Finding Faith

Chapter One Faith Fitzgerald stared at him, not entirely sure she’d heard correctly. Finally, she cleared her throat, getting a modicum of her composure back in place. “Um, Devon, as in Devon Mitchell? Four-DUIs-last-year Devon Mitchell?” “Eh, we all make mistakes,” the older, well-dressed man sitting across the large desk from her said, waving his hand. The stone on the gold pinky ring he wore caught the light coming in from the large window behind him, one of many in his corner office. It was the office of Gordon Scott, one of the founding partners of Abbott, Scott & Jones. She cleared her throat again, a hand coming up from where it rested in her lap to push long, blond hair behind an ear, a nervous tick she’d had since childhood. “I was under the impression that the promotion would be going to me, sir,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm, even. “That’s what Ned indicated to me last month after I won the McHale case for the firm.” “Yes, you were great as support representation on that,” Gordon said, removing wire-framed glasses before he brought out a small bottle of cleaning solution and silk cloth to wipe down the lenses. “Sir, I was lead counsel, and I brought in nearly thirteen million dollars with our win—” “Of which, you got a nice bonus,” he responded, glancing at her from beneath bushy gray eyebrows as he continued to clean his glasses. She crossed one leg over the other where she sat, straightening out her skirt before responding. “Yes, I was able to put an extra month’s worth of rent in savings.” She managed a small smile. “Just in case.” “See that?” he asked, brows lifted and arms opening wide in dramatic gesticulation. “What boss would pay his employee’s rent unless she was awful good using something other than her brain?” She found his laughter disgusting and the comment degrading. As usual. “Mr. Scott, if I wasn’t called in here to get the promotion, why was I called in here?” She steeled herself, trying to keep her professionalism in place even as sweat began to gather under her arms and between her breasts. Gordon Scott had always made her the most uncomfortable of the partners, but he seemed to have kept most of his inappropriateness for the carousel of receptionists that paraded through the firm on what seemed like a monthly basis. “Glad you asked,” Gordon said, tossing his newly cleaned glasses to his desktop before stashing away the cloth and cleaner. “I need you to give Devon your notes on the Bastian case.” She stared at him for a moment. “Wait, what? You mean, the Bastian case I’ve been working for the past thirteen months? That Bastian case?” “Yes. Devon has now worked his way up to such a case with this promotion, so he’ll need your notes,” the older man said, as though the reason for his request was self-evident. He gave her a wide smile, bleached teeth unnaturally white. “When you’re here a few more years, you’ll understand that.” “Mr. Scott, Devon Mitchell has been here four years.” Her shock and disgust were beginning to flare into anger. “And, you’ve been here, what? Two? Three?” Incredulous, she looked down at her hands, which were now wringing in her lap. “Eleven,” she said quietly, knowing to argue was useless. It was done. Not wanting to hear another word, she pushed up from her chair, not even bothering to fix her skirt even as she could feel it riding up a bit on her left leg. “I understand,” she said, voice flat. “I knew you would,” the older attorney called after her, along with an invitation to join him personally for the celebration for Devon Mitchell’s promotion at his place. She ignored everyone and everything, encased in tunnel vision as she headed to her desk which was wrapped in her cube which was wrapped at the center of the cube maze that was her seven levels of hell. Reaching her cube, she plopped down in the desk chair and rattled the mouse to wake the computer screen. Clicking through her files, she found what she was looking for. “Hey.” She glanced up at the whispered voice, its owner peeking over the wall of their shared cube. “Hey, Marge,” she whispered back. “How’d it go?” the other attorney asked, six years and four divorces ahead. Her heavily lined brown eyes flicked toward the area where the partners’ offices were before returning to their initial target. “Not how, who,” she responded. “What do you mean? The who is you, that’s who,” Marge said, her hands joining her face as her fingers rested along the top of the dividing wall. “No.” She snorted. “The who is Devon Mitchell, that’s who.” “Faith!” “Marge!” Marge looked as though the air had been knocked out of her. “You are f*****g kidding me.” With a slew of undistinguishable curses, the older woman disappeared back into her cube. Slightly amused, she returned to the file she brought up on her desktop. She couldn’t help but wonder if her sorrows would wind up in Marge’s prayers at the bottom of a large glass of red that night with husband number five. Tucking her bottom lip into her mouth so she could chew on it, she studied the little file icon before her, titled simply, Case # F552-9—Bastian, Dale. She considered what was in it. More than a year of her hard work is what was in it. Her anger began to burn hot again, thinking of her entire career with the Manhattan-based firm. Eleven years, that’s what she’d given to them, doing nothing more than being an errand girl for the male attorneys. She did the legwork, asked the hard questions, only for them to take the glory when the judge ruled in their favor. Never was it taken into account that two of the biggest cases the firm had won had been from her work, including the McHale case, which she’d handled on her own when the attorney she’d been partnered with had to drop out when he was forced into rehab for his cocaine addiction. She’d won that case—she had—yet there she sat like a good little monkey in her cage as the boys congratulated themselves on promoting yet another of the breed to the Boy’s Club at the top. She glanced toward the opening of her cube and saw Devon across the way, in his cube, packing a box so he could move into the office at the end of the hall. Yes, it was a tiny office; yes, it typically smelled like urine because it was right next to the bathrooms and there was a plumbing issue; but damn it, it should have been hers. Devon looked up from his packing, the softball trophy that had always graced his desk in his hand. He raised it in salute as he met her gaze. She quickly looked away, disgusted. She highlighted the file and right-clicked on it. Her options box opened and she zoomed down to Send to, which she knew would offer her up the option to zip it up as a compressed file so she could email it to him. Another option caught her eye, too. She chewed on her bottom lip. The little white arrow tormented her, waiting there patiently for her to move it, to decide her fate. She glanced over at Devon again. He was laughing with one of the other attorneys, no idea what they were laughing at. She could guess, however, as the young man who’d joined Devon at his cube was moving his hips in a suggestive way, not difficult to discern what he was pantomiming. The two burst into boyish, locker room laughter. She tore her gaze away from them. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, a tiny person inside her head banging on the inside of her skull with a ball-peen hammer with every beat. Send to… Delete… Her decision made, she finished her task and shut down her computer before grabbing her purse, keys, phone, and the small cactus that sat on her desk. She hurried down the narrow aisle between cubes as quickly as her four-inch heels would allow, finally making it to the elevator. She dropped her badge and main office key into the potted fern placed against the wall beneath the panel with the two buttons for the two elevator cars: up or down. The shiny stainless steel doors whooshing open, she stepped into the car and looked out over her workplace of more than a decade. “f**k you all!” she cried just as the doors whooshed shut again, leaving her shouting at her own reflection. “Son. Of. A. b***h!” Eyes closed, Faith let out a long, guttural groan as her head fell back. “How did I do that?” Angry with herself, she tossed the belongings she’d carried with her onto the tiny end table that rested between the small couch and the front door in the postage-stamp-sized living room in her slightly-larger-than-postage-stamp-sized apartment in the Flatbush area of Brooklyn. $2,200 a month for 470 square feet of private paradise. She engaged the three locks on her door, chilled through the thin material of her blouse, her winter jacket left hanging on her chair in her haste to make her dramatic—yet sadly anticlimactic—departure from the office. Her thirty-five-minute subway ride had been filled with angry thoughts and silent rants, Faith far too busy in her own head to realize how cold she was. Shivering in the frigid November night, she hurried over to the tiny kitchen tucked into the corner off the living room next to the bathroom. She reached into the fridge to grab the large can of Folgers and set it on the small square of counter space. As she reached into the cabinet above for the coffee filters, it finally hit her. The tears came hot and fast. She dropped the bag of filters and buried her face in her hands, salty wetness sliding through her fingers, no doubt leaving behind gray trails from her mascara. “Damn it.” She sniffled, looking at the mess, chuckling at herself through her tears. She reached to turn on the hot water tap when there was a knock at her door. “Crap,” she muttered, ripping off a sheet of paper towel from the holder to scrub at her eyes and face as she hurried to the door. Looking through the fisheye peephole, she groaned when she saw a distorted image of one of her bosses. “Crap,” she said again, this time in a whisper. Shoving the used paper towel into one of the pockets in her skirt, she squared her shoulders in a feigned display of confidence before unlocking the door and pulling it open. Dressed in his ever-present overcoat and fedora, Ned Tuttle stood out in the hall. He had her coat slung over his arm. “Hey, Ned,” she said, her tone a bit sheepish. “Thanks,” she murmured, pulling the coat off his offered arm. “You didn’t have to bring it all the way over here.” “No, but since I never see you wear any other coat, I figured it’s the only one you’ve got.” He nodded at the small living room behind her. “Mind if I come in for a sec?” She stepped aside, allowing him to enter. They remained silent for a moment until he stood at the center of the room, fedora in hand. The overhead light shone down on the top of his scalp through his thinning brownish-gray hair. “Did you have to delete all your files?” he asked quietly, a bushy eyebrow raised. Though his tone was serious, Faith could see the amusement that she appreciated in his deep blue eyes. She tossed her coat to the love seat, the only thing that would fit in the small room and which wasn’t a whole lot bigger than a glorified chair. “It was a little drastic, I know.” She let out a breath, meeting his gaze. “I just had enough, Ned. Tired of being s**t on by a man who doesn’t appreciate anything or anyone but what benefits his sexist, misogynistic, narcissistic perception of the world.” Ned nodded, shoving his hands into the deep pockets of his London Fog. “You know, Gordon and I went to Harvard together. Long time ago, certainly, but, though he was always a narcissist, he was smart, a good lawyer, and a decent human being.” He shook his head and shrugged. “Somewhere along the way it all got mixed up in his head, I guess. He became the bastard you described so eloquently and accurately.” He smirked. “He was so angry that you deleted everything, he threatened to sue you for the cost of retrieving it with IT specialists.” Faith felt her blood go cold. “Oh god.” “Don’t worry,” he said, waving off his own words. “I won’t let that happen.” He studied her for so long, she began to feel uncomfortable. “What are you going to do now? If you like, I can introduce you to—” “I’m going home, Ned,” she said softly, surprised the words tumbled out of her mouth. She hadn’t even had enough time to consider what came next. “Yeah,” she said, nodding. It felt right. “Going home.” “Colorado, right?” Ned asked, lightly tapping his hat against his side. Faith nodded. “Yeah. Littleton.” Ned nodded and let out a heavy sigh. “Well…” He reached into his overcoat to the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out his wallet. “Here.” “No,” Faith said, raising her hand to stop him. “No, Ned. What I was going to use for a rainy day, well…” She smirked. “I just stepped out into a downpour.” “Doesn’t matter.” He stepped up to her and held out a stack of hundred-dollar bills. “I’ve watched you grow from an awkward, unsure duckling just three years past the bar exam to a beautiful swan, eleven years later, who is one of the best damn lawyers I’ve ever seen.” He wiggled the bills until she took them. “Ned, no, I can’t take this,” she said, breathless. “There’s five thousand dollars here.” She looked up at him with wide eyes. “I know, sorry about that. It’s all I could get my hands on tonight.” He grinned. “Damn convenience stores just don’t carry much cash these days.” She grinned, shaking her head. “Cute, but I can’t take this.” She tried to hand it back to him, but he stopped her, wrapping his large hands over hers. “Gordon told me you were at the top of his list for that promotion. That jackass Devon Mitchell wasn’t even on the list, so no clue where he pulled that one out of. You call Tisch in payroll tomorrow and give her an address you plan to be at, and I’ll make sure you get your final paycheck and all your untaken vacation and personal leave liquidated. Okay?” Faith nodded, stunned and greatly relieved. “Okay.” She met his fatherly gaze. “Thanks, Ned.” “You got it.” He put his hat back on his head with a flourish and walked past her to the door, turning to her once he’d gotten there, Faith meeting his gaze. “Go find yourself, kid. And,” he added, pointing a finger at her. “Don’t give up on the law. You’re too damn good at it.” With a wink, he left, closing the door softly behind him. Left standing alone in her living room, Faith forgot all about her coffee and her tears, and went to her tiny bedroom, not much bigger than a prison cell, and booted up her laptop. It was time to make some plans. The heels of her boots sounded hollow on the aged hardwood floors, the dull thuds echoing strangely in the empty space. She’d donated or sold all her furniture and anything that wouldn’t fit into the 2003 Honda Element she’d picked up for forty-eight hundred bucks. One thing about living and working in New York—a car wasn’t necessary. As she walked the empty rooms, arms crossed over her chest, she knew she wouldn’t miss the crappy windows that let in far too much cold. She wouldn’t miss the creepy dude who lived across the hall and somehow “magically” would leave and arrive home at the same time she did at least four days a week. She wouldn’t miss the noise, the never-ending business of the City, and she sure as hell wouldn’t miss a thing about the firm. She considered for a moment: just what would she miss after her eleven years living and working there? She smiled as she considered the pastries. Ultimate Bakery, just down the street, had bread to die for and pastries to kill for. Yeah, she’d miss those. She ran a finger along the windowsill in the bedroom, the only decent-sized windows in the place. Many a plant had gone there to die before she’d given up, admitting her green thumb was a figment of her hopeful imagination. The thing that struck her in that moment, however, was that, other than perhaps Ned, there wasn’t a single person she’d miss, not even Marge. In eleven years, she knew more about Julio, the guy who ran the front counter of her favorite sandwich shop, than she did about the person who’d occupied the cube next to hers for six years. She’d learned early on working for the firm that any sort of private life wasn’t in the job description. Her time, day or night, was expected. So, after a handful of dates, she’d given up and had dedicated herself to her job and her vibrator. She let out a heavy sigh, part sadness and disappointment of the corpse that had become her hopes, but also a bit of relief. She had no clue what was ahead, but she knew for sure it was the open road. According to her GPS, she’d have twenty-eight hours of driving time to figure it out.