Chapter 8: Noah’s Breakdown
The glass conference table gleamed under the fluorescent lights, but Noah’s reflection in it was a stranger—tired eyes, clenched jaw, the suit he’d slept in.
“Sit down, Noah,” Marcus said from across the table, voice low and cautious. “We need to talk before the board comes in.”
Noah stayed standing. “Where is she?”
Silence. Three partners exchanged glances like school kids caught in a lie.
“Where. Is. She?”
“She’s dead,” Elaine said softly, almost like she was afraid of the word. “They found her in an alley this morning.”
Noah’s hands curled into fists. “No. She was under protective custody. I told—”
“They got to her,” Marcus cut in. “Before she could testify.”
Noah shook his head, pacing the room. “She was the only witness we had. The only one who could prove Caldwell was running that operation—”
“And now she’s gone,” Elaine said. “And if you keep pushing, you will be too.”
Noah stopped pacing. His voice dropped. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s reality,” Marcus said. “You’ve been warned twice. You think the people behind this are scared of your law degree?”
“They should be,” Noah snapped.
“No,” Marcus leaned forward, “you should be scared of them. They have more reach than you can imagine. This is bigger than your ego, Noah. Bigger than your damn obsession with being the hero.”
Noah’s chest tightened. “She was twenty-two. No family. No money. She trusted us.”
Elaine’s voice cracked. “We did what we could—”
“No,” he said sharply. “You did what was safe.”
The door opened. A junior associate poked his head in. “The board’s ready.”
Noah didn’t move. “I’m done here.”
Marcus frowned. “Don’t be stupid. Walk away quietly and—”
“I said I’m done.” Noah yanked off his tie, dropped it on the table. “If you want to spend your careers making deals with devils, go ahead. But I’m not going to sit here and pretend justice is optional.”
He stormed past them, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
“Noah!” Elaine called after him. “If you walk out that door, you’ll never work in this city again!”
He turned once, just enough for them to see the fire in his eyes. “Good.”
The cold February air slapped him as he stepped onto the street. Sirens wailed in the distance—New York never slept, but tonight it felt like it was watching him.
He lit a cigarette, his hands trembling, and stared up at the towering buildings. Somewhere in one of them, Caldwell was sitting behind a desk, drinking whiskey, untouchable.
Noah exhaled smoke and muttered, “Not for long.”
But the truth was already pressing on him, heavy and merciless. The witness was gone. The case was dead. And so, in a way, was the version of himself who believed the law was enough.