The firm smelled wrong.
Miguel noticed it before he even reached the reception desk—lemon cleaner layered over something older. Panic, maybe. Or fear trying to pass as hygiene.
Too clean. Like someone had scrubbed the place hoping guilt would come off with the grime.
Alan's name was still on the glass.
CHO & PARTNERS.
Bold lettering. Confident. Untouched.
Miguel paused in front of it. Long enough for the receptionist to look up and freeze.
She had red eyes. Mascara smeared just enough to notice.
"Conference room," Miguel said.
She nodded quickly, relief flashing across her face like he'd handed her instructions she'd been waiting for all morning.
The hallway felt narrower than usual. Same beige walls. Same framed verdicts and smiling client photos. The ones they kept because they made donors feel safe.
Alan's photo was still there. Second from the left. Mid-laugh. Tie crooked. Coffee stain on his shirt.
Miguel didn't slow down.
Inside the conference room, everyone was already seated.
That was the first tell.
Partners never showed up early unless something was burning.
Alan's chair sat at the head of the table. Empty. Pulled back just a little, like he'd stood up to grab coffee and never came back.
No one had moved it.
Miguel took the seat closest to the door. Habit. Always sit where you can leave.
Elena Cortez was talking when he sat down.
"—tragic," she was saying, hands folded neatly, voice low and steady. "But we need to stay focused."
Focused. Another word lawyers used when they didn't want to say afraid.
Miguel leaned back. Crossed his arms.
"Focused on what?" he asked.
The room went quiet.
Elena turned toward him. She did that thing where she smiled with her mouth but kept her eyes sharp.
"On continuity," she said. "On protecting the firm."
Miguel nodded once. Slow.
"Alan was the firm," he said.
A man two seats down shifted. White hair. Expensive watch. The kind of partner who never took pro bono cases and still talked about justice like it was a hobby.
"He was a part of it," the man said. "But we can't afford instability."
Miguel looked at him. Really looked.
"You're talking about the Lee case," Miguel said.
The air changed.
Someone cleared their throat. Someone else looked down at their phone like it might save them.
Elena exhaled. Controlled. "The Lee case is volatile. Political. Media-heavy."
"And?" Miguel said.
"And Alan took it knowing the risks," she replied.
Miguel's jaw tightened.
"He took it because she didn't do it."
No one answered.
That told him everything.
Elena tapped her pen once. "We need to reassign his caseload."
Miguel waited.
She didn't say the name.
He smiled. Short. Humorless.
"You already decided," he said.
Elena met his eyes. Didn't deny it.
"You were his associate," she said. "You know the files. You're… capable."
Capable. Presentable. Safe.
"And the Lee case?" Miguel asked.
A pause. Barely a beat.
"We were considering other options."
Miguel leaned forward. The chair creaked, loud in the silence.
"To who?"
Elena glanced toward the white-haired partner. Then back.
"Someone less involved."
Miguel nodded slowly.
"So you want me to close files and stay quiet," he said. "While someone else walks her into a plea."
"That's not what I said."
"That's exactly what you said."
He stood.
No one stopped him.
"Alan didn't die so this place could pretend everything's fine," Miguel said. "And he didn't take that case so you could dump it when it got uncomfortable."
Elena's voice sharpened. "You're letting grief talk."
Miguel smiled. Small. Mean.
"You're letting fear."
That landed.
Elena straightened. "Sit down."
Miguel didn't.
"I'm taking the Lee case," he said. "Effective immediately."
"That's not your call."
Miguel reached forward and picked up the folder from the center of the table. Alan's handwriting peeked out from the edges. Sloppy. Familiar.
"Then fire me," Miguel said. "And explain to the press why the dead lawyer's associate walked out with his client."
Someone swore under their breath.
Elena stared at him. Long. Measuring.
Finally—
"Thirty days," she said. "You get thirty days."
Miguel nodded. "Good."
He turned to leave.
"Miguel," Elena said.
"It already has," he said, and walked out.
....
Alan's office was still taped shut.
Cheap yellow plastic stretched crooked across the door. Someone hadn't bothered to straighten it.
Miguel ducked under.
The room smelled like old books and burnt coffee. Alan's jacket still hung on the chair. One sleeve folded in on itself.
Miguel didn't touch it.
He went straight to the desk. Bottom drawer. Locked.
He broke it open.
Inside—files. Notes. A yellow legal pad.
First page. Three words, underlined twice.
THIS CASE IS DIRTY.
Miguel exhaled through his nose.
"Yeah," he muttered. "I noticed."
He flipped the page.
Names. Dates. Arrows. Circles. A mess only Alan could read.
At the bottom:
If anything happens to me, don't let them close this.
Miguel closed the pad.
Outside the office, phones rang. Laughter echoed down the hall. Someone complained about coffee.
Life, uninterrupted.
Miguel stood alone in the quiet.
They thought killing Alan would end it.
They were wrong.