Page 89 of The Wrong Monster

Rain streaks across the windshield as the car pulls up outside the prosecutor’s office in Elizabethtown, turning the town gray and slick beneath the morning sky. I sit for a second after the engine stops, staring at the building ahead.

This should feel normal. I’ve done this a hundred times.

Walk into a government building. Sit across from a prosecutor. Negotiate. Threaten, if necessary. Find the weakness and exploit it.

That’s my job.

But when I step out of Vasily’s dark, sleek car, something feels different.

I take a slow breath. Maybe it’s the car. Maybe it’s the man waiting inside for me.

Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m representing a man whose freedom matters to me beyond the case, and to the man I’m sleeping with.

I look at the building through the haze of spring rain.

For years, I’ve drawn a line between people like me and people like Vasily. Between defending someone in court and welcoming him into my life. Between doing my job and letting it become personal.

Somewhere along the way, I’ve stepped over that line. I just didn’t notice when it happened.

Art stands beside the car, his expression impassive beneath the umbrella, which looks comically small in his large grip. He’s here for my protection, which is both reassuring and deeply unsettling. I could turn around. I could get back into the car, refuse to do this, and wonder whether last night’s promise would survive his anger. I want to believe it. I’m not there yet.

But then what?

Mikhail goes down, and Vasily’s empire takes the hit. And then what happens to the people connected to it? The employees, the legitimate businesses, the people who have nothing to do with the criminal side; they could get dragged into the fallout. People like Kevin’s mother, or Kevin himself, who is still recovering from his injuries.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

I square my shoulders. I’m a lawyer. I know how to do this.

Whatever I think about Vasily, whatever I’ve started to think about the people around him, I can still do my job.

I turn toward the entrance, ignoring Art when he follows a few steps behind. He has to stretch out a massive arm to get the umbrella over my head; he fails. I can feel the rain pearling and beading in my curls. I’ve worn them loose today, with a wrap dress and heels. I’m dead set on trying to put myself back in the right mindset with pieces of my life I’ve stepped away from, although temporarily.

The rain beats against the pavement as I walk inside. Arthur peels off at the entrance, eyeing the metal detectors and waiting to the side.

Before they call us into the conference room, Mikhail and I get a few minutes alone. He’s dressed in the characteristic orange two-piece jumpsuit. It’s a size too big judging by the way it hangs off his shoulders. I sit across from him, keeping my voice low.

“I don’t recommend taking the deal.”

His eyebrows lift. “None of it? I haven’t even heard it.”

“Twenty-five years is their opening position. That’s what they sent over last night. I want you to hear why I think we can fight it.”

He shifts in his chair, fingers worrying at the edge of the table. For the first time, I see just how nervous he really is. His eyes flash back and forth as if he’s reading a book, though there isn’t one in front of him. It’s the accountant in him analyzing, assessing risk.

“Matilda, maybe we should at least hear what they’re offering.”

“We will. And if they change the terms, we discuss those too.”

“It could be a reduced sentence.”

“It would be. A conviction at trial could mean longer. I’m not going to pretend that risk doesn’t exist.”

He exhales sharply. “I’d like to consider my options.”

“You should.” I lock eyes with him, maintaining a hard gaze so he understands that I’m not playing games. “Vasily pays the bill, but he doesn’t enter your plea. You do. I advise you, and I need you to tell me when you disagree.”

His eyes narrow. “Even if what I decide isn’t what he wants?”