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As if, instead, he’s paying attention to everything around him.
Midtown hums around me, taxis leaning on their horns, coffee cups changing hands faster than court filings. My heels strike the sidewalk with practiced rhythm as I slip through the revolving doors on the side of the building and into the lobby.
By the time I glance back through the glass, the man is gone.
A coincidence. Probably.
“Morning, Hale.”
“Morning.” Damon Hale, grandson of the very first Hale to establish the firm, continues his morning chat with his favorite security guard.
I ride the elevator to floor thirty-seven, spend two hours reviewing discovery, another arguing over a motion with opposing counsel who mistakes volume for competence. By lunch I only have time to inhale a salad at my desk because chewing is a luxury and lunch is never lunch.
Everything seems normal, it just doesn’t feel that way…something feels…off. My skin prickles, oversensitive, and I can’t stop glancing up through the glass walls of my office. As if waiting for someone to show up, but who?
I’ve worked on some absolutely disgusting, despicable cases where hitmen were a very real concern, and never once have I felt this on edge.
* * *
By noon I catch myself checking reflections in conference room windows instead of admiring the skyline. At the courthouse, my attention drifts toward the gallery every time the doors open. Walking back to the office, I instinctively change pace twice just to see if anyone matches it.
No one does.
You’re being ridiculous, I tell myself, annoyed at whatever this paranoia is. Defense attorneys make enemies, but I’m in a city of over eight million people. No matter how good I think I am, there’s no reason someone would be watching me.
Between legal training and practice, I’ve spent six years helping people avoid prison. It isn’t exactly the profession one enters hoping to become universally adored.
Still...
The feeling lingers. Enough so that I catch a taxi for the 10-minute drive to my apartment. I call Isla, hoping her naturally calm demeanor will help ease the tension riding in my shoulders. It works for her animal patients, so I give it a chance.
She answers on the second ring.
“Please tell me you’re calling because you’ve finally adopted a dog.”
With a grimace, I fight the urge to hold the phone away from my ear. Isla is always on me about how any animal, not just dogs or cats, eases stress. Unfortunately, they also require regular feeding, walking, attention, and they get hair on everything.
I am not an animal person.
“I barely remember to feed myself, so that wouldn’t work out well for me or the poor dog.”
“So... that’s a no?”
“It’s a no.”
Her laugh comes easily, warm enough that my shoulders loosen against the seat.
“How’s the clinic?”
“Golden retriever ate an engagement ring.”
“Again?”
“Different couple. But we did have to get it the same way, unfortunately.”
I mentally add that to the list of why I don’t want a dog. I smile, watching pedestrians weave between cars outside my window.
Isla has spent the last seven years treating all kinds of animals, from Great Danes to guinea pigs. She works at a veterinary hospital in the Bronx and manages to discuss emergency surgery over lunch without losing her appetite. She’s the sweetest, most dedicated person I know. She also is book-smart; more so than most of the lawyers I went to school with.
