Conflict of Interest

Chapter Fifty Two

Hey all,

Again, thanks for hanging in there on this update. Obviously these are taking a bit longer than I'd like them to (no one wants to hear my excuses anymore), but the next (final, or almost final?) part should be out to you in a bit. In the interim, I have a few survey questions for you all, which I will post in a separate chapter following this one. Basically, I just need reader input to make sure that my next book is the best it can possibly be. (: Thanks again everyone!

Muchisimos besos,
Railene

***

Carrie

More exhausted than fearful for my life at this point, I just rolled my eyes.

"This is getting to be very cute. If you wanted to spend all this time with me, you know, you could've just asked. There's no need for all the theatrics."

"You got lucky last time," she reminded me.

"I get lucky all the time," I retorted, quoting someone I knew.

"You're done for."

"I'm shaking."

"You should be."

"You know," I said quietly, gesturing at the space between us. "I wasn't a math major, but this looks like slightly less than 250 feet."

"You think I fear that TRO?"

"I think," I ventured. "That you just can't stay away from me."

She looked me in the eye, unmoving. "Something like that."

"Where is she?"

"Where is who?"

"The attorney who's supposed to be prosecuting you in a matter of days. I'm not that stupid, Lindsay," I reminded her, then couldn't help but add, "I'm certainly not stupid enough to attempt a pre-meditated murder inside a government building."

"An empty government building? Nobody works this late here, you know. Nobody except the DA himself, who seems to be away at some conference, and of course that one over-zealous attorney who practically lives in her office so she can properly kiss his ass, all in some ploy to take his spot when he finally quits or dies. Or is that why you do it, Caroline? Maybe it's because your life is so empty otherwise, so devoid of love, or passion, or emotion, that you work to distract yourself from the vacancy?"

"You don't know a damn thing about my life," I tried arguing, but sounded so defensive I was almost defeating myself.

"Right, because your life doesn't really lack passion, does it? I forgot you're cohabitating with your bodyguard."

"You don't talk about her."

"Quite the relationship of convenience," she continued, disobeying me. "Rescuing you from certain death by day, and we don't need to discuss what she does for you by night, but you know, you are quite lucky she's finally yours."

I just inhaled, not knowing what to say or how to say it.

"Although, she's not really rightfully yours, is she?"

"You don't know anything about that."

"You're right, I don't," she agreed, crossing the room. For reasons unbeknownst to me, she placed a hand on my closet door, not taking her eyes off of me once as she opened it. I was bemused, rendered silent, plastered to the floor, when out of it walked two individuals: first, my intern, as I could've expected - but then the secret number one source of my guilt.