Chapter 2: Raindrops
I
The neon sign above Mountain View Taproom pulses a weak red against the gathering dark, like a tired heartbeat. Inside, the regulars occupy their usual spots, each nursing their own particular brand of disappointment along with their drinks. Donna wipes down the counter, her laptop propped open beside the register, sneaking glances at it between serving shots of well whiskey and watered-down beer.
"You're going to wear yourself out, working two jobs," Gretchen says, counting receipts at the end of the bar. Her dark skin is creased with laugh lines, her hair graying at the temples. Like Donna, she knows what it means to rebuild a life around an empty space where someone used to be. "Though god knows I appreciate the help."
"Bills don't pay themselves," Donna replies, then forces a smile as Louis Litt settles onto one of the barstools, still wearing his riding pants and carrying the faint scent of hay and leather.
"The usual?" she asks, already reaching for the bottle of pinot noir they keep just for him.
Louis nods, his fingers drumming on the scarred wooden surface. "I've been choreographing this new piece — it's revolutionary, really. Picture this: me and Thunder, moving as one through a series of classical ballet positions, all set to Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake."
"A horse...doing ballet?" Donna arches an eyebrow, pouring his wine.
"Not just any horse, Donna. Thunder has the soul of an artist. You should see him pirouette." Louis takes a sip, then leans forward conspiratorially. "Though between us, his fouettés need work."
From the kitchen, there's a crash followed by creative cursing. "I got it!" calls Katie, the new bartender, emerging with a fresh rack of glasses. She's young — too young really for a place like this — with dark hair, round glasses, and a perpetually harried expression. She reminds Donna a little of her son, and she finds herself wanting to wrap her in bubble wrap and tell her to run away from this place as fast as she can. But Donna's not exactly in a position to be giving advice right now.
"I was thinking I could choreograph an entire show," Louis continues, his eyes alight with the fervor of an idea taking hold. "I'd call it — " he pauses dramatically, "Horses Through the Ages: A Retrospective."
"It's definitely a concept," Donna says, her voice carefully neutral. She's not entirely sure if Louis is kidding. It's hard to tell sometimes with him.
Donna returns to her laptop, scrolling through another list of attorneys. The numbers make her stomach clench — retainers starting at $10,000, hourly rates that could pay her monthly mortgage. The kind of money she simply doesn't have. She clicks through to an article about a high-profile discrimination case, the kind that makes national headlines. Pearson Hardman. The name keeps coming up.
"Oh my god," Katie says, peering over her shoulder at the firm's website. "I know him."
"Who?"
"Mike Ross." Katie points to a photo of a young associate with bright blue eyes and an earnest smile. Her brow furrows in confusion. "That's...that's impossible. He was at Columbia with me, before I dropped out. He got expelled our junior year."
Donna's pulse speeds up. "Do you remember why?"
"Yeah, huge scandal actually. He was selling test answers to students, including the dean's daughter. Dean Wormer went ballistic, made sure he was blacklisted from basically every school in the tri-state area." Katie sets down the glass she's holding, leaning in closer to look at the screen. "The dean practically announced to the whole department that Mike Ross would never practice law in New York. How the hell is he an associate at Pearson Hardman?"
Something clicks in Donna's mind, a key finding its lock. She opens a new tab, starts digging deeper. Mike Ross, Columbia dropout. No records of him at Harvard. No bar exam results in New York state database. But here he is, listed as an associate at one of the most prestigious firms in Manhattan.
Louis is expounding on the metaphysical connection between dressage and interpretive dance to anyone who'll listen. Gretchen moves between tables, topping off drinks. But Donna barely notices, her fingers flying across the keyboard as pieces start falling into place.
"You've got that look," Gretchen says later, after Louis has left and Katie's gone home. The bar is nearly empty, just a few die-hards watching a game on the ancient TV above the bar.
"What look?"
"Like you're plotting something." Gretchen picks up a glass, polishing it. "Something either brilliant or stupid, hard to tell which."
Donna stares at her screen, at the evidence she's compiled. Mike Ross's missing credentials. His sudden appearance at Pearson Hardman. The gaps in his history that no one seems to have noticed — or maybe chose not to notice. It's enough to destroy his career. Maybe enough to destroy the whole firm.
"Maybe both," Donna says quietly, closing her laptop. Outside, thunder rolls across the sky, and the neon sign flickers like a warning.
II
Maddie wakes to the sound of car doors slamming. For a moment, she lies still in her bed, watching dust motes dance in the pale dawn light filtering through her curtains. From somewhere outside, Sugar Foot whinnies – probably wondering why anyone's up at this ungodly hour. The old mare's gotten used to sleeping in since Maddie stopped riding her.
The sound of another door brings her to her window. Below, her mother is loading suitcases into their ancient Subaru, moving with the kind of urgent purpose that makes Maddie's stomach twist. Eira, their massive white Pyrenees, follows Donna's every move, her usually relaxed demeanor replaced by anxious pacing. The dog's always been too intuitive for her own good.
Tyler stands on the sagging porch, still in his pajama pants, hands stuffed in the pockets of their dad's old college hoodie. The bruise around his eye has faded to a sickly yellow, but the quiet anger hasn't left his face. These days, it never really does.
Maddie pulls on yesterday's jeans and makes her way downstairs, careful to skip the third step that always creaks. The screen door groans as she pushes it open.
"What's going on?" she asks Tyler, her voice still rough with sleep.
"We're going to New York," he says, not looking at her. One of the chickens – the ornery Rhode Island Red they call Ms. Daisy – flutters over, hoping for breakfast. She pecks irritably at Tyler's bare feet. He doesn't seem to notice.
"New York? Like, New York City?"
"Apparently."
"Has she lost it?"
Tyler shrugs, a careful, measured movement. "Probably."
Their mother appears again, carrying Maddie's old volleyball duffle – the one that's been sitting untouched by her desk since...since before. "Good, you're up," Donna says, trying for cheerful and missing by miles. "I packed some clothes for you, but you might want to check if I forgot anything."
The goats bleat from their pen, demanding their morning feed. Eira barks once, sharp and questioning. The whole farm seems to be protesting this disruption to their routine, but Donna ignores it all, moving with single-minded determination.
"Mom," Maddie starts, but doesn't know how to finish. There are too many questions, and she's tired of answers that only make things worse.
"It'll be fun," Donna says, in that too-bright voice she's been using lately, the one that makes Maddie's teeth hurt. "We'll see Times Square, maybe catch a show on Broadway. Tyler, you can visit that museum you're always reading about – the one with the dinosaurs?"
Tyler kicks at a loose board on the porch. "The Natural History Museum," he mumbles.
"Right, that one." Donna's smile is stretched thin, like a rubber band about to snap. "And Maddie, think of all the shopping..."
She trails off, perhaps remembering how Maddie hasn't wanted to try on new clothes since...since before. How she wears the same three oversized sweaters on rotation, like armor.
The morning air is cool, heavy with autumn and wood smoke from someone's chimney. Sugar Foot hangs her head over the paddock fence, watching them with her big brown eyes. She's getting old, Maddie realizes suddenly. When did that happen?
"What about the animals?" Tyler asks, finally looking up.
"Louis is going to check in on them," Donna says, closing the trunk. "He's good with horses, and you know how Eira loves him."
As if on cue, Eira lets out another worried bark. Maddie reaches down to scratch behind her ears, feeling the dog lean heavily against her legs. At least some things haven't changed.
"How long?" Maddie asks, though she's not sure she wants to know the answer.
"Just a few days," Donna says, but she won't quite meet Maddie's eyes. "Pack your school books, just in case."
Just in case. Those words have become a constant in their lives lately. Just in case we need to switch schools. Just in case the police want to ask more questions. Just in case we have to sell the farm.
Maddie feels something twist in her chest. She's not ready for a road trip with her family. She's not ready to be shut up in a car with her mom's forced cheerfulness and Tyler's silent fury and the weight of what they can't talk about.
She's not ready for anything.
Tyler disappears inside to change, leaving Maddie alone with her mother. In the growing light, she can see the dark circles under Donna's eyes, the way her hands shake slightly as she checks her phone.
"Mom," Maddie tries again. "What's really going on?"
For a moment, something flickers across Donna's face – determination or desperation, Maddie can't tell anymore. Then it's gone, replaced by that brittle smile.
"Sometimes," Donna says carefully, "you have to go looking for justice. It doesn't always come to you."
Maddie thinks about Ethan's smirking face in the hallways at school, about Jenny's averted eyes, about Tyler's bruises and her mother's trembling hands. She thinks about how nothing makes sense anymore, how the world has turned into this funhouse mirror version of itself where right and wrong have lost all meaning.
"Okay," she says finally, because what else is there to say? When your whole life has become a nightmare, what's one more strange turn?
Eira lets out a low whine, pressing closer to Maddie's side. Above them, a V of geese heads south, their calls echoing across the morning sky like farewell songs.
III
The morning sun glints off the steel and glass of Pearson Hardman's lobby as Harvey strides toward the exit, Mike half-jogging to keep up with his longer steps. They're already running late for court, and Harvey's irritated that Jessica pulled him into that last-minute meeting about the merger.
"If you'd just let me handle the Thompson briefs—" Mike starts.
"The last time I let you 'handle' something, you nearly—"
A woman steps directly into their path, and Harvey pulls up short. She's tall, red-haired, with the kind of beauty that feels earned rather than given – all sharp edges and quiet fury. Something about her makes his pulse quicken, though he'd rather die than admit it.
"Can we help you?" Harvey asks, trying for polite, but his tone comes out more annoyed than he intended. Mike glances at him sideways, but doesn't comment.
"You're Harvey Specter," the woman says. Not a question.
"Last time I checked."
"And you're Mike Ross." Now her gaze shifts to Mike, and she gives him a long, assessing look. Mike shifts his feet, a little unnerved.
"Can we help you?" Harvey repeats.
She hesitates, a flash of uncertainty crossing her face. Then her expression hardens. "I need your legal expertise."
"Make an appointment," Harvey says, dismissive. He doesn't have time for this.
"I tried. Your assistant said you're booked through next month." Her eyes lock onto his, unflinching. "My daughter was assaulted by a local football star. The police won't help. The DA won't press charges. Nobody will touch it because his father owns half the town."
Mike steps forward, that familiar bleeding-heart expression crossing his face. "Maybe we could—"
"I'm a corporate attorney," Harvey cuts in. "I don't handle criminal cases, especially not in..." he gestures vaguely at her worn jeans and boots, "wherever you're from."
He moves to step around her. Her next words stop him cold.
"Harvard Law, class of 2011," she says. "Funny thing is, I can't find a single person who remembers Mike Ross there. Can't find his name in any yearbook either."
Harvey's whole body goes still. Behind him, he hears Mike's sharp intake of breath.
"I don't know what you think you know," Harvey says carefully, turning back to face her.
"I know enough." There's something fierce in her eyes now, something dangerous. "I know he never passed the bar. Never went to law school. Never even finished undergrad at Columbia after he was expelled for selling test answers."
Harvey maintains his poker face, but inside, his mind is racing. "And you think threatening me is the way to get my help?"
"I think it's the only leverage I have." For a moment, her composure cracks, revealing the desperation underneath. "Please. My daughter is fifteen. She's falling apart, and I'm watching it happen, and I can't—" She takes a breath, steels herself. "I need someone who can fight this. Someone the system can't stop."
"Even if I wanted to help, which I don't, I can't practice law in whatever hicksville you came from."
"Pro Hac Vice Admission," she counters immediately. "I already have a local attorney licensed in Montana who's agreed to act as attorney of record. All we need is your expertise."
Despite himself, Harvey's impressed. She's done her homework.
"You've thought of everything, haven't you?" he says, anger and admiration warring in his voice.
"I had to." The simplicity of her answer hits harder than any threat could.
"Harvey," Mike says quietly. "Maybe we should—"
"No."
"We'll take the case," Mike says firmly.
Harvey whips around to face him.
"We'll take it." Mike meets his gaze steadily. "Because it's the right thing to do. And because if we don't, and she goes to Jessica with what she knows..."
The threat hangs in the air between them. Harvey looks back at the woman – this avenging angel in worn boots who's managed to back him into a corner.
"You have no idea what you're asking," he says finally.
"I'm asking you to help my daughter get justice." Her voice softens just slightly. "And I'm not asking anymore."
Around them, the lobby bustles with morning traffic – associates rushing to court, clients heading to meetings, bicycle messengers weaving through the crowd. But in this moment, it's just them: Harvey Specter, the best closer in Manhattan, and this woman who's managed to do what no one else has – make him feel cornered in his own kingdom.
His gaze drifts past her to where two teenagers lean against a marble pillar. The girl – red-haired, freckled and willowy, a younger version of the woman in front of him – stares into space, her expression hollow. The boy – lanky, maybe thirteen or fourteen, with a mop of bronze curls and a black eye – is scowling, his posture defensive, radiating hostility. They look as fractured and out of place as their mother, and something clenches in Harvey's chest.
The girl catches him looking and lifts her chin slightly, defiant despite the shadows under her eyes. Something about her expression reminds him of how he felt at that age, after his mother – but he shuts that thought down hard.
"Fine," he says through gritted teeth. "But if this ends badly, it's on you."
She pulls out a small sheet of paper, holds it between two fingers. "This is my cell. I've already sent the case files to your office email. You'll want to start with the police reports."
"Of course you have," he says, taking the paper from her, their fingertips brushing for a fraction of a second. He tells himself he's only doing this to protect the firm. To protect Mike. It has nothing to do with the desperation in her eyes, or the broken kids behind her. Nothing at all.
"Thank you," she says. It sounds almost like an apology.
"You're blackmailing me," Harvey reminds her.
"Doesn't mean I'm not grateful."
"And you realize blackmail is illegal?"
"So is knowingly hiring a fraud." She holds his gaze. "I'll be in touch about the retainer."
She turns to go, then pauses. "I'm Donna, by the way. Donna Paulsen."
"I don't care," he lies.
IV
The Pearson Hardman lobby feels like another planet compared to the dusty roads of Riverstone. Tyler stands next to his sister, both of them trying not to stare too obviously at the parade of expensive suits and clicking heels. Everything gleams – the marble floors, the glass walls, the silver nameplates. It's the kind of place that makes him acutely aware of his scuffed sneakers and frayed hoodie.
"What do you think?" he asks Maddie, watching their mother face off against the two attorneys. Even from here, he can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands keep curling into fists at her sides.
"He looks like every guy who's ever gotten away with everything," Maddie says, her eyes fixed on the taller attorney. "Rich. Pretty. Probably never heard the word 'no' in his life."
"Total dick," Tyler agrees, and for a moment, he catches the ghost of a smile on his sister's face. But it's gone so quickly he might have imagined it.
The attorneys turn toward them then, and for a moment, their gazes meet across the lobby. The older one – Specter – looks at them with an expression Tyler can't quite read. Curiosity maybe, or calculation. The younger one's face softens with something that might be sympathy, and Tyler feels Maddie stiffen beside him. She hates sympathy these days, treats it like acid burning through her skin.
Their mother walks back to them, and there's something different about her stride – a bounce that's been missing for weeks. "They're going to help us," she says, her voice tight with barely contained excitement.
"Why?" Tyler asks, because nothing in their lives has been that simple lately.
A smile plays at the corners of their mother's mouth – not the brittle one she's been wearing like armor, but something sharper, more real. "I might have blackmailed him. Just a little."
Tyler feels a grin spread across his face – his first real one in what feels like forever. "Damn, Mom. That's kind of badass."
"Language," she says automatically, but she's almost smiling too.
Maddie pushes off from the pillar. "So what happens now?"
"Now," Donna says, reaching out to squeeze both their hands. "We fight back."
Through the massive windows, Manhattan stretches out before them like a foreign country, all sharp angles and hard edges. It's nothing like home, with its wide-open skies and familiar mountains. Tyler doesn't know if this will fix anything. Doesn't know if anything can really be fixed after what happened.
But watching his mother stand tall in this alien place, her chin lifted with the same determination he'd seen when she faced down bank managers and bill collectors after Dad died, Tyler feels something unfamiliar stir in his chest. Not hope exactly – he's not sure he remembers what that feels like. But maybe something close to it. Something like the first warm day after a long winter, when the ice starts to crack and you can almost believe that spring might come again.
The attorneys head for the door, the younger one looking back one last time. In the morning light, they cast long shadows across the lobby floor, stretching out toward the Paulsens like reaching hands. Tyler doesn't know if they're hands offering help or hands that will pull them under deeper.
He supposes they'll find out soon enough.
"Ready?" Donna asks, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.
Tyler looks at Maddie, sees his own uncertainty reflected in her eyes. But there's something else there too – a tiny spark of the sister he remembers, the one who used to challenge him to Mario Kart races and dared him to ride the Ferris wheel at the county fair, the one who used to laugh without thinking, bright and clear as bells.
"Ready," they say together, and step forward into whatever comes next.
V
Harvey sits at his desk, tie loosened, scotch in hand, staring at his laptop screen like it's personally offended him. The Thompson case files lie forgotten on the corner of his desk – they won an easy victory in court, but it feels hollow now, overshadowed by the mess he's been blackmailed into.
"Find anything?" Mike asks from the couch, where he's surrounded by printouts and his own laptop.
"Plenty," Harvey says, "just nothing useful. Ethan Carter's got more press coverage than most NFL players. Three-time state champion. Perfect SAT scores. Volunteering at animal shelters. There's even a piece about him teaching kids to read." He scrolls through another article. "Kid's got a better PR team than most politicians."
"And Madison?"
"Nothing. Not even a disciplinary record." Harvey takes a sip of scotch. "It's like she didn't exist until she became inconvenient."
Mike sets aside a stack of papers. "That's pretty much how these cases go. Star athlete, small town, nobody wants to believe—"
"Save the social commentary." Harvey cuts him off, then clicks on another link. "Let's see what kind of local counsel we're working with. Louis Litt, attorney at law..."
His voice trails off as the website loads. The background is a soft purple, with dancing horses prancing across the header. In the center, a man in riding pants and a ruffled shirt poses dramatically beside a black stallion.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Mike perks up. "What?"
Harvey turns his laptop around. "'Louis Litt: Horse Whisperer, Equestrian Performance Artist, and Legal Advocate for All Matters Equine.'" He scrolls down. "There's a video. Of him doing ballet. On a horse."
Mike's face lights up with unholy glee. "He's a horse lawyer?"
"This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny." Mike leans forward to get a better look. "Oh my god, is that Tchaikovsky playing in the background?"
Harvey closes the laptop with more force than necessary. "That's it. You're handling this case."
"Fine by me." Mike's expression sobers. "Someone needs to help that girl."
"Good. Pack your bags."
Mike blinks. "What?"
"You heard me. You want to help? Get your ass to Montana." Harvey stands, straightening his tie. "I've got actual work to do here."
"Harvey—"
"You pushed for this case, kid. Now you get to handle it." He pauses at the door. "And Mike? Try not to let the horse lawyer put you in tights."
He strides out before Mike can respond, pretending not to hear the younger man's laughter. In his pocket, his phone buzzes – probably an email from Donna Paulsen with more demands. He ignores it.
Let Mike handle the bleeding heart cases and the dancing horse lawyers. He's got a firm to protect. Even if some small, treacherous part of him keeps thinking about those fierce hazel eyes and the way she'd said please like it cost her everything.
He needs another drink.
