Great.
“I draw the line at all animal cruelty, blatant or not,” I said dryly. “What’s Missy telling everyone?”
“That you punted Alexander Hamilton across the office like a football,” Marty said. “He definitely didn’t, Mrs. Simmons. I was there. Also, even if he did, the windows here at the front don’topen, so he couldn’t have kicked Alexander Hamilton through one like Justin Tucker kicking a sixty-six-yard field goal for the Ravens that time.”
He could remember the length of Justin Tucker’s field goal but not how to alphabetize? Sadly on brand for Marty.
“I definitely didn’t kick the dog through the window,” I said. “I tripped over him, and he’s fine.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Mrs. Simmons said. “You didn’t strike me as a cruel person, but you hear things and it never hurts to check.”
“The only one Miller acts mean to is me,” Marty added. “And I know he’s just kidding. He likes me.”
Objection.
But I let it slide.
Mrs. Simmons peered at me through her rhinestone-studded cat-eye glasses. “Well,” she said dubiously. “I’m sure you’re right. You do have a kind look about you, Miller.”
Gee, thanks.
“I appreciate that, Mrs. Simmons,” I said, glancing longingly over her shoulder at the doorway to caffeine and freedom. I’d imagined a lot of scenarios when I’d been at law school, but none of them had involved being held hostage by my boss’s cousin who wanted to check I hadn’t drop-kicked a pug. “If you’ll excuse me?—”
“No, Miller’s a good man,” Callahan said, slinging a paternal arm around my shoulders. “Smart as a whip too.”
I forced a smile, even though my coffee was getting further and further out of reach.
“I got real lucky when I hired him,” Callahan continued. “Small-town law isn’t for everyone, but Miller fits right in. So I’d be obliged if you’d let people know that Missy made a mistake, Nancy.”
Mrs. Simmons peered at me again and gave a small nod. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
And the thing was, I knew she would. Nancy Simmons worked at the local craft store, and her local information network was impressive. She had the reach of a cold war agent. So when she told Callahan she had to go and get her hair done, I offered her my arm. Not only would a few minutes of walking give me the chance to really solidify my reputation as a nice guy and not a puppy punter, it just happened that a stroll to the beauty salon took me closer to my favorite coffee shop.
I asked after her children, her cats, and her sciatica, and by the time we parted ways I felt as though she’d make sure Missy’s version of events wouldn’t get too much traction around town. Callahan was right in that I did fit in here in Hopewell. I knew exactly how to play the game—I just didn’t want to do it forever.
Over the weekend I’d gone downstairs in my parents’ house in the middle of the night and caught my dad watching a rerun ofCheers. That old familiar theme song had filled the living room, nostalgic and warm, except no, I didnotwant to go to a place where everyone knew my name, thanks. I wanted to go somewhere where people would say,Who the hell was that attorney who just wiped the courtroom floor with us?And then I’d go home to my apartment, work out while I listened to a podcast, and do it all again the next day without living in fear that a bunch of people would want to drop by for a chat, or with an invitation to church, or a not-at-all subtle hint that so-and-so was still single.
The longer I spent in Hopewell, the more I felt the lure of a big city where my personal business was nobody’s but my own. The thought of riding the subway with a car full of strangers? Wonderful. Imagining working alongside someone in an office and not knowing every single thing about them and their six million cousins? Amazing.
I didn’t hate Hopewell. I liked it a lot. And that was the problem. I was worried that if I got too comfortable here, I’d never leave, and I hadplans. So, you know, lessCheersand more “Hotel California.”
I was in line at the coffee shop when I got the email from Winston, Baker and Fisk asking me to come to New York for an in-person meeting.
Huh.
I blinked down at my phone and rethought that whole “Hotel California” analogy.
Because it turned out that youcouldleave after all.
I didn’t haveany appointments for the afternoon, so I caught up on some paperwork, rechecked any paperwork I’d given to Marty, and called Chad Thurston-Wallace’s attorney, who was as surprised as I was by what Missy had told me.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he said. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“So it’s bullshit then?” I asked.
“I honestly don’t know. I think she’s full of it, but then again so is he, so who knows what they’ve decided to do? I’ll give Chad a call and get back to you. How does that sound?”
“That’s great,” I said. We were technically on opposite sides, but we were more like brothers-in-arms at this point, or at least bonded by shared trauma. “Just one more question.”
