Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
1
CHAPTER ONE – THE NEW GIRL
Marnie
Ican see my reflection in the glass doors—two versions of myself, side by side. One: Marnie Williams, recent college grad, hand-picked for a paralegal position at the prestigious Gibson Grant law firm. The other: daughter of the infamous Stanley Williams, whose execution five years ago still sparks headlines and awkward dinner conversations. If you look closely, you can see the family resemblance. Me and my late dad have the same blue eyes, fair hair, and the same talent for getting into trouble. I flatten my palm over my ribcage and tell my heart to slow because it’s going to beat right out of my chest.
Beneath me, the sidewalk is so clean it feels sacrilegious to step on it with my five-year-old flats. The offices of Gibson Grant rise twenty-three stories above, each window polished until the entire thing looks like a stack of platinum credit cards. The kind of place that would chew up a girl like me and spit out the bones.
I shove the doors open, half-expecting resistance, but they glide for me like I belong. The lobby is all hush and sparkle—marble floors so white I’m instantly terrified of trailing in street grime, black-leather benches that look more like sculpture than seating, a wall-to-wall aquarium throbbing with neon tropicals behind a reception desk the length of a bowling alley. I clock the receptionist: platinum hair, glossy and severe, eyes up at me with a practiced smile.
“Good morning. You must be Ms. Williams.”
Her voice is syrup, but the smile is pure shark.
“I am. Reporting for duty,” I say, trying for the right blend of perky and competent. I don’t know what I expect to feel, but my face is burning anyway. “First day.”
She taps a manicured finger on the tablet in front of her and glances over my shoulder, like maybe I brought backup. “Have a seat, Ms. Williams. Our office manager will be right with you.”
I don’t dare try the expensive couches with their leather-grain upholstery, so I hover by the aquarium and try to look like I’m pondering the existential mystery of the pufferfish. In reality, I’m taking inventory of my outfit for the fifth time. Navy sheath dress, conservative enough to pacify the ghosts of dead judges, but short enough to show knee. Clean white cardigan, sleeves pushed up so I don’t look like I’m about to challenge someone’s will. Tights: black, no runs. Blonde hair: up in a neat bun that reads “eager paralegal” instead of “four hours of Netflix and dry shampoo.” My one concession to personality is a pair of cherry red earrings, a detail I will later regret when I catch myself in the bathroom mirror and realize they look like warning lights.
The office manager arrives on silent soles, appearing from a frosted-glass corridor. She’s the sort of woman whose age is impossible to guess because everything about her—skin, posture, smile—is lacquered into immobility. She has a narrow, regal face and a bun so perfect it could survive nuclear fallout. She wears navy, too, but hers is the shade of bruises, cut into a jacket with lapels sharp enough to fillet fish.
“Ms. Williams?” She pronounces my name like she’s taste-testing it.
I leap to attention. “That’s me.”
“Welcome to Gibson Grant. I’m Barbara Jenkins, the office manager at the firm. Come with me, please.”
I smile but the older woman’s already turned, presenting her back to me. Okay, fine. The middle-aged lady’s not exactly the most friendly person, but I’m not here to make friends. I’m here for information.
With brisk steps, we walk through the office, which is decorated in what I must imagine to be the latest in corporate design. We pass through a narrow corridor, which isn’t much more than a gauntlet of glass offices and tasteful art: landscapes, abstracts, one alarming metal sculpture that looks like the aftermath of a car crash. Even worse, every office we pass is full of busy, harried people hunched over screens or pacing with cellphones pressed to their skulls. No one so much as glances up. I feel like a kid at the grown-up table, clutching an invisible resume for emotional support.
Ms. Jenkins stops at the kitchenette. If the lobby is a cathedral, then this is its crypt: low lighting, brushed stainless countertop, a fridge the size of my first apartment. She gestures at the coffee station, which offers more options than the last Starbucks I visited.
“Coffee,” she says in a clipped voice. “Provided gratis by the firm.”
“Great,” I murmur. “Because I’m a caffeine addict.”
Jenkins nods, unblinking and leads the way again, beginning a steady narration.
“As you may know, Gibson Grant has maintained its position in the top three litigation firms statewide for over two decades. Our partners have built an impressive reputation, and our counsel is sought by clients far and wide on a number of matters, both civil and criminal.”