"Was his DNA on the weapon?" Silence. "It's his gun right? He'd pulled the trigger right? Was Terrence Gresham's DNA on the weapon?" He ran a hand through his chestnut hair.
"Maybe you're right, maybe we shouldn't think about Monday, but remember o...
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A/N: Hi loves! Nenny popping in from behind her phone screen to say please don't be afraid to leave a vote or comment! It really helps keep writers block away ;) ★彡
Monday 5th
Lawrence Harrington was dead and Manhattan knew this. Newspapers would have the headlines by morning; reporters and writers and photographers were at the scene barking questions at anyone behind the police tapes, each eager to cover the story as it unfolded. Pedestrians with busy fingers tweeted and posted. Rumors surged like wildfires.
The night was young, bleeding leisurely into daylight; the moon a glare from a flashlight in a starless deep blue sky. Christina was smart on her feet, shuffling through the revolving doors and towards the pristinely polished elevators.
As anticipated, the building had been easily evacuated of the grinning overpaid receptionists.
Christina's reflection was distorted, almost smudged in the polished doors. She looked lean, resembling a patient in recovery; pin straight shoulder length bed hair ruffled over her head, hickory brown eyes cradled in visible bags and plush pink lips chapped.
Had there been more reflective gold surfaces in the reception, the building could have passed as the inside of the Trump Towers.
Into the elevator, Christina rummaged through her Valentino bag for her phone buried underneath her packets of L&M's. It was clearly a busy night for Gresham Square—already having to deal with plummeting stocks as well as a rapid loss of clients. It was a wonder how the investment company would recover from the impact of Lawrence's death—and Christina had a feeling her father's frantic phone call had nothing to do with catching up. It was startling how accurate social media could be in a moment of crisis. Headlines and cover stories filled Christina's home screen the moment she'd switched on her phone. Numerous hashtags covered the story of Lawrence Harrington's murder. Though there were no pictures to back the claims, various bloggers uploaded abstract Getty images of the building or of the late Lawrence Harrington. Other than the headlines and missed calls from Grace Gresham and Carter Wellington, Christina had no other notifications. She shut off her phone tossing it back into her purse.
She could feel it. That gut clenching feeling before she lost a case. Her palms were damp and clammy, and her throat dry, but standing alone in an elevator nearly overcome by anxiety wouldn't suffice as enough of an excuse to back out of what she was walking into. She needed a smoke. Now more than ever she needed to pop a stick of L&M. There was a jolt and a hum as the elevator rose what she assumed would be the fifteen floors of Gresham Squares administrative branch.
The executive floor when the doors slid apart was crawling with uniform-clad officers and paramedics. Christina could tell without a second opinion that the body hadn't been taken to the morgue; the putrid smell of a rotten corpse clung to the walls like cheap cologne.
