Page 6 of Salem’s Fall (Dark Seasons Thriller #3)

W e’re going to lose this case.

A highly uncommon murder weapon with a direct chain of custody tied to our client, plus his fingerprints are all over it.

It’s almost too easy for the prosecution…

Either Damien is guilty as hell, or he’s being framed by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

Either way, this case is already going to shit, and we’ve barely begun.

It’s all I can think about as we finish up our initial prep meeting with Damien, and the feeling only gets worse after he leaves for the day to go back to house arrest and his palatial Boston estate.

I should feel relief after he’s gone. There’s finally room to breathe in the War Room without him sucking up all the oxygen with his powerful presence.

But instead, the unease lingers in my chest, twisting uncomfortably.

There’s something about this that feels all wrong.

It doesn’t help that this case is also starting to seem just a bit too familiar. I usually try not to think about what happened to Mom—life is easier that way—but the eerie similarities between the two murders strike a chord I can’t ignore.

Just like Damien’s fiancée, my mother was found slain inside our house, the victim of a brutal knife attack.

The authorities also found weird markings on her body and on the bedroom walls and floor nearby, some kind of runes or symbols, they said.

And the murder weapon was also dumped far away from the house, right near my dad’s office building.

Yes, an office building also owned by Blackhollow Industries.

Although that was the old building downtown, and not the new one on Congress Street, it’s still quite the series of striking coincidences.

In contrast to Vivienne Van Buren’s high-profile case, my mother’s murder flew under the radar, probably because my family were a bunch of nobodies. The state prosecutor never even touched the occult angle in her murder. They didn’t make much of anything, actually.

The State labeled it a tragic but run-of-the-mill domestic violence case.

They never even tried to find any other suspects, even though my dad had no criminal history or record of violence, and my parents had a picture-perfect marriage right up until my mom’s death.

They’d been married almost twenty years, and I don’t recall ever seeing them fight, not once.

The only arguments they ever got into were about money and even those never lasted long.

Unfortunately, my dad didn’t have the money or resources that Damien has, so they threw the book at him.

He was tossed in prison without any real investigation or a fair trial.

It’s the reason I decided to become a lawyer—to ensure others like my dad get fair representation and real justice is served.

This Whitehall & Rowe gig is just to gain experience and save up enough money so Maddie and I can live comfortably.

The end goal is to have my own law firm one day or maybe even become a judge.

Someone important with the power and resources to make a difference.

“Lunch is here!” Holly announces, bursting through the door with an armful of fishy-smelling plastic bags. She beams proudly, as if she’s prepared a seven-course feast rather than simply placed a delivery order, and begins laying out sushi platters for everyone. “It’s Quinn’s favorite—Sushi Hero. ”

As she winks at her boss, my stomach churns. I feel queasy staring at the piles of crab, shrimp, and lobster rolls.

“Holly, don’t you remember? Woodsen is allergic to shellfish,” Quinn says and turns to me, looking apologetic as everyone else starts swarming the food.

“Oh, she is?” Holly’s face is the picture of innocence even though she damn well knows this, nor is this the first or even the second time she’s somehow “forgotten” my deathly allergy. “I’m so sorry, James,” she says, voice dripping with fake sincerity.

“It’s fine. I’m not really hungry,” I say even as my stomach growls loudly in disagreement, making a liar out of me.

“You sure, hun?” Holly asks with a watery smile. “I can bring you some menus. You can order something for yourself, if you like.”

This is not Holly being nice.

It’s literally in Holly’s job description to help attorneys order their lunch, along with booking travel and other administrative tasks so we don’t spend our clients’ time and money for things like this.

She knows this. I know this. Everyone in the damn room knows this.

But if I make it into a big deal, I’m the one who’s going to look like a petty brat.

This is a passive-aggressive bitch move at its finest. Annoyingly impressive, really.

“I’m sure,” I say. “Thanks anyway.”

“This looks amazing, Holls!” Mark grins happily as he loads up his plate with food and takes his seat again. “I still can’t believe Blackhollow was dumb enough to leave the murder weapon at his own building. What a moron, huh?” he asks through a mouthful of sushi.

“That’s the thing,” Quinn says, tapping his chopsticks against the edge of the table, deep in thought.

“Blackhollow is one of the most brilliant men I know. If he had killed her, there’s no way he’d be careless enough for that.

” He shakes his head. “No, that little fuckup can’t possibly be his, but it’s designed to look like it is, so now we’ve got to deal with it.

Plus, the alibi he gave us is far from solid.

That’s two strikes, right out of the gates, and we haven’t even gotten into discovery yet. ”

“Not to mention the personality problems.” I snort. “The guy doesn’t even remember the woman he spent the night with while his poor fiancée was home getting butchered.” I roll my eyes. “That’s going to go over great with the female jurors.”

I feel a twinge of disgust. It’s clear how disposable people—especially women—are to this man.

“That’s the least of our concerns,” Mark says, waving a dismissive hand in my direction. “We’ve got way more pressing things here than worrying about a few silly women’s sensibilities.”

“Mark’s right.” Quinn sighs. “That’s easy enough to fix with good coaching. But the evidence and lack of alibi… it’s a real problem.”

There’s worry in his voice, and Quinn doesn’t worry often. That’s how I know this is bad.

“Couldn’t we start by looking for security footage, like you suggested? Not just the Gala, but around Damien’s house?” I ask. “He could have home security cameras. Or maybe there are nearby buildings with CCTV cameras that picked something up?”

“From a year ago?” Mark smirks. “Good luck with that.”

“Sorry, Woodsen. Don’t think so,” Quinn says.

“The Gala idea you had, though, Quinn? That might work,” Mark says.

“I recall hearing about an investigation hold last year on the museum party footage. If we can get hold of those tapes, they could give us some clarity on Blackhollow’s movements that night—or at least help disprove the prosecution’s timeline. ”

“Excellent idea,” Quinn says. “What else do we have?”

I want to say something and contribute, but it feels like every time I do, Mark just shoots me down. And Quinn, while much nicer about it, seems to keep agreeing with him. Mark has made it clear he thinks I’m out of my depth here, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s right.

“There’s the knife,” Mark continues. “We should check security footage from the office building. See if we can catch who put it there.”

“Yes, that’s good,” Quinn says. “I feel certain it won’t be Blackhollow.”

“Then we’ll find someone who had it in for Blackhollow,” Mark says, leaning forward, his tone gaining an edge of excitement. “Someone who stole the guy’s fancy knife, got his fingerprints all over it, killed the fiancée, then left it on Blackhollow’s company property where they knew it’d be found.”

I groan out loud. “You sound like a silly Criminal Minds episode,” I say, unable to keep silent any longer. This is getting absurd. “You really think a sane, rational jury is going to believe that?”

This case, it’s a total mess. The deeper we dig, the more tangled it gets. There’s no solid alibi, no witnesses to corroborate Damien’s story, and now there’s a weapon with his prints on it. Everything points to guilt.

“You know what, James?” Mark’s voice drips with sarcasm. “I don’t hear you coming up with any brilliant ideas. Or are you still a bit gun-shy after your last screwup?”

The comment lands like a punch, my face heating with shame and anger. I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing myself not to react. Not to let him see how deep it cuts.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He turns to Quinn with a smug look. “Look, Quinn, this is a high-stakes case. We can’t afford dead weight. Maybe we should look for another junior associate to staff on this? ”

My pulse pounds in my ears as the room falls silent. The paralegals stop eating, stunned. Even Holly gasps at the outright rudeness.

“Knock it off, Mark,” Quinn snaps, irritated.

“No, Quinn. He’s right. Maybe I shouldn’t be on this case,” I say, closing my computer with a huff.

Quinn’s eyes flick to mine, and for a moment, I see disappointment there. He’s always supported me, always thought I had potential, even if he is still wary after my last failure. I can tell he wants to trust me, but he’s cautious.

And he’s smart to be.

“Now, we’re getting somewhere.” Mark grins at me like he’s just won some kind of prize. “You’re finally starting to make sense, Woodsen. This case is going to be tough, and we need people who can handle the pressure. You’re not one of them.”

His words sting, but in a way, they also confirm what I’ve been feeling all day. This case is a train wreck. Damien is not a good man, and I doubt he’s an innocent one either. All the signs are there. And when we lose—because we will lose—it’s going to reflect poorly on me.

I can’t take a second failure. I’ll be finished at this firm.