Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

LANDON

" W e can always find the time," Ethan says, giving me a searching look across our shared office. We've shared an office since we started the agency, a promise we made a decade ago that we'd always be equals. He's tall, on the bulky, muscular side, with full dark black hair slicked back and a gold watch winking at his wrist. "What sort of pro bono work are you thinking?"

"A couple of parents in an apartment block in The Row want to sue a local gang for noise complaints."

"Noise complaints?" Ethan says doubtfully.

"There's more to it. The gang has been trying to draw kids to their bar. God knows why, but we know it can't be good. If they can get the bar closed down for noise, maybe they'll move on."

Ethan nods. "Find another bar, find some more kids …"

I grit my teeth. "Don't start that crap."

He fiddles with his watch. "It's not crap, Landon. It's just a fact that these sorts of people will always find somewhere to pull their stunts. If you get this bar shut down …"

"Then where does it end?" I growl, sitting up and thinking, months, not years . "If doing good has no meaning, then we should just sit here waiting for the next starlet to decide to leave her husband."

"Ah, so our entire business is a joke. People need divorce lawyers, dammit."

"I never said it was a joke. I'm not putting down our business; I'm not putting this stuff down either."

He raises his hands. "All right. Jeez." After a pause, he says, "Are you okay, Landon? You've been in a bad mood all morning."

"I'm fine," I grunt.

I don't tell him the doctor's office tried calling me on the way to work. I let it go to voicemail. Mr. Cross, we're calling to arrange an appointment with the oncologist. That will mean hearing in more detail about how the years of my life have suddenly squashed into months. It'll just mean medical terms and elaborate explanations to explain why this pro bono case might be my last.

"If it doesn't interfere with our work, I can do any damn thing I want."

"I know that's what we agreed," Ethan says. "It's just been so long since you wanted to do any pro bono."

I turn to my laptop to the parents' public message calling for legal help. I don't want to think about the fact that Ethan is right. I haven't mentioned pro bono work in almost half a decade. I used to do it all the time, but then it was like …

What? Did I become too comfortable? Did I let this high-paying job, my deluxe gym membership, and the skiing trips get to my head?

"These people need help," I snap.

"Then there's nothing more to talk about. Good luck."

I grind my teeth from side to side. It's almost like something in me wants to fight—eager for it. I feel like something is boiling in me. Maybe it's the goddamn tumor. Perhaps it's the final act closing in, every second suddenly vital, every moment suddenly infused with meaning.

When I'm gone, will I care how many divorce settlements I won?

As I drive to The Row, the rundown apartment blocks that have existed here since the seventies, somehow, I can hear Charley talking to me from the backseat. "You always wanted to help people, ever since you were a kid." But when a man has the chance to build a million-dollar business, he makes it work. He finds ways to justify it. I give a lot of money to charity.

I stop outside the rundown apartment block. The brown facade faded over time, and chips, cuts, and marks cover the front door. The bar sits directly across the street, and the roads here are narrower than the rest of the city. In other areas, there would be laws against the bar being this close, but not here, probably owing to some obscure bylaw or exception going back decades.

It's called The Bear and has a symbol of a snoring bear at the corner of the sign. The door itself is thick and speakeasy-like, almost warning people away. It's quiet at this time of day, but the blackened windows make it seem like bad things are happening there.

Climbing from my car, I'm about to head into the apartment building when I spot her. She's leaning against the trunk of her car, her hands on her knees, taking slow breaths as she looks at the ground. There's something about her pose that seems familiar.

When she stands up, my breath catches. She's … beautiful. I feel stunned. It's a new and unusual experience for me, a woman striking me this hard. She's got luscious brown hair tied up in a no-bullshit bun. Her shirt is buttoned up but shows the shape of her hips and chest, and she has a professional black skirt hugging her thick legs. More than how smoking hot and curvy she is, though, it's her aura . She just seems good, like a person I want to get to know more about. I can't remember the last time I ever felt like this. I thought my job was supposed to have ruined relationships for me.

She sees me looking, causing me to look away instinctively. I don't want to get caught leering like some creep. When she walks over to me, I know she saw me watching her. I'm probably about to get a speech about staring at women, and it's not like I can blame her.

"Luh-Landon?" she says, like she's unsure. Her voice is damn sweet to listen to.

"Yeah," I say, looking down at her. Up close, she seems even more gorgeous, her cheeks ever so slightly blushing red, her eyes, though young, hardened, and alert. "Do I know you?"

"You probably don't remember me," she murmurs, "but you saved my life."