After over-spraying perfume in the hope it might cover the morgue smell, I drove to work. Only Mr. Palmer's and Wash's cars were in the deck. It was too early for anyone other than straight-up kiss-ass associates to be at work. I guess I was the only one of those.
I snagged my recorder off my desk and maneuvered down the hall to Wash's office. The door was closed, and some sort of argument was going on inside. What the hell?
I kicked off my heels and crept closer, my bare feet silent on the marble.
"It's not something we do at this firm, Wash. You know that!"
"I know. I know. Look, I've been meaning to tell you about it. I wanted to have a sitdown, the three of us, and discuss it."
"Dammit, Wash. This isn't something you can just discuss. I have to fix it. She's been a great associate up until now. And now, I can't let her stay here if you two are going to continue what you're doing."
My heart seemed to stop and I froze. Me. They were talking about me.
"Trent, there's no reason for this to have to force her out."
"Yes, there is. This firm has a strict policy on that, and you know it. Hell, you helped write it. We don't want to be known as one of the predatory firms that goes through a lot of associates, especially not female associates. And especially not because of fraternization." Mr. Palmer's voice had reached a fever pitch. "This is our very reputation you're messing with."
"I can fix this." Wash's voice grew in intensity, anger roiling in its tone. "We've managed to keep it professional at work. We can keep doing that."
"You know that won't work." A slapping sound, as if Mr. Palmer had slammed his hand down on Wash's desk. "I don't want to have to terminate her, but I will to save this firm's good name."
"It's not her fault." Wash's voice was a sharp bark.
"Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I hate that she's the one that has to be punished for your fuckup? She has to go. I can't very well fire you. We're partners here. This is the only way."
"I can fix it."
"No, you can't. I've already decided. She has to go. I'll give her two more weeks to transfer her workload on the Bayou Butcher case, but after that she's out."
"Trent-"
"That's it, Wash. She's gone."
"Fine, she's fucking gone," Wash yelled.
If my heart had stopped, it began to beat again, but only like a bird in a cage, flapping its wings too hard against the bars and destroying itself in the process. I backed down the hall and grabbed my shoes, my tears hitting the floor in small, silent splashes.
I sat in my car, for once glad I didn't get the choice parking enjoyed by the partners. I could stay here for a while and just let the tears fall. No one would see me. Not Mr. Palmer, not Wash. Their conversation was on repeat in my mind. Wash putting his career, his firm's reputation, ahead of what we might have had together.
I wanted to go home, crawl under my covers, and stay there until I heard Terrell's key in the lock, but he wouldn't be home for days. I was alone. My tears came faster at the thought, and I couldn't cover my sobs anymore. I was the stupid associate who fell for the boss and would pay the price. God, had I not seen enough movies or read enough books about this very thing? I was a living cliché.
Wash's bright eyes flashed across my mind, his dimples, his messy hair. All of it was a dagger embedded beneath my ribs. I let myself cry, let the hurt out in the small space of my car, surprised the windows didn't burst from the pressure.
I toyed with blowing the case and driving to Lafayette to see Terrell. No. I wouldn't. I wouldn't let the boys' club win. I forced myself to dry it up, to sit up straight, to stop being the girl Mr. Palmer had painted me as.
The gaping hurt in my chest wasn't visible to the naked eye. Only I knew it was there. I flipped down my visor mirror and examined the wreck that was my face. With shaking hands, I reached into my purse and grabbed my makeup bag. Fifteen minutes of work and I looked human again. No more tear streaks, no more smeared mascara. I looked almost like the same person who walked out of my apartment this morning. Only I knew the difference.
I started the car, resolved to see this day through and then start job hunting. I couldn't think about Wash. I wouldn't. I drove to the hospital in a mourning haze. The conversation was still stuck on repeat, but this time playing like a dirge. The bright sun rising over the river didn't seem to notice the darkness that had sucked me down.
I followed the familiar path to the morgue, greeting the man at the front desk and telling him I was there for the autopsy. He waved me through. I took a deep breath and pushed past the first set of doors, the now-familiar smell of death wafting to my nose.