“Belle.”

“Just a minute. I’m almost done.”

My neck hurts from bending over the thick study guide in the center of my desk. Three days to go until I sit for the D.C. bar exam, and I’ve pretty much perfected the brain state I need to be in to memorize as much case law as possible. It’s like meditation, in a way. After a couple of hours, my mind clears itself of daily bullshit and leaves nothing but the words on the page in front of me.

In this case, Ohio v. Clark.

It’s easy, in a place like the Main Reading Room. We come here because it’s almost holy, in a way. The reverence for knowledge. The whispered questions. I put on my court clothes to come here. It makes it real.

I let my eyes go slightly unfocused and let the scene play out, there above the printed squiggles. A young boy. Two schoolteachers. Asking a question, giving his answer. Sixth Amendment. Statements are not testimonial.

The Supreme Court Justice Alito reads the opinion.

Only—damn it—I’ve slipped up again.

Alito looks like Graham Blackpool, and instead of reading the majority opinion for the Supreme Court of the United States, he’s got that devastating sneer on his lips. The cups are opaque, are they not?

“Belle, seriously.”

I slap the study guide shut too hard and the sound echoes through the main reading room of the Library of Congress.

Everest doesn’t flinch. She holds her phone in the air, right at my eye level, the auburn bun on the top of her head still shaking with her movement. It’s her Facebook feed.

This is what she interrupted our study session for?

“Jesus, Evie. I don’t care who tagged you in another bitchy post. I only—”

“It’s not about me. It’s about you.”

I turn the phone in her hand, so she can see it.

“Oh, shit. The window must have closed—” She swipes at the screen, scrolling, and taps again. “Look.”

I don’t know what I’m seeing at first. My eyes are bleary from studying. We’ve been here for three hours at this point, and I was up late last night. What is it? A man in a gray wool coat, a woman in a red shirt—

My stomach drops to my toes. “What the hell is this?” I snatch the phone out of her hand and hold it closer. The outside world is thundering into the graceful Main Reading Room at the Library of Congress, which is my all-time favorite place to study in the entire world. It smashes the arches all around the circular space and punches a hole in the soaring dome, right through the portrait of Human Understanding, surrounded by cherubs.

Me.

Graham Blackpool.

It is, without a doubt, the most unflattering picture ever taken of me in my life. My teeth are gritted. It looks like I’m about to spit at him. I’m shoving money at him. Did I really look that crazy?

I stab at the link below the picture with my thumb. The headline, though—the headline is enough to make me want to crawl under the desk.

GRAHAM BLACKPOOL’S FAVORITE CALL GIRL DOESN’T WANT THE TIP

Jesus Christ.

It’s so wrong.

“Belle, what happened to you?” Everest slides into the desk next to mine and taps her fingers against her own study guide. “You didn’t say Graham Blackpool came into the shop!”

“Why would I?” My eyes scans uselessly over the words in the article. It’s clickbait, salacious, and breathless, and all the things I hate about gossip media. Possible connections to the underground party scene. Call girl for hire. Lovers’ spat. Spurned woman. “What in the literal fuck?” I whisper the words so quietly that this place, my place, can’t be tainted by them.

“Is it real?” Everest’s eyes are shining. She can’t help herself. I get it. I really, really get it. We’ve been in bar exam hell for weeks, studying every free hour, and she’s starving for juicy rumors.

This one feels like an attack.

I put the phone on the desk and cover my eyes with my hands. “Is what real?”

“Belle. Focus. Is the picture real? Is the article real? That’s an insane lie of omission, by the way.” She glances around. Nobody’s close enough to overhear us. “Is he even hotter in real life?”

“Have some decency,” I hiss at her, keeping my eyes closed.

I study here because in the Library of Congress, there is a system. There are rules. It is quiet and slightly chilly and everything about this place screams of decorum. Of justice. Even the statues around the perimeter, looking down on us, remind me of humanity’s best instincts. The real world—filthy, ugly, scandalous—isn’t supposed to bother me here.

Me. A call girl. A prostitute.

Can they not see me in the picture, wearing a polo shirt for Capitol Bean?

Oh, God. I groan.

“What?” Everest puts a hand on my wrist. “Are you okay?”

“I’m wearing my Capitol Bean polo in the photo.”

“It looks cute on you.”

“Evie, for god’s sake, that’s not what I’m worried about.”

She covers her mouth, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh. “It’s an insane rumor, though, right? You’re definitely not doing that with Graham Blackpool.”

I stare at her.

Her face sobers. “Okay, you’re not hooking up with Graham Blackpool.”

“I didn’t take a side job at night, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh, Belle, I didn’t mean to imply that you—”

“I’m not that stupid.” My face is red again, the skin tight and hot. I hate it. “Do you think I would jeopardize my entire career over a conviction for”—I lower my voice to a hoarse whisper—“prostitution? This is not some episode of the West Wing! There are consequences, and it’s nothing to joke about—”

“Belle.” Everest pats my arm. “I’m sorry. It was a bad joke.”

“I’m not a prostitute.”

“I know.” She picks up her phone from my desk. “But this picture. It’s all over the Internet. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me it happened. It looks...” Everest purses her lips and studies the screen. “...intense.”

“Stop looking at it.”

“No.”

“Evie—”

“Fine.”

She drops the phone into the clear plastic bag with her extra notebook. “But I demand lunch. And a full recounting of exactly what happened the day you met Graham Blackpool and didn’t tell me about it—”

My own phone, perched at the top of my desk, lights up. It’s on silent, as per the rules of the Main Reading Room.

“Evie.”

“—even though I have been your steadfast best friend for years, even before we decided to do this soul-crushing law school thing—”

“Evie.”

“What?”

“My phone is ringing.”

She leans over so she can see the screen for herself, and then her blue eyes go wide. “You have to answer it.”

“I can’t. We’re in the library.”

“You have to.”

“I can’t.”

“Belle, you have to pick up the phone. That’s a White House number.”