Page 7 of Gunnar

I can see my own tired reflection in the glass as I tip a wastebasket into a black trash bag beneath the polished mahogany desk of Daniel—Capote & Kline’s newest junior partner. His name is embossed in silver on the door outside. Inside, his diplomas line the wall in matching frames, each one a small monument to a life that worked out exactly as planned.

I used to picture those frames on my own wall.

I applied here once. Didn’t even get an interview. Now I empty their trash. Guess I couldn’t quite stay away.

I remove a half-drunk latte from his desk. Then I straighten the stack of deposition transcripts beside it. Old habits. I still read the case captions when no one’s looking. I still correct grammar in my head. I still know the difference between precedent and performance.

Daniel passed the bar on his first attempt. I missed it by four points.

Four.

I was working two jobs at the time. Full days here, night shifts at a diner across town. My mom had gotten fired—again—and I needed to cover her rent.

I scrub the faint ring his coffee has left on the desk and try not to think about that number. It has a way of resurfacing at inconvenient moments—like when I’m kneeling on an expensive rug, scraping dried gum from under a desk.

The firm keeps late hours, but by ten p.m., the attorneys are mostly gone, their glass offices dark except for the city lights beyond the windows—and this is when the cleaning crew comes in. The building sounds different at night. No phones. No assertive voices. Just ventilation and the soft whir of the floor buffer. I prefer it this way.

At least after hours, no one has to pretend I’m not there.

I tie off the trash bag and wheel my cart into the corridor. The wheels squeak dismally. I once drafted a mock appellate brief in my head while mopping this hallway, just to prove to myself that I still could. I won the argument, of course.

The eastern edge of the sky is lightening now. By the time the first associates arrive with their crisp shirts and protein shakes, the floors will gleam and I’ll be gone.

At last, I push open the door to the parking garage stairwell and breathe in the colder air rising from below. My shift should have ended an hour ago, but I volunteered to cover the extra floor. Overtime is overtime. Student loans do not care about dignity.

Some nights I tell myself this is temporary. A setback. A footnote in a long and impressive biography. Other nights, I accept that this may be the biography.

The garage is mostly empty. A few cars remain—black SUVs. German sedans.

I check my phone, yawning. Wonder whether I have any milk left in the fridge.

I’m halfway across the level when I hear voices.

Low. Pointed.

I slow instinctively.

Someone says something sharp. Another voice answers. I can’t make out the words.

It’s not my business.

I tell myself that and keep walking.

Then a new sound—a compact, muffled pop.

I pause, trying to fit it into something ordinary—a dropped tool, a car backfiring.

Then I turn the corner.

Two men between a concrete pillar and a black SUV. One of them is on his knees, hands lifted in an uncertain gesture.

The other is holding a gun.

There’s a second pop.

The kneeling man drops as if something inside him has been switched off.

The man with the gun lowers his arm.