Page 65 of The Devil You Know

“How do you know about her?” I demand. If Fields knows…it’s a wonder I’m even employed.

“When I arrived at FMG—” a hint of a smile creeps in at the corner of his mouth “—an associate suggested you were still doing pro bono work after Fields told you to stop. I went to check.”

If that’s true, then I should have been fired two years ago. I stare at my feet. “So…”

“So I watched you in court,” he says, “and then I told the associate in question he’d be fired if he mentioned your name again, but I’d make it worth his while if he didn’t. You deserve to take those cases.”

I stare at him in complete shock. Craig. He’s been throwing Craig work for two years for me.

“That was nice of you,” I whisper.

His smile is so gentle I can barely stand to look at him. “It was nicer of you.”

I excuse myself and walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I lean over the sink and weep silently, and I’m not even sure why.

34

The office is jovial the week before Christmas—there are constant treats in the break room and carols playing on Terri’s computer. I guess I’m kind of jovial too. Ben convinces me to get a tiny tree and we decorate it together, though we sort of half-ass it because Ben’s only in his boxers and we keep getting distracted. We watch It’s a Wonderful Life one night and he pulls me against him with a quiet laugh when I tear up at the end. “I knew you’d cry,” he says, pressing his lips to the top of my head. He says it, though, as if it’s a good thing.

I’m only going home for the weekend, though it’s more for my mother’s sake than mine. She’d have felt guilty asking for days off during the post-season rush, and guiltier still if she’d gone to work knowing I was waiting at her apartment.

I have a meeting Friday afternoon, and by the time I get back to the office to grab my suitcase, most of the staff, including Ben, is gone. On my desk sits a beautifully wrapped present, one I’m certain is from Ben though we agreed not to exchange gifts. It’s a pair of navy Louboutins I’ve been lusting after for months: leather that is made to look like denim and what must be nearly a five-inch heel. I have no idea how the hell he knew I wanted them.

The note says It’s as much for me as for you; therefore, not a gift.

Even his romantic gestures involve argument, but I clutch the note to my chest. It’s like he’s slowly prying me open after years of being shuttered closed, and I’m emerging into the sunlight at last, remembering how good it all is.

It’s really going to hurt if I have to give it up again.

I take the red-eye to DC and arrive early on Christmas Eve. My mother makes brunch for us, and I set the table. She’s still using the same plates and glasses she took when she and my father split up. I find that infuriating.

“God, Mom,” I say, “you’ve only got three plates left. I should have gotten you dishes for Christmas.”

“It’s just me,” she says. “Why would I ever need more than three plates? Besides, I already know what I want to ask you for.”

I glance at the clock. It’s noon and the mall probably closes in a matter of hours. “I hope it’s a new blender,” I say, taking a sip of the margarita she made me. It’s half ice.

“It’s not something you have to buy,” she adds. “First, I want you to come to mass with me today.”

I have to stifle a sigh, though I’d anticipated this one. My mother operates as if God is taking attendance and will dole out His goodness to those who show up most. I bet my dad hasn’t been to mass once in fifteen years, but she’s not one to let facts ruin things for her.

“Fine. What else?”

“I want you to go see your father on your way out Monday.”

My face falls. “Are you serious? Why?”

“Because you might not like what he did, but he’s still your father. He deserves to spend a few hours with his daughter on Christmas.”

I groan. “Mom, do you have any idea what efforts he’s made so that you wouldn’t see me? He’s spent over a decade trying to cut you out. I don’t understand how you can be so forgiving.”

“I’m forgiving, honey, because I see so much of him in you.”

I know she isn’t wrong, but it hurts anyway. “That’s pretty much the worst thing you could have said.”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult. You’re brilliant like he is, but you’re also more stubborn than is good for you, and you’re so busy looking for the worst in people that you don’t always see the best. Instead of thinking he tries to control you because he’s punitive, is it at least possible that he loves you also? Couldn’t it be both?”

“It’s easier just to write people off,” I whisper.