The rest of the weekend is uneventful, my time spent drafting, revising, and reviewing court documents and contracts.

Monday morning arrives all too soon, the events of the weekend already a blur. I wake to the chirping of early morning birds, their song cutting through the stillness of my room long before my alarm rings. Rubbing my eyes groggily, I glance out my bedroom window, where the first rays of the sun are peeking through the blinds. Lazily, I pull off the covers and begrudgingly get up, my bed still warm and inviting. The tempting thought of a few extra minutes of sleep lingers strongly on my mind.

I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and take a quick shower. The cold water does a good job of jolting me wide awake, clearing away the remnants of sleep from my eyes. Once I'm done, I step out, towel wrapped around my body, and look over at the outfit I had chosen the night before: a black, knee-length pencil skirt and a white button-down shirt, neatly hung on a hanger on my bedroom couch. I quickly slip into the outfit, leaving an extra button undone on the shirt. I pair it with my favorite gold necklace with a cross pendant, a gold watch, and finish the look with a pair of black Christian Louboutin high heels. My natural curls fall down my shoulders, pinned to the side with a floral hairpin to keep strands from falling into my face.

After grabbing my binder and handbag, I double-check that they contain all my essentials: my phone, wallet, keys, a sleek leather planner, a tube of my favorite lipstick, and a pair of glasses. Satisfied, I head downstairs, take my car keys from the key dish on the kitchen counter, and step out.

On the way to work, my stomach grumbles, reminding me that I skipped breakfast. I changed my route and stopped by the Starbucks not too far from the office. The familiar smell of freshly brewed coffee greets me as I walk in. The line is short, and I quickly place my usual order—a large vanilla latte and a couple of blueberry muffins. I take a seat and wait patiently, my foot tapping absentmindedly against the floor as I scroll through emails on my phone.

When my name is called, I pick up my order and head out, the smell of the muffins filling my nostrils as the warmth of my drink seeps into my hands.

I arrive at the office bright and early, the usual hum of morning activity strangely heightened. The tense atmosphere doesn't go unnoticed as I walk down the hallway. I notice a group of four workers huddled together at the water cooler, speaking excitedly in muffled tones. I roll my eyes and press forward, not one to engage in office gossip. As the day progresses, I see more people talking in groups, and by lunchtime, it seems the whole office is buzzing about something. Even Mark, the office loner, is seen engaged in a heated conversation with one of the workers, his usual stoic expression replaced by one of shock.

Curiosity gets the best of me, so I head over to the office cafeteria in hopes of finding out whatever is going on, under the guise of grabbing something to eat. I pick up a Caesar salad and sit at a table close to two colleagues known for always having the latest gossip. I pick at my salad, pretending not to be interested, but my ears are tuned in.

My ears perk up at the mention of the words "murder" and "body," and I strain to catch the rest of their conversation. Could they have already found the body? I wonder. I push the thought away, chiding myself for jumping to conclusions. My eyes drift to the cafeteria entrance, where I spot Carla, the nicest of my work colleagues. I beckon her over.

She takes a seat next to me, greeting me with a grin showing her pearly whites, her brown hair cut into a short bob. I skip the pleasantries and get straight to the point.

"What's got everyone talking?" I ask, trying to sound casual but failing.

"When did you become one to gossip?" she teases.

"I'm really curious. Spill it."

"There are rumors about a dead body."

"A body?" I ask, pretending to be shocked, my eyes wide. "Where?"

"It was found down by the lake—the one at Cornerstone."

Just then, the shrill sound of my ringtone cuts through our conversation. It's a call from my boss.

Saying a quick goodbye to Carla, I head to my boss's office, annoyed that the interrogation was cut short.

I knock softly, and a deep voice grants me entry. As I step in, I find him hunched over his desk, scribbling on a stack of papers. I offer a polite greeting, my eyes briefly skimming over his stout frame before landing on the heap of files cluttering his desk and the weary, almost pitiful look on his face.

"You're in for a long day, Miss Nicolson," he says, his voice tinged with something resembling sympathy. 

He quickly briefs me on the day's tasks: securing a major cooperation deal for the firm and addressing a sudden change in one of our cases, which requires me to immediately draft a new contract and review old case files.

Slightly overwhelmed, I carry the files back to my office, feeling the weight of the day's work. The buzz about the murder lingers in my mind, but I push it aside, focusing on the tasks at hand.

The rest of the day is a whirlwind of meetings and paperwork with little to no breaks, the news of the murder at the back of my mind.

I arrive home a little after six-thirty, tired from the day's work. I warm up some leftover spaghetti from the fridge in the microwave and head upstairs for a quick shower. Once I'm back downstairs, now comfortable in my pajamas and bunny slippers, I sit in front of the TV, dinner and remote in hand. Flipping through channels, I land on the seven o'clock news, and there it is—the murder. The screen shows footage of police cars and the lake, now taped off with "Do Not Cross" signs. A crane slowly pulls a car from the water, streams of lake water cascading from its windows. 

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, my mind racing with anxiety as I hope that my sloppy work and hasty cleanup don't get me found out. I mentally berate myself for letting my emotions get the better of me, instead of sticking to a meticulous plan. Now I have a wasted kill and no new additional knowledge. The thought of having overlooked crucial details makes my stomach churn, and I chastise myself for not executing the job with the precision it required.

I change the channel, only to be met with the same footage. The news of the murder seems to have spread like wildfire. Twirling my fork, I can't help but feel a sense of pride, a smirk on my face—my handiwork now seemingly famous. 

I continue to eat my dinner savoring each bite, the voice of the news reporter slowly becoming one with the background.