Looking up, I can see two or three windows on our floor still illuminated. My own office is dark. But Uncle Oran seems to be working away.

I want to go up and sit in my chair behind my desk. I want to remind myself who I am, and what I’m working for. I haven’t felt like myself in weeks. Slipping into that cushy leather chair again will be like slipping back inside my own skin.

I park Dante’s car and head inside, waving to the security guard at the front desk. Carl gives me a little salute, hitting the button under his desk that activates the elevators. He’s used to me coming and going at all hours.

I push my way through the expensive glass doors bearing the names Griffin, Briar, and Weiss. As soon as Weiss retires, I intend for that door to say Griffin, Griffin, and Briar. There’s no way I won’t be getting the partnership now, with Josh out of the way, and me being the one who uncovered his theft.

The familiar scent of the office hits me immediately—paper, printer ink, the freesia perfume that Lucy wears, and lemon-basil furniture polish from the cleaning crew.

I feel a flush of nostalgia, even though I’ve only been gone less than a week.

I flip on the light in my own office. I expect to feel the same comforting rush, but instead I notice how stark and cold the space feels. The bookshelf looks staged, like a furniture catalogue, and the polished desktop is so empty that you’d think nobody worked here at all. Everything looks gleaming and expensive, but lacking in personality and warmth.

It makes me think of the ranch house, where every piece of furniture and every bit of decor seems to tell a story of the person who made it, and the people who used it over the years. The Boones’ house is a home. This is just an office where I spent countless hours working alone.

I sit behind the desk anyway, trying to recover my sense of purpose and drive. This where I always felt most powerful, and most myself.

I need to feel that again.

I switch on my computer, thinking it’s the work that’s missing. I should immerse myself in my old projects.

But when I start sorting through files, I realize that half my projects are missing. Deleted off my computer without a trace.

Before I can search through to find what’s missing, Angela Pierce pokes her head in my office.

“Hey, there you are!” she says. “We missed you!”

Angela is one of the senior attorneys who work directly under Uncle Oran. She’s clever, argumentative, and stubborn, so we get along great. But I don’t know what Uncle Oran told everyone about why I disappeared, so I try to be vague.

“I missed you guys. You know I hate taking time off.”

Angela grins. “I was counting down the days on my last vacation. There’s only so much relaxation I can handle, before I’m itching to fight with somebody again.”