She had come full circle. She had started out at McGrath Woods in family law, the pink ghetto. She had believed that if she worked hard enough, was fast enough on her feet, that her value would be recognized.

But, no. Her value was measured in the volume of billable hours she could bring in to the firm. And her reputation—solely the result of her experience at McGrath Woods—was now a liability. So she was being demoted. By a woman who knew full well the unfairness of the situation, but tried nonetheless to make Kate buy it.

The White Queen leaned back in her chair.

The endgame had been revealed.

And the pawn would now make its move.

“I am tendering my resignation, Nina.” Kate stood. “I plan to leave today. I passed my files to the litigation team before I went to Italy.” She remembered they had been more than happy for her to hand them over last month. Had this been in the works even when she was recovering from McNally’s attack?

One look at Nina’s face confirmed that it had.

She turned and strode out of Nina’s office.

At nine in the morning, the firm hummed with energy, phones ringing, printers spewing documents. McGrath Woods was in fine form. Perhaps it sensed that its balance would soon be righted, that the splinter in its side would soon be extracted.

Had Randall known about this?

Kate crossed the foyer, her pulse racing, her mind focused on the thousand and one details necessary to wrap up her short and dramatic career at McGrath Woods. It was over. Everything she had worked toward—the civil litigation practice, the partnership, the corner office—was over. At least at McGrath Woods.

And she felt a sense of release that was unexpected. She hadn’t realized the weight she carried from the work and trauma she had experienced here.

It had shaken her confidence. Destroyed her trust.

And almost killed her.

The elevator dinged.

She startled, her fight-or-flight reflex forever triggered after her fight to the death with the Body Butcher, her gaze flying to the opening doors.

An older man in a wheelchair stared past her. He was neatly dressed, but he radiated distress. Bloodshot eyes. Patchy grooming. A hand that convulsively gripped the crease in his trousers.

Poor man. He reminded her acutely of Frances Sloane. Kate had tried her best to advocate for her client’s desire to change the assisted suicide laws. Harry Owen’s refusal to even meet with Frances still stung. He had been so arrogant. So righteous in his views.

The man’s caregiver propelled him forward.

Kate veered out of his path. His caregiver caught the corner of her eye.

Kate could not control her shock.

It was Harry Owen. He, too, appeared distressed. His eyes were bloodshot, his face gaunt.