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Inside, stockers busily filled shelves. Finley walked quickly to the clothing department, hoping no one noticed that she wasn’t wearing shoes.
Only a hangover of this caliber could send her out of the house headed to work—without shoes.
She grabbed a pair of pin-striped gray slacks. Easy enough. She moved on to another rack. Found a gray pullover that worked with the slacks. She needed underwear and shoes. With both departments close by, she quickly grabbed a bra-and-pantie set and then a pair of flat slides. Since going in the dressing room to change would be seen as an attempt at theft, she opted to pay at a self-checkout to avoid questions, then hurried back to her car.
The sun had climbed high enough to light up the parking lot by the time she reached the firm. She shut off the Subaru and stared at the old church. The lobby lights were on. Nita was at work already.
“Great.”
Did the woman have to come to work this early? Of course she did. Nita Borelli never failed to be the first to arrive and the last to leave. Always. Always. Always.
Finley expelled a frustrated breath and did what she had to do. She grabbed her messenger bag and the Walmart bag and got out. Head held high, shoulders back, she strode straight into the lobby.
“Good morning, Nita.” She beamed a smile that hurt her face. The bright overhead lights pained her eyes and pierced her brain. She hadn’t tortured herself like this in a long time.
Nita surveyed Finley up and down, paused on the shopping bag, and then turned back to her computer. “Good morning. You have messages on your desk.”
Finley moistened her lips to prevent them from cracking when she spoke next. “Thanks.”
In her office, she shut the door, leaned against it, and closed her eyes. She struggled to calm the raging headache. She needed coffee. Aspirin. A toothbrush. Fortunately, the first two were available in the lounge, and the emergency toothbrush and paste were in her desk.
Forcing her eyes open again, she walked across the room and shut the blinds on her window. She searched her desk drawers for scissors. No luck. Whatever. She ripped the tags off her purchases and tossed them into the trash. The sweats hit the floor, and she swiftly pulled on the new stuff. The discarded sweats then went into the shopping bag, and Finley finger combed her hair. A rubber band from her desk drawer secured the unruly mass into a ponytail.
Good to go. Well, good enough anyway.
“Coffee.” God, she needed coffee.
Her cell vibrated with an incoming call.
Matt.
She grimaced. Ignored the call. Sent a text that she was in a meeting.
Liar.
What kind of jerk lied to her best friend? The one who’d just taken care of her overnight.
Like he wouldn’t know she was lying. A meeting in Jack’s office this early? Yeah, right.
The rich smell of freshly brewed coffee drew her to the lounge. She poured a cup and downed half of it, scorching her tongue and throat. A refill along with two aspirins, and she headed back to her office to review the messages Nita the taskmaster had mentioned.
Nita Borelli had been with Jack for at least twenty years all told, counting the years before his big fall off the wagon and then the past five since he’d resurrected his career. Most who’d ever worked with Jack likened her to a drill sergeant. In keeping with that comparison, the woman never allowed an appointment, a message, or anything else to fall by the wayside. She kept everyone on their toes.
Back in the day, Jack would say, he’d had a large staff with several underling attorneys and their clerical support, and even then Nita had run the day-to-day operations. He could go off to court for the day or on an out-of-town deposition for several days and never worry about the office. Nita would be on top of everything.
Finley frowned. But something had happened five years ago that had upended Jack’s world. Whatever it was—and even Finley and Nita didn’t know the answer to that mystery—he’d fallen off the wagon. Disappeared for about six months—long enough to throw his career into chaos and to be disavowed by his partners. Even the most senior partner couldn’t overcome a failure like that one. Partnerships had clauses in the contracts to cover that sort of thing.
Jack was out, and Nita was the only member of his staff who’d stood by him.
Finley had been away at law school, but she’d heard about it from her father. Her worried calls to Jack had gone unreturned. By the time she was home again, Jack had pulled his shit together and started a new firm in this former church. After Derrick’s murder and Finley’s own very public fall from grace, Jack had brought her on board at his new firm. She hadn’t expected to be here nearly a year later. She’d expected to clock out (a.k.a. end it all), but Jack, his firm, her dad, and Matt had somehow given her the necessary motivation to go on. Even if she blurred that line from time to time, as she had last night with Whitney threatening to shoot her.
Don’t look back. It happened. It’s done.
Feeling considerably more human, Finley wandered back into her office and settled into her chair. The messages were from the calls she had ignored yesterday. Nita was well aware of this and had noted as much on the three yellow slips of paper.
You should answer and/or return your calls.
“Ha ha,” Finley muttered.
