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Two security officers appear in the doorway as Cassandra stands and smooths her jacket. She looks around the table one more time—my grandfather avoids her eyes, Rhodes stares at his hands, Richard Hale is already on his phone—and then spots me.

“You threw away everything,” she says. Quiet enough that only I can hear it. “For what?”

I think about a golf pencil in my desk drawer. A crumpled hardware store receipt. A vase with gold in its cracks sitting on a windowsill on the other side of my living room wall.

“Everything,” I affirm.

She walks out with the security officers behind her and doesn’t look back.

“You know there will be consequences,” my grandfather says. It isn’t a threat exactly. More of a statement of fact from a man who has been in this business long enough to know how these things move.

“I know,” I say.

He’s quiet for a moment. Outside the window, the street goes about its business, indifferent to what happened on the third floor of this building.

“The acquisition is dead,” he relays.

“Yes.”

“Eight months of work. All for nothing.” He shakes his head as he packs up.

“I know.” More than he even realizes right now.

He turns and looks at me with a confused expression, as if he is trying to solve a tricky math problem. “Was it worth it?”

I think about the compliance filing sitting with the Oregon State Bar for Cassandra. About Lena’s account closed and her name cleared. About the immigration attorney I recommended for Lena taking on her case. About a police report that will follow Officer Dickson for the rest of his career, if he still has one. About Phoenix in a converted craftsman office choosing work that matters over work that pays well.

“Yes, and no. It has been the best thing that has ever happened to me, and the worst time of my life. I wouldn’t trade it for anything,” I respond in earnest.

My grandfather looks at me for a long moment. Something moves through his expression—not pride exactly, not disappointment either.

“Morrison Rose doesn’t need to be in Cascadia anymore. This was the best acquisition in the area. Without it, expansion here doesn’t make sense.”

“Agreed.” Our eyes meet, a thousand words said in one.

Getting up, he heads toward the door. He stops before he exits, knocking on the frame and turning to me. “Call your mother,” he says. “She has been asking about the girl.” And he walks out before I can respond.

Turning toward the window and admiring the street, I spot the café window and find the shape of three women at a table by the glass, and I know which one is Phoenix by the way she is sitting—spine straight, coffee in both hands, watching the parking lot with focused attention, filing everything away.

She doesn’t look up at the building, eyes firmly fixed on the scene in front of her. Security is escorting Cassandra out. Her hands are filled with two white boxes with lids, and she’s shouting indignantly at the man not letting her back in.

Call your mother. She has been asking about the girl.

Wait, who is that third woman with Phoenix?

25

PHOENIX

The Cascadia Coffee Company has a knotty-pine interior from the floor to the ceiling, making you feel like you have stepped inside a literal tree. Jackson didn’t tell me exactly why he wanted me here at this hour, but I have a sneaking suspicion it has to do with Cassandra.

“I think we should have a front-row seat … we can’t miss the main event because we are squinting.” Nessa adjusts her oversized sunglasses as if she were going incognito.

“Really? What makes you think there will be a dramatic show?”

She flails her arms back and forth, referring to the firm across the street. “The energy of that building is about to shift significantly. I want to witness it in person.”

I don’t argue with her. Partly because Nessa is rarely wrong about vibes. But mostly, I want to see it, which I won’t admit out loud.