Forgotten: A Novel by Catherine McKenzie Page A

doesn’t mean she’ll stop acting like it’s high school. Or maybe life after high school isn’t any different from life in high school? What an awful thought.
    “I’m not surprised.”
    “Yeah, she must really hate you. I mean, why else would she . . .”
    “Why else would she what?”
    She fidgets with the chunky ring on her index finger. “We should go upstairs and tell everyone the good news, don’tcha think?”
    “I guess so.”
    As I walk with Jenny through the mall, a knot forms in the pit of my stomach. Everyone at the office thinks I’m dead. They wore black, listened to someone (Matt, probably) talk about how dedicated I was, ate some finger sandwiches, and went back to work. I doubt many of them have given me much thought since. Judging by Jenny’s reaction, my showing up out of the blue is going to be a shock. I probably should’ve called ahead.
    Too late now.
    The elevator opens onto the cherry-wood-paneled lobby. Light floods through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the large receptionist station, where two nearly indistinguishable women with slicked-back black hair answer the constant flow of calls in their public-radio voices. “Thompson, Price and Clearwater, how can I help you?” There’s a string of white mini lights running along the edge of their shared desk. A massive Christmas tree sits in the left corner, its pine smell permeating the air. A menorah glows gently on a coffee table next to it.
    TPC covers all its bases.
    I spend the next twenty minutes watching the shock of my return spread through the office like a wave. As I walk down the long carpeted corridor of the litigation floor, everything becomes eerily quiet, amplifying the sound of the ringing phones. Lawyers stick their heads out of their offices with their mouths hanging open. I get some high fives, a few slaps on the back, and the ubiquitous thumbs-up.
    It’s kind of fun, in the way it must be in those first few heady weeks of celebrity. Until I get to my old office, a place that feels more like home than my apartment.
    Only now it’s Sophie’s office, and it’s full of her furniture, which has been reconfigured so her back’s to the hall. Her long, ash-blond hair is perfectly straight above the thin shoulders of her signature black Armani suit. She’s talking on the phone, the handle tucked against her cheek.
    Feeling disoriented, I turn away. Matt comes striding down the hall with the same look everyone else is wearing. He pulls me into a great bear hug, lifting me off my feet. And it’s this uncharacteristic display of emotion from a man who’s challenged me, and nurtured me, and made me work so hard I developed a twitch in my right eye, that breaks the fragile veneer that’s been checking my tears.
    “I’m sorry, Matt,” I say a few minutes later in his office after I’ve used his handkerchief to dry my face.
    He sits next to me on the ultramodern couch in the corner of his cavernous office. His silver hair glints in the bright halogen lights that shine down from the ceiling. The smell of his expensive aftershave is strangely comforting.
    “What are you apologizing for?”
    “I don’t know. Disappearing, I guess. I must’ve left you with an awful mess. The Samson trial, for one.”
    “Don’t worry about that, Emma.”
    “Was it postponed?”
    “No, Sophie did the trial,” he says gently.
    “Oh, right. Sure.”
    “What happened to you?”
    I take a sip of the water his secretary, Nathalie, brought me and tell him my story. He listens with the total attention that makes him a great trial attorney.
    “You didn’t know we thought you were . . . missing?”
    “No. Didn’t Craig tell you we spoke?”
    A jolt hits me as my mouth forms his name. Craig. I’d forgotten all about him and come instinctively to Matt’s office instead.
    “You spoke to Craig today?” Matt asks.
    “No, I meant when I was in Africa, before the . . . I’ve tried calling him since I got back, but his home number’s