all the way up and head into his office.”
“I—oh.” Charlie pauses in front of the brass grill of some…beautiful thing, an antique of a bygone era that forgot to die. Ancient, very decrepit, very unsafe-looking. “Wait, you want me to get in that?”
“It’s fine,” Niffty repeats, yanking the doors with a clatter that inspires zero confidence. “We had it repaired and updated. It’ll get you there.”
“Okay, but will I be able to get out again at the top? And get back down?”
“Stop overthinking!”
A sharp shove and Charlie stumbles into the cage, catching herself against cool, ridged metal. The gate slams. Somewhere below, a motor coughs; the elevator groans to life and jerks upward, smelling of machine oil and dust.
She tugs at the skirt again as floor lights blink by like tired eyes. Stupid skirt. It’s even worse when she walks, riding up to the tops of her legs, and she’s already dreading sitting in it. With any luck, Niffty’s boss wears coke-bottle glasses and would be too busy with paperwork to notice when she flashes him. Or maybe it’ll help her get the job. It’s unclear to her which option would be better (or worse, depending on perspective.)
She never should have borrowed clothes from Niffty. She should have asked Vaggie. That would have been the intelligent thing to do. Of course, then she’d have needed to explain why she was interviewing for a new job, and the dubious nature of said job. Lesser of two evils, then.
The elevator comes to a grinding, shuddering halt on the top floor, and she wrenches the doors open to throw herself, with no small amount of relief, into a small, wood paneled hallway. It’s unadorned beyond dust and crisp, labeled boxes that line the walls in neat, waist-high stacks, and smells like cardboard and a familiar linen scent that quickens her heartbeat.
Two small windows let in bright patches of afternoon light, illuminating three doors down the hall. The first opens to a bathroom. The second reveals a dark, small office stuffed with a desk and filing cabinets. Definitely not the office of the head of a law firm.
Charlie taps on the last door. No answer, and even the tentative force from her hand is enough to make it swing wide on silent hinges. She peeks in and finds another seemingly vacant office, though much larger than the previous one. Bookshelves line the walls, and a mahogany desk dominates the space with a pair of sensible chairs positioned in front of it.
Despite the proof before her eyes, she calls out anyway: “Hello? Anyone here? I’m um…here to talk about the expert witness position?”
The office is still spartan. Boxes form a small maze—less tidy than the neat stacks outside—as if the place is only half moved into. No mug ring, no pen cup, no plant. Just cardboard, dust, and the paper-dry chill from a vent that hums in the ceiling, blinds ticking softly in the draft. The absence of any personal trace, save for that faint scent of linen, makes the room feel cold and provisional, like a premonition about whoever calls it theirs.
She peers around, leaning forward to get a better view of her surroundings. there’s nothing else noteworthy except for another door, plain and unremarkable, in the far wall. There’s a bank of windows behind the desk, warm light filtering in between the slats of the blinds, but it does very little to dispel the chill.
Charlie yanks her hem down again—a last-ditch attempt to look presentable for this…meeting? Interview? Introduction? Whatever it is, she isn’t ready—not for this conversation, and not for the job.
She spent the morning hunting clothes and buffing her résumé, not prepping answers—there will be questions, right? This won’t be a simple “Nice to meet you—can you start Monday?” Even in her wildest dreams, she knows that’s not possible. What was she thinking? She doesn’t even know the attorney’s name. Oh God, she never thinks things through.
Like asking out some random guy on a bus.
The thought only worsens her anxiety. She moves deeper into the room, scanning the blank walls for clues—a diploma, a framed article, anything. Her fingers glide over the desk’s lacquered edge until they find a small brass nameplate. The only hint of personality in the room, easy to miss.
A. Richault. The engraving tugs at something in her. It’s familiar in a way that tastes wrong. She reaches, and it dissolves like sugar in water. Still, a name is something. Pronunciation can come later.
She lowers herself into one of the chairs. The cushion exhales, the lacquered arm cools her fingertips. Her skirt immediately tries for a new career as a scarf. She drags the hem down—fabric rasping against static-laden tights—gets it halfway decent, and that’s when footsteps thud in the hall and a latch clicks.
“Good afternoon. Apologies for my tardiness.”
That voice.
She registers the cadence first. Clean, measured, and well-tuned. Time slows, the moment crystallizing into something bright and still as little golden motes float in the amber light from the window.
“I was otherwise detained and frankly was not aware I had a meeting this morning. Now, I don’t know what Ms. Furutani told you, but we do, in fact, have a standard operating procedure for vetting candidates—”
She sees him before he sees her; eyes confirming the reality of what she hears as the rest of him resolves in the doorway. Her mind refuses to decide how to feel, let alone how to react. Her lungs forget how to take in oxygen, solidify into stone, and now they’re burning. Can stone even burn?
He’s changed. Not enough that she’s unable recognize him, but enough for her to take in every minute difference from the image that had branded itself deep into her.
Oval framed glasses, smaller and more harmonious with the angles of his face. Broader shoulders stretching at his suit jacket, the buttons on his shirt just shy of straining to do their jobs. His suit is tailored, accentuating the narrowness of his waist and the long line of his legs. Hair cropped shorter, cleaner, peppered with grey at the temples, with a small streak running from just above each ear.
Otherwise—it’s him. That same brow expressing a professional sort of irritation, the silvery scar high on his cheekbone, long lashes downcast as though the page in that manila folder is more deserving of his attention than the person he’s addressing.
Her eyes home in on his hands: long, articulate fingers, nails clipped and clean, squaring a few pages with a motion so familiar that her body remembers before her mind does: the pressure of them guiding her in a waltz, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, lacing with hers and holding her steady.
“—and just because she promises you a job with ‘loads of money’ doesn’t mean it will fall into your hands by virtue of your showing up. So if you would be so kind as to…”
The words die when his gaze lifts.
The folder slips. Papers whisper and flutter, scattering across the floor.
Blackberry meets honeyed amber.
There is a sensation of falling. Like that playground-swing plunge, as the room tilts and rights itself in a single swoop.
Charlie had been right—this was a terrible mistake.