"Stop digging, counselor," he said quietly.
"Some doors stay shut for a reason."
"That's not an answer."
He leaned in until his face was inches from mine. "This ain't your courthouse. You keep coming around, and people get hurt. That's not a threat. That's just how Queens works."
"It sounded like a threat."
"Sounds like whatever you want it to sound like."
I held his stare and did not step back. I had faced men worth a hundred million dollars across conference tables and never flinched. But this was no conference table. This was a hallway that smelled of bleach and rot, and the man in front of me had a beer can in his fist and a new padlock on his basement door.
"The boy ran away three months ago," I said. "He's been on the street since. In November. In this city. Do you sleep well, Mr. Dolan?"
"I sleep fine."
"Then you're a better liar than you ever were a parent."
I turned for the outer door. The rain had picked up, drumming hard on the awning. I was halfway down the stoop when his voice cracked off the brick behind me.
"He's a liar, same as his mother was! Don't believe a word!"
I didn't look back. I got into the car and Thomas pulled away without being asked. My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against my thighs and watched the wet street blur past the window.
"Ma'am?" Thomas said, watching me in the mirror.
"Get Carmen on the phone."
He reached for the console, and a moment later Carmen's voice came on, bright and startled.
"Ms. Vance? It's almost nine."
"Carmen. Pull everything on the Dolan placement. Every flag, every caseworker note, every medical record. And get me a private investigator by morning. A good one. There's a padlocked basement door in Queens, and I want to know what's behind it. Start with the caseworker who filed the second flag."
There was a pause. Then, quieter: "Are you all right?"
I looked out at the rain. "No," I said. "But I'm done being afraid of men like that."
Chapter 8: The Ultimatum
His summons came at four, delivered by Sterling's assistant in the flat tone of someone reading a weather report. "Mr. Sterling would like to see you now."
I smoothed my jacket and stood. My hands were shaking, so I pressed them flat against my desk until they stopped.
Jonathan Sterling's office faced the river. He was standing at the window when I walked in, hands folded behind his back, and he did not turn for a full minute. The power play was so old I could have recited it.
"Eleanor," he said at last.
"Jonathan."
He gestured to the chair. I did not sit.
"Halcyon called this morning," he said. "Their board is spooked."
"The merger closes in three weeks," I said. "Boards get nervous. That is the job."
"This is not nerves." He turned to face me. "A video of one of our senior partners arguing with a homeless child has two million views. That same partner was seen this week on the doorstep of a house in Queens, shouting at a man the internet has decided is a villain."
My jaw tightened. "Dolan is a villain."
"That is a legal conclusion you have not established." His voice stayed level, which made it worse. "You went to his home without counsel and without a plan. You endangered the firm."
"I went because the state flagged him twice and no one did a thing about it."
"Not your mandate." He picked up a folder from his desk and set it down again. "The client asked whether the partner leading their merger is emotionally stable. Those were their exact words. Emotionally stable."
The room felt very still. Rain streaked the glass behind him.
"Halcyon is not my client," I said. "The firm is my client. I have given this firm eleven years without a single complaint about my stability."
"Until now." He folded his hands. "So here is what happens next. You stop digging into Ray Dolan. You stop visiting that shelter. You stop appearing in internet videos."
"Or."
"Or you step back from the merger."
I stared at him. "You would take me off Halcyon."
"I would ask you to recuse yourself while you resolve your private matters."
"Private." I let out one short laugh. "Eleven years, Jonathan. I built this deal. I drafted every covenant in it. You would hand it to Whitmore because a board got spooked by a video."
"Whitmore is ready."
"Whitmore is a mediocrity in a good suit."
His eyes narrowed a fraction. That was as close as Jonathan Sterling ever came to losing his composure.
"Careful," he said.
"No. You be careful." My voice was low, shaking at the edges. "You all knew about the waiver. None of you ever asked me why I signed it. Now the question is public, and your answer is to bury it, and me along with it."
"This is a law firm, Eleanor, not a confessional."
"Then why does it feel like an interrogation?"
Silence. The rain filled it.
"Step back from the boy," he said, "or step back from the merger."