The Edge of Almost

I pull into the office parking lot, mind still preoccupied with thoughts of home. Of Lauren, growing weaker by the day. Of Tessa, her moods swinging wildly from defiance to vulnerability and back again.

Something's eating her alive. But what? And why won't she talk about it?

With a frustrated sigh, I kill the engine and grab my briefcase. Time to focus. My caseload won't handle itself.

Inside, the usual chaos greets me - ringing phones, clacking keyboards, harried voices calling across cubicles. I navigate the bustle on autopilot, exchanging greetings and pleasantries without really hearing them.

"Moore! Just the man I wanted to see!"

I turn to see my boss, District Attorney Carlson, bearing down on me. His ruddy face is set in its customary scowl, bushy brows knitted together.

"Sir," I acknowledge, straightening instinctively. "What can I do for you?"

Carlson jerks his head towards his office. "Step inside. We need to discuss your caseload."

Great. Just what I need - another dressing down from the top brass. Stifling a resigned sigh, I follow him into the lion's den.

Looks like it's going to be one of those days.

----

I walk out of Carlson's office, my gut churning. Another high-profile case dumped on my desk, another opportunity to prove myself. Or fail spectacularly.

No pressure.

Rubbing my temples, I make my way to my own office, dodging eager interns and nosy colleagues along the way. Once inside, I shut the door firmly and sink into my chair with a heavy sigh.

Focus, Moore. One problem at a time.

I pull up the case file, scanning the details with practiced efficiency. Robbery gone wrong, multiple fatalities, eyewitnesses placing the suspect at the scene. Should be an open-and-shut conviction.

Except nothing's ever that simple. Especially not when the accused is a minor with a squeaky clean record and a sob story tailor-made for sympathetic juries.

Great. Just what I needed. A media circus waiting to happen.

I massage my throbbing temples, wishing for the millionth time that I could just walk away. Pack up Lauren and move to Mexico or something.

But that's not an option. Not anymore. So I square my shoulders, crack my knuckles, and dive into the work. Because what else is there to do?

----

It's well past midnight by the time I drag myself home, bleary-eyed and bone-tired. The house is dark and quiet, everyone long since asleep.

I pause outside Lauren's room, listening to her soft breathing. The urge to slip inside, to crawl into bed beside her and lose myself in her warmth, is almost overwhelming.

But I resist. She needs her rest, not me crowding her space. So I continue on to the guest room, stripping off my suit jacket and tie with mechanical efficiency.

Sleep claims me the instant my head hits the pillow. But it's far from restful. Dreams plague me, twisted fragments of memory and imagination colliding in a nightmarish montage.

Lauren, gaunt and pale, hooked up to machines that beep ominously. Tessa, her face streaked with tears, begging me for something I can't understand. My father, his voice booming judgment from beyond the grave.

I toss and turn, sheets tangling around my limbs like chains. At some point, I jolt awake, gasping for air, heart hammering against my ribs.

For a disorienting moment, I don't recognize my surroundings. Then reality crashes back, cold and unforgiving.

Lauren is dying. There's nothing you can do.

The knowledge settles over me like a shroud, smothering any hope of further sleep. I lie there, staring blindly at the ceiling, until dawn breaks bloody and raw over the horizon.