The message was loud and clear: Randall believed that Kate hadn’t earned her stripes at LMB yet. There was an even more subtle message, one she’d picked up from the cool smiles at the coffee station and the muted conversations in the elevators. LMB was an exclusive club. Entry to this club for junior associates was usually gained in law school, through possession of a high-octane combination of attitude, background and marks.
She hadn’t made the cut in law school. Her marks fell in the critical second year when the large firms recruited their clerks, thanks to working extra hours to pay her way while dealing with her ill mother. Her mother finally succumbed to too many years of grief compounded by double shifts and heart disease.
But Kate managed to keep it together. She graduated with decent, but not stellar, marks. By then the only articling positions left were with poorly paid small practices. Although they offered a wealth of hands-on experience, the salary was peanuts and career advancement was a new ergonomic chair. She wanted complex, challenging files. Something to sink her teeth into that would pave the way to a career with a six-figure paycheck and a seat on the bench.
Taking a position at Marshall & Associates was definitely going about it the long way. Crammed with overlarge antique furniture that Madelyn Marshall had a passion for buying on weekend jaunts to Mahone Bay, the firm had a homey feel that reassured its walk-in everyday joe clients. Kate’s articling office had been converted from an old bathroom. It had borne the slight must of its previous functions. She’d kept the window open, even in the winter, promising herself that by next year she would not be at a firm where she had to hide long johns under her suit.
Getting her foot in the door in LMB was the first step. But it wasn’t enough. She’d played the good girl for four months. She’d worked diligently on all those family files. It was time to let them know she wasn’t going to take a backseat to all the other first-year associates. “You haven’t given me any other files except family law cases. How can I show you that I can handle the files if you won’t give me any?”
John steepled his fingers. Kate had the feeling he knew exactly how frustrated she was. “That’s the point I made with Randall,” he said finally. “I agree with you, Kate. You’ve worked here for four months and, so far, the reports have been good.” He lowered his voice. “I had it out with Randall today. It’s time to give you some litigation files.”
Yes.
Triumph flushed her cheeks. But on its heels was unease. She didn’t want the partners arguing over her. She wanted to be part of the team. She wanted to be cushioned by the corporate safety net that a firm like LMB offered. The last thing she wanted was to be the hot potato in a power play.
There’d been whispers leaked from the partners’ floor that both John and Randall had been up for managing partner last year. Randall had won the vote. Handily. Judging from Randall’s relaxed arrogance earlier in her office, it was probably true. She studied John again. Strain marked his suave features, making him look all of his fifty-odd years. It must be galling for the lion who’d founded the firm to be in a winner-take-all fight with the bullish Randall.
John leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Kate, I want you to help me out on a file. You are probably aware that TransTissue, Inc., is one of my clients.”
Her heart accelerated. Here it was. A chance to prove herself. She flipped open her notebook. “TransTissue makes surgical products, right?” She wanted to let John know she’d done her research on LMB’s clients before she joined. She may be the protégée of a lion whose supremacy was on the wane, but right now he was the only partner who was willing to back her. She’d do her best for him. And hope that neither of them got gored by the bull in the process.
His lips curved in a small smile, acknowledging her efforts. “Correct. They are based in Toronto, but eighteen months ago they opened a plant—if you wish to call it that—in Halifax.”
Kate nodded. “It was on the front page of the paper.”
“It provided two hundred high-tech jobs, with the promise of more opportunities as their product lines develop.” John spoke like a proud father. He picked up the legal-size document with the pale blue triangle. “This is a statement of claim filed against TransTissue this morning. The plaintiff is a young man named Brad Gallivant, twenty-three years old, who claims he contracted hepatitis C from one of their products.”
He handed the document to her. Kate skimmed it eagerly. According to the plaintiff, the defendant had negligently processed a tissue product that resulted in grievous personal injuries to him. “What exactly happened to Mr. Gallivant?”
John drummed his fingers on his desk. “He had arthroscopic surgery on his knee. The orthopaedic surgeon used a tissue filler product to plug a hole in the cartilage. Several months later he tested positive for hep C.”
“So the plaintiff is accusing TransTissue of supplying an infected product?” Kate asked.
“Yes.” John closed the folder. “Of course, our client vigorously maintains that their products are up to standard.”
“It couldn’t be the filler, could it? Isn’t it inert matter?” She tapped her pen against her lip. The defense was already taking shape in her head. God, she’d missed the fun of crafting an argument that wasn’t an endless variation on custody support. “Wouldn’t it be more likely that the disease was contracted either through a blood transfusion or from the plaintiff’s lifestyle?”
“That’s what our client says. But it’s a little more complicated than that, Kate.” There was a hint of amusement in John’s eyes. “The products are not manufactured from inert matter.”
Her mind raced. She knew she should know the answer to this. “Right. They make the products from live cells.” She weighed the implications for the defense: they’d have to fight accusations of substandard laboratory procedures, infection transmitted by lab technicians—
“They don’t use live cells,” John said. “The tissue filler products are made from—” a small smile curved his lips “—cadavers.”
“Cadavers?” She stared at him. “They use dead tissue in surgical procedures?”
It was clear John had enjoyed shocking her. He nodded. “Yes. It’s processed at TransTissue and then used in dental surgery, neurosurgical procedures and many orthopaedic procedures. You know, hip replacements, ACL repairs, the list goes on.”
“Ugh.” Kate grimaced. She’d be a lot more careful about her joints from now on. Time for new running shoes. “Where does it come from?” At John’s wry look, she added quickly, “I mean, where does TransTissue get the cadaveric tissue?”
“There are suppliers who harvest the tissue from bodies. Kind of like organ donors. The harvested tissue is sent to TransTissue to make into surgical products.” His voice became thoughtful. “One body can go a long way to help a lot of people.” He walked around his desk and handed her the file. “Here. Have a look at these notes and tell me what you think about this claim.”
Kate nodded, slipping the claim into the folder. John sat behind his desk and flipped open another file.
She headed to the door. “When do you need it by?”
He smiled. “They’re a top client. Have it ready for Monday.”
Chapter 4
Damn, damn and double damn.
Kate jogged through the dim parkade to her car. It was 8:35 p.m. She bet that Alaska was starving and upset by now. She threw her briefcase onto the backseat of her four-year-old Toyota sedan and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life. She gripped the wheel tightly, weaving her way slowly through the near-empty parkade to the street.
It was dark, but it was a Friday night and Haligonians had spring fever even if the weather didn’t. She was scared she’d hit some drunken university student celebrating the end of exams at the pubs connecting every street corner. So she crawled through the downtown core, her nerves on edge. She turned up Spring Garden Road, with its bright, alluring storefronts.
She gritted her teeth in frustration at the pedestria
ns that crossed the street willy-nilly in the dark. Did they have a death wish? It was only after she drove through the intersection of South Park Street that she relaxed. She was almost home. Her neighborhood bordered Hollis University, a pretty, leafy area in the south end of the city with century-old houses.
Drizzle sent little streams of wet scurrying across the windshield. It would rain soon. She hoped it would hold off until Alaska had been out in the yard. It was bad enough having a white carpet of husky fur all over her house, but it was even worse when it was wet and smelled of dog.
Five minutes later, she turned down her street. She pulled into her driveway. The house was shrouded in darkness. She’d forgotten to replace the burned-out porch light. Again. A street lamp illuminated the skeletal branches of a tall maple, creating disconcerting shadows on her opaque upstairs windows.
A familiar disquiet churned her stomach. Stop it. It will be different in the summer. When it’s still light at 9:00 p.m. and the trees are green.
The thought didn’t help her symbol of success feel any homier. Why couldn’t she revel in the satisfaction of new ownership? Irritated with herself, she threw open her car door. Her house loomed over her. A movement flashed in the picture window.
She grabbed her briefcase and raced up the walk. Furious scrabbling on the wooden floor announced her arrival as she unlocked the heavy oak door.
“Hey, boy!”
With an excited whine, the pure white husky threw himself against Kate. He was the only reason her house could claim to be a home. She hadn’t realized it until he’d moved in.
She knelt down and buried her face in his soft fur. The dog licked her hand, then danced in circles down the hallway. There didn’t appear to be a paper trail this evening. It never ceased to amuse her that she, a lawyer, would be the owner of a dog who seemed obsessed with leaving one, usually comprised of toilet paper but sometimes home decorating magazines when Alaska needed a little color in his life.
She followed the husky through the kitchen. And winced when she saw the puddle on the vinyl floor.
She cleaned up the mess, wishing she could wash away her guilt as easily. Now that she was on the TransTissue file, there would be many more evenings like this. She’d have to figure out something for this dog who’d adopted her. He gazed up at her, happiness in his blue gaze. Guilt stabbed harder. She scratched behind his ears. “Let’s go for a walk.”
The eager wagging of his tail lifted her spirits. Her dog’s simple pleasures had become hers in less than a week. “Give me one more minute, boy,” she called, bounding up the worn walnut staircase. She pulled off her work clothes, throwing them on the bed, and changed into track pants and a fleece-lined rain jacket. Alaska whined below.
“I’m coming!” She ran down the stairs, snatching the last apple from the fruit bowl. The husky bounced around her heels while she attached his leash.
“We’re just going around the block,” she warned him as they stepped outside. “We both need supper.” Alaska’s tail thumped a Morse code of agreement.
Drizzle fell onto her head. She forced herself not to pull up her hood. You made the choice to live here. And besides, you don’t need to hide. It’s different now.
Every fiber of her body ignored her pep talk, wanting to disappear. To shrink under the cover of her hood so no one would recognize her. But she wouldn’t do that anymore. She’d remade herself. Created the future she’d always wanted. And today she had been given the chance she’d been craving for a long, long time. A chance to climb the ladder that, until now, had hung beguilingly out of her grasp.
She wouldn’t let herself be dragged back down.
Was that why she had moved back here? Some crazy impulse had hit her in January. Whether it was the need to clean out the cobwebs of her life, or celebrate her new job, it had fueled the purchase of this house on her old neighborhood street. An impulse she didn’t care to examine but was sure a therapist would have a field day with. At the time, it was an act of defiance, of independence. Of proving to Ethan that she wasn’t ashamed of who she was.
It was only after she recklessly bid on the house that it occurred to her there might be people living on her street, twenty years later, who would recognize her.
Alaska paused to sniff the hydrant. Kate breathed in the damp spring air, studying the houses lining the street. The dark hid the occasional sagging porch, old windows and peeling paint—a hallmark of the homes that had been converted into student flats.
When she’d lived on this street as a child, it’d been a family neighborhood. With kids her age, bicycles and skipping ropes strewn on the sidewalk. Now it housed either entrenched elderly or nomadic university students. It was both a relief and a source of sorrow to realize there were no reminders of her childhood here.
Her stomach growled. The caffeine from her coffee had dissipated, leaving her hungry and tired. “Come on, boy, let’s get going. I’m starving.”
* * *
The envelope on the car seat appeared empty, but Ethan Drake couldn’t stop himself from glancing at it every few seconds.
He turned left, then slowed down, surprised to see the neighborhood Kate now lived in.
He frowned. Why had she moved back here after what she’d done? The fact he didn’t know the answer ate away at him. Another sign that he really didn’t know her, had never known her.
Her house was easy to find, close to the corner. Her car was in the driveway. Good. She was home. He couldn’t deny the spark of satisfaction that she wasn’t out on a Friday night.
He parked his Jeep on the street, grabbed the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket. Walk slowly, take your time.
Easier said than done. Now that he was here, need surged in him. The need to see Kate. The need to hear Kate tell him she was wrong. To see his suffering reflected in her eyes. To know that she was just as confused as he was about why things ended the way they did.
He deserved an explanation.
What if she doesn’t give you one?
He ignored that niggling doubt and jogged up the porch steps. It was dark. The light had burned out. The cop in him noted this fact with concern. Kate needed to get it fixed.
It was a perfect opening line: I was driving by and noticed your light was out.…
He shook his head.
You’re an asshole.
She wasn’t likely to fall for that. His pulse began to race. What would she do when she saw him on her doorstep? Would she invite him in?
Or would she slam the door in his face?
He’d said some pretty harsh things to her. But damn it, he’d been hurt as hell. The bubble that had enveloped him on Christmas Eve had been rudely burst one week later. “Auld Lang Syne” had had a whole new meaning by the end of New Year’s Eve. Old acquaintances had refused to be forgotten, crashing the party with secrets in their pockets.
He ran his hand over his hair. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the doorbell.
Silence.
He pushed the doorbell again.
Silence.
The bloody thing didn’t work. Just like the porch light. Kate needed a little help on the upkeep. He thrust away the obvious thought: if they were still together, he’d have this place sparkling by now.
He peered into the oblong windows flanking the front door. A light was on in the back.
He knocked on the door.
No responding footsteps inside.
Shit. Where was she? He peered through the glass again. It was cloudy with age and streaked from drizzle, but he would’ve been able to see movement if someone was home.
He knocked again.
No answer.
Heat suddenly flamed in his neck. Of course. What a friggin’ idiot he was. Hard to believe he was a bloody detective when he couldn’t put two and two together.
Kate’s car was here, but she wasn’t, because it was Friday night and some guy had come and picked her up and was taking her out to a nice restaurant, and he was standing on her front porch in th
e fucking freezing drizzle with a fucking envelope stuffed in his pocket.
He’d had it all planned out. What he’d say—“I found this under the sofa”—how’d he act. But she always seemed to pull the rug out from under him.
Man, how fucking stupid could he be?
No more stupid than you were on New Year’s Eve.
He spun on his heel, taking the front porch steps two at a time, and stalked toward his car.
A large dog lunged toward him.
He leaped back. Not far enough. The dog jumped on him.
“Alaska!” The owner pulled futilely on the dog’s lead.
Ethan stared in disbelief. “Kate?”
Since when did she have a dog? Pain sliced through him. Anger added a satisfying sting. She’d never called him. Never apologized. Just left him scrambling for his engagement ring on the floor of Bob MacDonald’s house.
Within weeks, she’d gone to the enemy camp and joined LMB. Then bought a house. Now a dog. What more could she do to show that he had meant nothing to her?
The dog’s front paws were still planted on his chest. Ethan stared into its ice-blue eyes. He fought to control his anger. It wasn’t the dog’s fault. “Down, boy,” he said, pushing him away.
The dog grinned and jumped down. Kate stepped closer. “Ethan?” The quiver in her voice betrayed her shock. Mist beaded tendrils of hair around her face. Her eyes shone with a clear amber light that pierced right to his heart. Shit, how could she still do this to him? When he knew, he knew, that the light in her eyes was deceptive. “What are you doing he—”
The dog poked his muzzle in Ethan’s crotch.
“Alaska!” Kate cried, yanking his leash. The dog pulled his muzzle out and strolled over to a light pole, lifting his leg. A graceful arc of pee shone under the streetlight.
“Nice,” Ethan said. If he hadn’t been so angry, he might have seen the humor in this. The dog had summed up his relationship with Kate with brutal efficiency: sniffing his crotch, then pissing on the sidewalk.
[Kate Lange 01.0] Damaged Page 3
