After Marcus Forrester leaves, I can't find it in me to concentrate on briefings and discovery. I don't even have the luxury of doing something completely mind-numbing like making photocopies. Instead, I keep replaying our conversation and the town hall, trying to figure out how I could have better protected myself from this mess. I blame Hughes.

So after I waste an hour pretending to be productive, I text Cassie for a coffee run. She's thrilled at the idea of leaving the office, and when we get into my car, her penchant for chatter fills up the space. As she talks about her kids most recent milestones, I wonder if she's actually to blame for all this. Or maybe I should blame the children she's gushing about.

"It was so nice of you to offer to help last week!" She gushes. "Amelia finally got her chance to shine. It's just so hard being an understudy, you know? I just never know how to balance the kids' activities with work, and obviously Stephen is zero help when it comes to juggling these things—"

"Are you keeping with Crestline then?" I ask. Cassie is nice, friendly. Maybe if I was a mom or had a partner who didn't contribute to the mental load, or if I was also nice and friendly, then it'd be easier to listen. But I'm not. Nice or friendly, that is. I'm impatient, and suddenly hungry to know more about the Crestline development.

Not because I'm interested or involved. Because I'm thorough. I'm doing my due diligence when it comes to tying my involuntary involvement on this case up with a neat bow.

Cassie doesn't seem concerned that I interrupted her. She pivots easily. Like she's used to reorienting herself when she's been thrown off track. I like that about her. Her smile doesn't falter for a second. "Oh, of course!"

"Hughes mentioned that he was going to put Harper on it."

Cassie laughs. "Andy? He has zero instinct for these things. He'd recommend Crestline to go stir the hornets nest with something ridiculous and volatile."

"Oh yeah?"

"These types of projects," Cassie continues, "need finesse. You have to get everyone to buy in. Your notes were great, by the way. And the PR team said you did such a nice job speaking at the town hall! You'd be such a help on the project, Rhea. You get it."

I don't. I don't get why anyone would want to be involved with destroying half a mountainside to build a community for people so far removed from the natural world, their obsession with "the wilderness" is ironic at best and just plain depressing at worst. But I nod my head and let myself smile so that she continues.

"That community is just so ready for an update! We have to keep up with Montana. There's so much money coming in from tourism and new construction. If you look at Billing's numbers..."

I let her continue about why the Crestline development is going to reinvigorate the area, filing away the details in case I need them. She doesn't mention the natural beauty of the mountainside. She doesn't mention evicting the locals. It's all profit margins, projected tax revenue, construction contracts—she's much more enthusiastic about the project than I would have guessed. And I can't really fault her. There's no malice. She's doing her job. But it still makes my stomach twist in a way I thought I'd never feel again.

She pauses for a breath as we pull up to the coffee shop. Her eyes flick with a thread of disappointment that I've chosen one of the few smaller coffee houses instead of a chain. But she takes a breath and fixes her one hundred watt smile on me. "But honestly, Rhea, I don't know why you're not fighting to be a part of this project. I mean, this is going to be a huge win for the firm. And you're so good at this type of thing. You have that... gravitas."

I hum noncommittally, sliding out of the car. Gravitas. Right. What she really means is that I can put on a good show, pretend I belong, and bullshit my wall through tough rooms. Over the past few years, I told myself that it didn't bother me. Today? The compliment sits like a bad case of heartburn.

For some stupid reason, I suddenly feel really lonely. I've been at Hutchinson and Hughes for the past six years, and I don't think that anyone really knows me.

She shifts back to her kids and their endless extracurriculars as we walk inside. Dark wood, hundreds of pothos vines twisted around the room, and the smell of coffee beans greet us. In addition to the hodgepodge collection of tables and couches, summer break has unleashed a horde of teenagers and tourists to weave through. Cassie seems thrilled by buzz of activity. She launches into how important it is to cater to this exact demographic. She seems more developer than paralegal at this point, but I don't stop her.

I order my own coffee and let her go through the list for the rest for the office. She asks the teenage barista for recommendations and substitutions when there are no easy translations for "Frappuccino."

As she waffles between a cinnamon mocha and a hazelnut latte, I scroll through the next wave of emails pinging my phone. A headache starts to pinch behind my eye. Hughes is asking for an update I don't have. Harper's forwarded some nonsense that makes me wonder if he's an idiot or if it's just weaponized incompetence. Someone asking if their niece can intern now that it's summer time. A string of panicked emails about case deadlines. None of it is urgent. Or maybe it is, I'm too drained to care.

I glance up as Cassie finishes up, flashing her signature smile at the barista. It's effortless, the way she moves through life, sprinkling sunshine. Even when I was determined to save the world, I never had the warmth that Cassie always manages to radiate. A part of me is jealous she's remained so optimistic when my reservoir dried up so long ago.

Cassie turns to me as we wait. "They're just so sweet here, don't you think? It's so nice to see a local business thriving! The barista said..."

The irony isn't lost on me. Cassie is cheerfully fighting for a developer that loves to destroy places like this. I take my coffee from the counter and sip it so that I don't spit out a sharp comment. I burn my tongue. It feels karmic. I'm in no place to judge. I'm the asshole who was going to practice environmental law, now working for the assholes I always meant to fight against.

The bell of the door chimes and it pulls my attention away from Cassie. It's odd. I never really considered myself a people watcher or a particularly curious observer, but my eyes are drawn to a man sitting near the entrance. He's handsome, in a way, with that same burly physique and charm the locals in Moran had. Rugged. Severe. Like the little chair might collapse underneath the bulk. There's nothing particularly frightening about him, but a whisper of dread flutters in my stomach. I get a flare of misplaced panic that the angry locals have sent someone to bully me, but I quell the anxiety.

Because that's ridiculous.

This is real life, not a soap opera.

I sneak another look over the top of my cup.

He's dressed like every other Wyoming native. Denim, work shirt, boots. Even so, he doesn't look like he belongs. There's a thread of tension that runs throughout his body, liked a coiled spring, that makes it seem like he's ready to bolt out of the crowd. There's no mug of coffee, no idle texting on a phone, no restlessness or fidgeting.

Cassie notices I'm not paying attention to her commentary on the "amazing energy" of the coffee shop and looks toward the stranger.

"Heyyy," she drawls, smilingly teasingly. I can hear the extra 'y's she's adding. "Now there's a looker! You should give him your number!"

"People don't do that, Cassie."

"Sure, they do! Especially for a tall, dark, and handsome stranger in a coffee shop that is definitely checking you out! It's like a movie!"

When I glance back at the man, my gut twists tighter. His eyes are now on me, and his gaze doesn't waver. When our eyes meet, there's nothing romantic about it. His expression is blank, clinical, and something else I can't name. Maybe curious. Or calculating. I avert my gaze.

"Absolutely not," I say firmly, keeping my voice low. "He's definitely not into me. And if he is, I'm running the other direction."

When I turned fourteen, my mom started giving me advice on men. Which men would screw you over, which men would break your heart, which men would help you out, and which men to avoid at all costs. Trust your gut, baby girl. If something feels wrong, it is.

Cassie laughs and picks up the office's coffee orders. She thinks I'm joking, but there's something in my chest that is suddenly screaming. Get out, it says. Run. I don't know what it is about this man—maybe the way he doesn't look away when I catch him staring, or how he shifts his weight in the chair like he's getting ready to leap—but my instincts are bristling, shouting that he's dangerous.

As we pass him to leave, Cassie waves enthusiastically. My gut is screaming. I almost drag her out, avoiding the man's eyes. My heart is pounding in my chest. My brain is flying through insane scenarios of what I'll have to do if he attacks us, cataloging anything that could be used as a weapon, preparing for every worst case scenario.

He doesn't move a muscle as we leave.

I fumble with my keys as we reach the car and risk looking over my shoulder. Behind the glass, his head is slightly turned, a single eye watching us. He's perfectly still.

Like a predator, that voice in my chest says. I try to shake off my nerves as I get in the car. I'm safe. I'm leaving.

"You're no fun, Rhea!" Cassie says, laughing as she gets into the passenger seat. She balances the cardboard tray of coffees like a seasoned waitress. "You're missing out on the romance of a lifetime! The handsome stranger who can't take his eyes off you? If I wasn't married..."

Without thinking, I lock the doors as she settles in.

Unruffled, Cassie launches into stories about college and handsome men and old flings. As we pull out of the lot, my eyes flicker toward the rearview window.

He's standing outside of the shop.

Watching.