Conflict of Interest

Chapter Fifty

A/N: *HAPPY DANCE!* After, literally, months of trying to get this out, here it is. I do apologize immensely for the wait, and I really do hope to have updates coming out much more regularly from now on. I've been adjusting to the beginning of the semester (college is hard; who knew?) and then midterms happened, and now we're here. Thanks again for the patience, and I hope you all enjoy!

Xoxoxo

Railene

***

Carrie

The following morning, my four o'clock alarm was almost a welcome sound in my apartment. Finally, I thought, I had something to wake up for, and finally I could return to what I knew: to concrete routine, to the feeling of having a purpose, and to my lifelong friend, the work-related stress headache. For Kim, who had begun her apartment search but was in the meantime playing the role of my wife, the sound of my alarm wasn't quite as melodic as it had been for me.

"Okay, really, Carrie?" she'd whined. "Four o'clock is ridiculous, even for you."

"I want to get to the office early," I'd explained. "Make up for lost time."

"You've been gone less than a week."

"The Anglo-Zanzibar War lasted forty five minutes. Have you any idea how much can happen in a week?"

"Have you any idea how not cute your know-it-all bullshit is at four in the morning?"

"Aw," I said condescendingly, getting up to find an outfit. "You're just not used to waking up to a know-it-all."

"Don't--"

"You're used to waking up to a know-nothing-at-all."

"I'm going back to bed."

My humor didn't need approbations. "I'll see you at work."

What I didn't anticipate about the stunt I was pulling was that I'd arrive at least an hour before the DA himself did. That was no problem before, when I had open cases, but in the past couple days all of my time-sensitive work had been reassigned, and I felt almost useless, like a stranger in my own office. I took the time to catch up on some paperwork, and when the paperwork was done, I took the time to reevaluate my life. The term workaholic had been thrown at me once or twice in my life, but I'd never understood it quite like now. The restlessness was the worst part of it.

Luckily, with the DA tied up in the McVale trial, the work wasn't exactly in short supply. He stopped by my office promptly at seven to dump a pile of case files on my desk. Knowing full well that I wasn't one for discussion, he left with only two words: "Welcome back."

Several hours must have passed before I'd gotten halfway through the stack of forms that had been left for me. I hadn't checked my calls, having all but forgotten that I really didn't have an intern anymore. At ten, there was a knock at my office door, and I called out flatly for the guest to come in, assuming it was someone I knew - but it wasn't. It was just an attractive stranger with a bright smile and a nice suit.

"Can I help you?"

"Ms. Everett?"

I clicked shut the pen I was holding and stared forward, saying nothing.

"Kenneth MacNamara," he introduced. "Defense counsel for Lindsay McVale."

"You know I can't talk to you."

"There's no law forbidding defense counsel from speaking with a witness for the prosecution."

"Okay, you're right," I conceded. "I just don't want to."