Page 1 of Salem’s Fall (Dark Seasons Thriller #3)

Boston, Massachusetts

T he whooshing of the heater kicks on, startling me as it echoes through the empty halls of Whitehall & Rowe.

I’m all alone and still getting accustomed to the solitude.

The law firm is usually bustling with the energy of a high-octane circus, but tonight, it feels more like a tomb.

Almost everyone else is crammed into a hotel conference room downtown, across from the courthouse, prepping for Monday’s big trial.

Normally, I’d be right there with them, mainlining Starbucks and helping the partners prepare their openings, but instead, I’m here in my tiny office, working on a total snoozefest research memo. This is my punishment for failure.

I glance up at the glowing computer screen, my frustration simmering as I angrily peck away at the keyboard.

Top of my class at Harvard Law.

Summa cum laude.

Editor of the Law Review .

And yet, here I am, writing a ridiculous memo a first-year law student could handle, sidelined from the real work because I missed some stupid forensic report on my last case.

There was no real harm done, but one misstep was all it took to go from rising star to the firm’s black sheep.

Now I’m stuck in junior associate purgatory while one of the biggest white-collar criminal trials of the year is about to start.

Charles Brandt, CFO of juggernaut energy company Harborline Energy Corp.

, is accused of securities fraud. The case made all the papers.

Brandt could go away for the rest of his life if he’s found guilty—and my firm is defending him.

Of course we are.

Everyone knows we’re the best criminal defense firm in Boston.

Woodsen is only here because of her looks.

I shake my head, shoving aside the memory of Mark Sharma’s petty insults.

Mark is such an asshole. He’d been a complete dick when I’d screwed up a few weeks ago, telling anyone who’d listen that I didn’t belong here.

Mark is just a bitter senior associate at the firm who’s been gunning for my failure ever since I turned him down for drinks a few months ago.

I’ve dealt with guys like him my whole life.

Because of the way I look, people are always quick to judge me.

Underestimate me. I’ve heard it all before: The professors thought I was pretty—that must be why I got good grades.

The faculty advisor had a crush on me—that must be why I got the best internships.

I slept with hiring partners—that must be how I got my job at the most coveted criminal defense firm in the state.

Of course, none of it was accurate, and it all ignored the real truth: I was smart and worked my ass off. I kept my head down. I didn’t party or drink or do drugs. And I was willing to do whatever it took to succeed, except sleep my way to the top.

Still, all they saw was blonde hair and big boobs.

Whatever. Screw ’em.

I pull my focus back to the computer screen, the lines of text blurring as my vision narrows.

No, I refuse to be that girl, the one who fades into the background and accepts her fate.

I have too much to prove. If they want a research memo, I’m going to write them the best goddamn research memo this firm has ever seen.

Lucky hops onto my work desk, his sleek black fur catching the fluorescent light.

It’s ironic, having a black cat and living just miles away from Salem's Fall, a town famous around the world for its witch trials. Growing up in New England, I’d always heard black cats were supposed to be bad luck, but Lucky’s become family ever since I found him in an alley eight years ago.

The only family I really have around anymore besides my little sister Madison and my Aunt Aggie.

My cat stretches out, yawning like he’s had the hardest day of all, when he’s pretty much done nothing but gotten two delicious meals, oodles of treats, and countless naps.

“Tough life, kiddo,” I say, chuckling as I scratch behind his ears. “Don’t know how you do it.”

Lucky purrs in response, unfazed. Technically, we aren’t supposed to have pets in the office, but since this is going to be another brutally late night for me—and no one else is here anyway—I figure some rules are meant to be broken.

My phone buzzes on the table, and I groan as I see my little sister’s name flashing on the screen.

“Hey, sis! Guess where I am?”

Madison’s voice is too bright, too bubbly. Loud music pumping in the background tells me all I need to know.

She’s drunk.

“Maddie, you better not be calling me from a bar.”

“C’mon, James. It’s Friday night!”

“And midterms are coming up.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You should be in the library—studying!”

She giggles into the phone. “Well… I am with David, the hot guy from my study group I told you about. Doesn’t that count? ”

“No.” I rub my temples, one finger poised over the red “End” button. “Mads, I gotta get this memo done. Go home—please!”

“Aww, don’t be like that. This is your fault anyway.” I can practically hear her pouting into the phone. “We were supposed to go to dinner tonight, remember? And you flaked. Again. ”

“Hey, someone’s gotta pay rent and keep the pantry stocked with your organic gluten-free mac ‘n’ cheese and overpriced protein bars,” I fire back.

“Ha ha, very funny.” She huffs. “C’mon, Jamie. You always do this. You’re always blowing me off for some stupid work thing?—”

“Hanging up now?—”

“Fine, whatever. Can you Venmo me drink money at least?” Her voice turns pleading, and I can picture her standing inside some too-crowded bar, swaying in her high heels and some cute new dress she probably charged to my credit card without asking. “We want to get another round.”

“You promised you’d stay in and study tonight,” I say, trying to sound stern, though a part of me wishes I could trade places with her.

God, I’d love to be out. Dancing. Drinking.

Forgetting all about this damn job for a few hours.

But unlike Maddie—a college junior with a decent fake ID and no real responsibilities—I don’t have that luxury.

I never have, not even when I was her age.

I’d always been too busy working side jobs and hustling, taking care of her.

“Just one more drink, I promise! He’s soooo cute. You’d really like him?—”

“Madison—”

“Come on, help a sister out,” she says. “Remember, you’re the one that taught me not to let guys buy my drinks at the bar. So really, I’m just doing what you told me… ”

I sigh. I’m supposed to be the hotshot lawyer, but, even wasted, my little sister can negotiate circles around me. If only she’d apply those skills to her studies.

“Strangers,” I correct. “I told you not to let strangers buy your drinks. Let this David idiot buy you all the drinks he wants. He can probably afford it–unlike me.” I glance at the clock.

It’s almost midnight, and I’m too tired to keep arguing.

“I’ll send enough for one more round. Then straight home, okay? ”

“Thanks! Love youuuuuu!”

Madison hangs up, and I quickly pull up the app, sending her money.

I lean back in my chair, wondering for a moment what it must be like to be Madison.

How would it feel to be free of all responsibility and worry?

My constant and draining sense of duty. My fear of failure.

Ever since our mother died—and Dad went to prison for her murder—it’s been my job to take care of Madison.

She doesn’t know the half of what it costs me, but if I don’t take care of her, who will?

Lucky nudges me impatiently with his cold nose, hungry for a treat.

I give him a few catnip crunchies from my bag, and after eating them, he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

Off in the distance, the firm’s main phone line starts to ring over and over.

Even the late-night receptionist has gone home by now.

I settle back at my desk, staring angrily at my memo again.

I’m supposed to be summarizing the current state of the law for expungement of criminal records for minors, listing out all the procedures.

Some senior partner’s spoiled teenage daughter got caught shoplifting, and I need to help clear her record so she can get into an Ivy League school her daddy probably bought her way into.

Not exactly the thrilling work I dreamed of during my law school days.

I skim through a few Westlaw articles online, my eyes darting between the text on the screen and my own half- written sentences.

The assigning partner is expecting this on his desk tomorrow at 7 a.m., sharp.

My fingers hover over the keyboard as I glance at the clock again.

My deadline is looming, and I can’t afford another screwup, even on something as dumb as this.

I type into the search bar the address to a somewhat controversial legal website my best friend from law school, Katherine “Katie” Tang, told me about.

They have old memos and briefs on there.

It’s not something any self-respecting attorney would ordinarily use—sometimes the research is outdated.

And relying on it too heavily? That’s plagiarism.

Still, this is stupid busy work, and I could use a few hours of sleep tonight. Plus, someone’s gotta get home and make sure my rascal of a sister makes it back at a decent hour.

For a moment, I contemplate sleep and Maddie versus a teeny, tiny little ethics flub.

My moral compass quickly loses, and it’s not even close.

Just this once, right? It’s not like anyone’s going to know.

It’s just a minor expungement, erasing a stupid shoplifting case for an entitled brat. This isn’t exactly life-or-death.

“Whatever it takes,” I murmur, taking a deep breath and copying and pasting.

After that, all that’s left is a spell check. I’m almost done with the memo when my desk phone rings, the sound jarring in the otherwise silent building.

“James Woodsen,” I say, putting the call on speaker so I can keep typing.

“Where the hell is everyone?”

The booming voice on the other end is Quinn Kensington, one of the firm’s most powerful partners.

I straighten in my seat, a jolt of adrenaline coursing through my system.

At only thirty-one, Quinn Kensington is the youngest senior partner at the firm.

He was just named a “ Top 40 Under 40 Attorney” in the entire metro area and is the only son of state Senator George Kensington. He’s also movie-star handsome to boot.

Quinn is the partner responsible for hiring me, which is both a blessing and a curse.

A blessing because being under Quinn’s wing is the perfect place for any ambitious junior associate—unless said ambitious junior associate is also a pretty blonde, and then everyone assumes you were only hired because you must be sleeping with him. And I am very definitely not .

“They’re all in prep for the Brandt trial,” I answer. “Why? What’s going on?”

“We’ve just been assigned a new high-profile murder case.” He speaks fast, his words sharp.

“Okay… and?”

This is nothing new. We’re Whitehall & Rowe. We get new high-profile murder cases every week.

“It’s the Halloween Heiress Murder, Woodsen!” he snaps.

I suck in a deep breath.

“No way…”

The Halloween Heiress Murder is the murder case of the decade—maybe the century. It’s been all over the news for the past year.

Vivienne Van Buren, a high-profile socialite, was found stabbed to death last Halloween.

There was talk of dark cults and satanic panic.

No one knew what was real and what wasn’t.

The murder itself was beyond bloody and gruesome, but that alone wasn’t what made it so notorious.

It was the fact that she was the fiancée of Damien Blackhollow—the gorgeous billionaire mogul whose family owns half of New England.

“Someone’s finally been arrested?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. This is huge !

“Someone, yeah.” Quinn makes a strange sound in the back of his throat. “You could definitely say that…”

A flash of disappointment hits me, and I sink low into my chair. I can’t believe our firm has the Halloween Heiress Murder, and I’m going to be stuck writing damn memos for the foreseeable future.

“That’s awesome, Quinn. Congrats.”

“You’re the only one in the office right now, Woodsen? Are you sure there’s no one else?” he prods. “Anyone else?”

I groan, looking around the empty office. “Yeah, Quinn. I’m sure.”

He sighs. “Okay, listen up. I need you to meet me at the criminal courthouse in five hours for the bail hearing.” He pauses hesitantly. “Can you do that? No screwups this time.”

I try not to feel insulted by his tone. Sure, I understand this is a huge case, and right now, my reputation is on the rocks, but posting bail is something a damn paralegal can do. Not that I have anything against paralegals, but, well, it’s a bit of an ego knock.

“Yeah, Quinn. Of course I can do that.” I take a deep breath. “But listen, I understand if you still don’t trust me. I’m sure you can find someone else when the office opens in a few hours?”

“Can’t wait!” he snaps. “We have to get the client out of there before the media gets hold of this. It’s going to be a fucking shitshow once word gets out.”

“I won’t let you down again, Quinn,” I say and hit send on my email, shooting off my expungement research memo. “I promise.”

“I hope not. I’ll send you the details.”

“Okay, got it,” I say, excitement curling in my belly as I grab my laptop and my dog-eared copy of the local court rules, and tuck Lucky into my tote bag. He mewls loudly, annoyed to be woken up from his beauty sleep. “Wait—Quinn, who is it? Who’s the client?”

“Six a.m. on the dot,” he says, ignoring my question. “Do not be late!”

The line goes dead, and I’m left staring at the phone, still in disbelief.

Holy shit.

The Halloween Heiress Murder. The case every criminal defense lawyer in the state wants, and it’s landed right in my lap.

I don’t know whether to feel ecstatic or terrified.

Maybe both. But one thing’s for sure—I’m not writing any more memos this weekend.

If things go well tomorrow, I’m about to be sitting front and center at the biggest murder case of the year.