“I do not forgive you. For any of this. And I won’t be returning until I have an actual apology from you. Until you understand that I am a person. Full and complete. And so was Tiff. And if I choose to be buried between strangers, that does not make my life less significant than yours. This is beyond fucked up, Mom. I love you, but this is untenable. If you ever want to call me or come to Brooklyn, I’ll take the call. I’ll never turn you away. But I will not be calling you, and I will not be coming back here. Not until you apologize for this.”

Mary zipped her bag with a flourish, kissed her mother on the cheek and sneaked out the back.

THE NEXT DAY as he strode down the hall toward his office, John’s mind was deeply mulling the details of Hang Nguyen’s case. Her trial had been in full swing for the last two workdays, and after Hang took the stand this afternoon, things would come to a close. He knew better than to have high hopes, but what he did know was how hard he’d prepped for this case. How many extra hours had gone into it. And how much he truly, deeply believed in her innocence. He’d just come back from a meeting with her where they’d gone over her testimony, and if John did say so himself, he thought that her quiet, polite, eloquent honesty had a good chance of pushing her into the jury’s hearts.

John had his eyes on the email he was reading on his phone. It wasn’t the motion in his office that suddenly drew his eyes upward. No, it was the sudden lack of motion. John had the immediate impression of deer frozen in the headlights as he, one hand on the doorknob to his own office, looked up and absorbed a tableau of oh, shit.

Because Richie Dear was halfway crawled over top of his own desk, his shirt partially unbuttoned, his hair and reading glasses equally askew. And underneath Richie was a man. A man by the name of Crash Willis.

John took in the scene before him, outwardly placid, inwardly befuddled. Crash Willis? Richie was making out with Crash Willis?

John said nothing aloud, just let his eyes fall to the floor, where he saw a mess of papers and office supplies that had obviously been swept aside in the heat of the moment.

“You better not have broken my stapler again,” John said, almost nonsensical in his battle to understand whatever the hell was happening in front of him. “I had to buy the last one with my own money.”

“Ah. I’m...gonna go.” Crash’s voice was shockingly hoarse. Devoid of all bluster and irritating smugness that was usually sewn into the very fabric of his being.