Masked Innocence. Alessandra Torre

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      Three

      “Julia, can I borrow you for a moment?” Broward’s voice floated through the open doorway into my office, four hours later. He had politely used the office phone system for the first three weeks of my internship, but had abandoned that practice and now simply yelled for me, like I was his puppy roaming somewhere in the house, looking for a place to pee. I sighed, sliding back from my desk and working my bare feet into heels and standing. I was in his doorway a moment later, barely in time to stop another interoffice yell, his mouth already opening in preparation.

      “Yes, Mr. Broward?” I asked politely.

      “Come in, Julia, and please shut the door.”

      I cringed, stepping forward and grabbing the handle, pulling it closed behind me. Broward seemed to have this misconception that “closing his door” actually afforded him some measure of privacy. While the heavy, oak door probably did have excellent sound-deafening qualities, the one-inch gap that ran along the bottom allowed almost every word to come through in crystal-clear quality. This had to be about Brad, and thanks to this poorly hung door, someone was bound to walk by and hear the entire conversation.

      “I’d like to extend your internship, assuming you are interested.”

      My jaw literally dropped, an involuntary relaxation of muscles that I struggled to contain. Okay—guess this isn’t about Brad. “Extend?” I said dumbly.

      “Yes. I’ve been very impressed with you so far, and would like to expand your duties here, maybe bring you to court, let you see more than just the inside of a file.” He grinned at me, a worthless exercise of muscles, because as soon as he had said that word, everything else had disappeared.

      Court. The word hung, in gold glittery letters, above my head, blinking on and off like a Vegas sign advertising half-priced buffets. I tried not to lick my lips but could feel saliva pooling, and my jaw started itching to do that damn dropping motion again. “That would be wonderful, but I—um...I just need to check my class schedule for next semester.”

      He shrugged at my response, picking up his phone and cradling it to his ear. “Check your schedule and let me know. I’ll speak to H.R., see if we could take you on part-time, give you some hourly rate that would make it worth your while.”

      Monetary compensation? Court time? I smiled at him and turned quickly, wanting to get the hell out of there before slobber shot in all directions out of my mouth. I fled his office and collapsed into my chair, an expression somewhere between a grin and a grimace contorting my face. My excitement over the job prospect fought with the predicament it would cause. Court. Money. Brad. Broward. Certain disaster. Court. Ugh. I laid my head on my desk and groaned.

      * * *

      IT WAS 4:00 p.m. before I thought to check my personal email, remembering that Rebecca was going to send me something. I had one new email, from Rebecca Cray, titled INFO. I opened the email, and read the one-line message.