The next morning, Holt & Vale became a circus with better coffee.
Avery Bellweather arrived under a storm of camera flashes, his silver hair glowing beneath the lobby lights. He hugged the receptionist. He remembered the junior associates’ names. He brought cupcakes shaped like tiny golden bells.
The internet called him Uncle Avery. Parents trusted him. Children adored him. Billionaires donated through him. Politicians photographed themselves beside him when they needed to look human.
Mara watched him from the glass balcony above the lobby.
“He knows exactly where the cameras are,” she said.
Cassian stood beside her. “Most public figures do.”
“No. He knows where they aren’t.”
That made Cassian glance at her.
They had spent half the night tracing the unknown number, with no success. The photograph contained no metadata. The loading bay belonged to an event venue demolished three years earlier. The young woman’s face did not match any foundation employee records Mara could access.
Bellweather’s official story was simple: the allegations came from bitter former contractors, the missing money was an accounting delay, and the inquiry would clear his name.
Simple stories were usually the most expensive.
In Conference Room B, Avery Bellweather greeted Mara with both hands around hers.
“Mara Venn,” he said warmly. “The woman keeping me from being eaten alive.”
“I prefer preventing clients from walking into avoidable fires,” Mara said.
Bellweather laughed. “Then keep me away from matches.”
Cassian began the prep. He was good. Annoyingly good. He softened difficult questions without dulling them, boxed Bellweather into careful answers, and never allowed him to perform too long.
Mara took notes.
Not on what Bellweather said.
On what he avoided.
He was relaxed when discussing donor funds, board oversight, and public criticism. But when Cassian mentioned the charity’s closed gala in Southport four years earlier, Bellweather’s left hand curled into a fist under the table.
Mara saw it.
So did Cassian.
They took a break at noon. Bellweather stepped out to call his daughter. The partners drifted away. Mara and Cassian remained in the room, surrounded by half-drunk coffee and unsaid accusations.
“Southport,” Cassian said.
Mara nodded. “The loading bay in the photo was probably there.”
“Your mysterious texter wants us to connect a missing woman to a gala our client barely admits happened.”
“Our client,” Mara repeated.
Cassian’s expression hardened. “I know.”
She leaned back. “You’ve defended guilty people before.”
“I’ve defended people accused of things.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
For a moment, the office hum outside seemed very far away.
Cassian said, “My father was convicted because a firm like this decided public certainty mattered more than evidence. I don’t assume guilt because the crowd is hungry.”
Mara had not expected honesty. It made her more uncomfortable than flirting would have.
Before she could answer, her phone buzzed again.
A video file.
The clip was nine seconds long. A shaky hallway. A woman’s voice whispering, “If anything happens to me, Avery knows why.” Then the camera swung, catching the same frightened face from the loading bay photograph.
Cassian went still.
Mara replayed it twice.
In the background, through a half-open door, a child’s drawing was pinned to a wall: a yellow bell with a crack down the middle.
Cassian exhaled. “This isn’t about accounting.”
Mara’s chest tightened.
“No,” she said. “It’s about what happened to her.”
At the far end of the hallway, Bellweather returned, smiling.
Mara locked her phone.
For the first time in years, she was not sure whether she was preparing a client—or protecting a criminal.
