Olivia
The District Attorney's office on a Saturday morning was a ghost town. The usual frantic energy was replaced by a heavy, expectant silence. My heels clicked loudly on the polished marble floors as I made my way to DA Thompson's office, the knot in my stomach tightening with every step.
David Thompson was a man who had seen it all. He was a career prosecutor, with a bulldog's tenacity and a politician's savvy. He'd been my mentor since I'd joined the office, and he was fiercely protective of his attorneys. His summons meant something serious was happening.
He was waiting for me, standing in front of a large whiteboard covered in a spiderweb of names, dates, and arrows. It was the organizational chart of Michael Connolly's criminal enterprise.
"Olivia," he said, his voice grim. "Thanks for coming in. Close the door."
I did as he asked, my eyes drawn to the board. It was a visual representation of a vast and complex conspiracy, involving bribery, extortion, and money laundering. And right in the middle, connected to Michael Connolly by a solid red line, was the name Sarah-Jane Connolly.
"What's the development?" I asked, getting straight to the point.
"Our star witness just disappeared," Thompson said bluntly. "He was a bookkeeper in Connolly's organization. Had ledger books, bank records… everything we needed to indict. He was set to testify before the grand jury on Monday. Now, he's vanished. His apartment is empty. His phone is dead. We think he either flipped, or he's dead."
My blood ran cold. "So the case is dead."
"Not yet," Thompson said, his eyes glinting with a familiar, predatory light. "We have one last card to play. And that's where you come in."
He tapped Sarah-Jane's name on the board. "We've been trying to flip her for months. She knows things. She's not just the boss's daughter-in-law; she's the CFO of his primary holding company. She signed the documents. She moved the money. She's dirty. But she's also terrified. Her husband, Michael Jr., is a violent, abusive man. She's a prisoner in a gilded cage."
"And she's refused to cooperate," I said, remembering the scuttlebutt around the office.
"Until now," Thompson said, a thin smile on his lips. "Last night, after our witness vanished, we got a call. From a burner phone. It was her. She's ready to talk. But she has one condition."
He paused, his gaze locking onto mine. "She'll only talk to you."
I was stunned. "Me? Why me? I'm not even on the case."
"She knows who you are," Thompson explained. "She said she knows you from college. She said you were rivals, but she always respected you. She said you were the only person she could trust. The only person who wasn't already on her father-in-law's payroll."
The irony was staggering. Sarah-Jane Connolly, the girl who had once made me feel a pang of irrational jealousy, was now placing her life, and our biggest case, in my hands. Because she trusted me.
"I know I promised to keep you away from this," Thompson said, his voice softening. "I know the risks. But Olivia, you're the best ADA I have. You're sharp, you're relentless, and you have an angle no one else does. You have a history with her. You might be the only person who can get her to testify."
This was the moment. The moment my career had been building towards. This wasn't a student election or a corporate fraud case. This was the big leagues. It was dangerous, it was high-stakes, and it was the kind of case that could make or break a career.
But as the thrill of the challenge shot through me, it was immediately followed by a cold wave of fear. I thought of Ethan. I thought of my promise to be careful. This was the opposite of careful. This was walking into the lion's den.
"If I do this," I said, my voice steady, despite the tremor I felt inside, "I need full operational control. I run the witness. I build the case. My way."
Thompson didn't hesitate. "Done," he said. "Welcome to the Connolly case, Counselor. Your first meeting with the witness is tonight. She's agreed to meet you at a secure location. But you have to come alone."
I told Ethan I had to work late, a lie of omission that tasted like poison. I hated lying to him, but I couldn't tell him the truth. Not yet. He would try to stop me, and this was a decision I had to make myself.
That night, I drove to the designated meeting spot, a deserted all-night diner on the outskirts of the city. The air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and grease. I slid into a booth at the back, my heart pounding in my chest.
A few minutes later, she walked in. The years had changed Sarah-Jane. The bubbly cheerleader was gone, replaced by a thin, haunted-looking woman with fear in her eyes. She was wearing a simple dress and a headscarf, a clumsy attempt at a disguise. She clutched a large, expensive handbag to her chest like a shield.
She slid into the booth opposite me, her hands trembling. "Thank you for coming," she whispered, her eyes darting nervously towards the door.
"Sarah-Jane," I said, my voice calm and professional. "You made the right choice."
"Did I?" she said, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping her lips. "He'll kill me. If he finds out I'm talking to you, he'll kill me."
"I can protect you," I said, my voice full of a confidence I didn't entirely feel. "We can put you in witness protection. Give you a new life."
"A new life," she repeated, the words sounding foreign and impossible. She looked down at her hands, then back at me, her eyes filled with a desperate, pleading intensity. "I have a daughter, Olivia. She's three years old. He'll use her to get to me. I can't leave her."
This was the complication. This was the leverage they had on her. Her own life, she might be willing to risk. But her daughter's? Never.
"What do you have for me, Sarah-Jane?" I asked gently. "What can you give us?"
She hesitated, her fear warring with her desperation. Finally, she opened her expensive handbag. She didn't pull out a ledger or a hard drive. She pulled out a small, pink, jewel-encrusted diary. The kind a young girl would use.
"My husband," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "is a sentimental monster. He likes to keep souvenirs of his deals. He writes everything down. In code. It's his way of… bragging. Of reliving his victories."
She pushed the diary across the table. "I don't know what it all means. But it's everything. The bribes, the offshore accounts, the names of the politicians and the judges he owns. It's all in there."
I stared at the diary. It was the key. The Rosetta Stone to the entire Connolly conspiracy. It was also a death warrant.
"I need to get my daughter out," Sarah-Jane said, her voice breaking. "Before I give you this. Before I testify. You have to help me get her somewhere safe."
I had walked into this diner as a prosecutor. But as I looked at the terrified woman in front of me, I knew I had to become something more. I had to become her savior. And to do that, I would have to step far outside the comfortable, predictable lines of the law. I would have to get my hands dirty. And I would have to do it without letting Ethan know just how much danger I was truly in.