Page 2 of Unstable

“HENLEY? HENLEY CALVERT, IS that you?” An unfamiliar voice pierces the air.

I hastily duck my head so that my long brown hair falls around me in a shroud of anonymity and hurry toward the door of Watson Law Offices, ignoring whomever it is calling my name.

There’s one main street in this town, cleverly named “Main Street.” I should’ve known better than to stand out in the open on its sidewalk if I didn’t want to be spotted. Guess I hoped that after eight years, the chances of being recognized would be slim.

But why would I have possibly allowed myself such dimwitted optimism? Small towns like Ashfall? Nobody ever forgets anything, or anyone. Especially when you give them something grossly outside of mundane to talk about—like I had.

Once inside the office, I chance a subtle peek back out of the glass door to make sure my beckoner didn’t follow me, and sigh in relief to find no sign of anyone. I turn and walk slowly to the receptionist desk, clearing my throat to get the attention of the woman behind it, her back to me as she files papers.

She spins in her chair and…of course.

“Henley Calvert!” she shrills, if that’s the right word for actually managing to speak, very high-pitched, through your nose. I can’t remember her name, but I do know I went to school with her…and she was not a nice girl. One of the “Fallouts.” That’s what we called them, in honor of Ashfall— defined as a fake, two-faced girl who thought it was a real accomplishment to peak in high school, and a miniscule one at that, by preying on the insecurities and weaknesses of others rather than earning a name on their own merit. Perfectly personifying the worst of teenage girl stereotypes. And their caddy empowerment was only heightened, made too easy really, by living in a small town. Our own version of Mean Girls.

She flies around the desk to trap me in an unexpected, and very unwelcomed, hug. My whole body stiffens, arms pressed to my sides, and I count backward in my head until she releases me.

I don’t like to be touched.

“My Lord, you haven’t changed a bit!” she gushes as she pulls back to survey me from head to toe. “You look exactly the same as the last time I saw you. Except, less crazy.”

Yeah, ‘cause that’s nice to say out loud. Hell, at least she said it to my face; that’s new for her, if memory serves correctly.

“What’s your trick? Get a little work done?” she sneers conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, you can tell me, it’ll be our little secret. Was it Botox? I so want to try that!”

No, I haven’t had Botox, you twit. I’m twenty-five years old. But I have no interest in encouraging this conversation any further, so I simply deadpan, “You caught me.”

“Knew it!” She snaps her fingers, then uses one of them to make a cross over her heart. “I won’t tell a soul.”

Translation— she’ll tell everyone she sees, every time she sees them, for the rest of the week. Which works in my favor actually; better they blather about my non-existent cosmetic adventures than the old shit they’d drudge back up to say about me if left to their own habits.

“What’s it been now, six, seven years?” She frowns, the overdone, I-have-absolutely-no-real-remorse-or-empathy-for-you-and-I-wantyou-to-know-it kind of frown.

“Eight,” I respond as nicely as my plummeting patience will allow. “I have an appointment with Mr. Watson. Is he available for that?”

And there it is—her over-the-top hospitality, excluding the one underhanded, nasty comment of course, finally vanishes. I’m sure it was quite painful for her to maintain the façade as long as she did. Her face returns to its natural state, pinched in evil delight, confirming she really does need to check into that Botox. Guess the old saying about your face sticking like that is true…the deep grooves of a judgmental, superiority complex around her eyes and mouth are practiced, and permanent.

She then proceeds to all but bounce with giddiness as she takes great pleasure in dropping the bomb that I know has been itching her tongue this entire time. “Your meeting is with Mr. Watson, Junior.” Her tone erases any possible doubt; she remembers a lot more about me than my name and looks.

I gulp quietly and struggle to keep the panic from showing on my face. I assumed I’d be meeting with Watson Senior, but when she snickers, a sound of inherit, unfixable maliciousness, the shiver that chills me to the bone feels far too real for me to kid myself any longer.

This is actually happening.

And at this point, praying that a new family of lawyers, raising baby lawyers, who just happen to also have the last name Watson and moved to town while I was gone, is a stretch…even my rattled mind won’t help me continue to idiotically hope on that one.

So I clear my throat and invite in reality. “As in—”

“Yes, Henley,” she snidely cuts me off, “as in Merrick. I’ll go and let him know you’re here.”

Why am I even expelling the energy to pretend to be surprised? Of course it’s Merrick. He probably specifically asked to be assigned to my file, just to jab the knife of bleakness in deeper and give it a good twist. Having to face this, and Merrick to boot, seems perfectly par for my course.

I’d honestly have been more stunned if she’d have said anything different.

And even if I run out right now, he’ll still know I was here. And I do have to face the issue at hand sooner or later, so why give him the further enjoyment of knowing I bolted away like a coward?

No way in hell I’m serving him up that gift on a platter. So I lift my chin, push my shoulders back and take a seat in the lobby.

As I repeatedly wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, I try for the umpteenth time to come to something that at least resembles “terms” with the unavoidable situation I’ve returned to handle.

I never thought I’d find myself back in Ashfall. In fact, I swore to myself I wouldn’t.

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