I walk down to his office, where the lights are off and Jason appears to be enjoying his weekend, unlike the rest of us. Now where would the Arangold files be? I dropped all of them in the corner by his fridge—

Oh. There it is. The entire stack of folders. Exactly as I placed them.

Jason hasn’t reviewed a single page.

I dial him on my phone. No answer. “Hey, tough guy,” I say to voice mail, “don’t know if you’re coming in today, Sunday, but I need to schedule a meeting this week with you and Rory Arangold. So hopefully you’ll be prepared by maybe Tuesday?” I think of ending the message there. But I don’t. “If you’re not able to work on this file, if you’re busy with other stuff or whatever, tell me now, Jase. Not the day before trial.”

I punch out and stare at those untouched files. He knows how important this is to me. He knows how nervous I am. Normally, he’d be right here with me, watching my back.

I let out a long sigh. He’ll be there. He’s just doing his typical procrastination. He’ll waltz in and he’ll decimate their expert.

“You okay?” Bradley is standing in the doorway.

“Oh, sure, sure,” I say. “Let’s get back to it.”

25.

Shauna

Monday, June 17

I shake hands with my clients, new owners of a single-family home on the city’s northwest side. They are beaming, excited about their new home and their family. He is an accountant and she’s an elementary school teacher with a bun in the oven, their first child, who is scheduled to arrive in this world in about six weeks.

“Thanks for everything, Shauna. This was so easy.”

“Best of luck to you.” I walk them out of the title office, where the house closing took place. House closings are no fun, but once you learn how to do them, they’re easy, and it’s a steady stream of income in small bites that helps the firm keep motoring.

I put them in a cab, the husband in his suit, the wife in her maternity outfit, her stomach protruding, and watch them drive away. Someday, maybe, I think. But, as my mother always gently reminds me, the window is closing.

Our firm is just a few blocks away. I enjoy being outside, even for a brief walk, having lost most of my weekend at the office. When I get in, Marie hands me some messages and a couple of letters she’s put on letterhead for me. Marie functions as our legal secretary and receptionist. Both Jason and I can type, so we can share a secretary, and Bradley John is more proficient on the computer than all of us combined.

“Is Jason in?” I ask.

“Just got in.”

It’s mid-afternoon. He just got in? Maybe he had court. It’s not my job to keep tabs on him. But it is my job to make sure he’s pulling his weight on Arangold.

I walk down the hallway to his office and, just before I stick my head in, I hear Jason’s voice. “I’ve got tar on my feet and I can’t see,” he says. “All the birds look down and laugh at me.”

And then I smell smoke—or not smoke, but—

I poke my head in and see Jason shaking a lit match and tossing it into a styrofoam cup. He is startled when he sees me, but then he smiles at me.

“What the hell are you doing?” I say.

He chuckles and spins in his chair.

I’ve got tar on my feet and I can’t see . . . All the birds look down and laugh at me.

“Just keeping myself awake,” he says.

“You’re just keeping yourself awake by lighting a match until it burns your fingers? That’s why your fingernails are black?”

“Relax, kid.”

“And what were you saying? Is that—Was that from ‘Let Me In’?”

He wags a finger at me. “Good memory. I heard it on my way in,” he says. “Stuck in my head.”

“That’s not a happy song, Jase.”

He shrugs. “Okay, next time I’ll whistle something more upbeat. Would that please you? How about something from Mary Poppins?”

I raise my eyebrows.

“What?” he says. “Don’t look at me that way. Since when have we limited our R.E.M. repertoire to happy songs?”

I raise a hand. “Okay, fine. Fine. It’s perfectly natural that you’re sitting here in the middle of the day in your office, setting your fingers on fire—”

“I’m not setting them—”

“—and singing a song about suicide.”

“—on fire, first of all. And second of all, you like the song, too. I listened to Monster on the way in to work, that’s all. Jeez.”

Enough. Surrender. I look at my watch. “I have to jump on a conference call with Rory Arangold,” I say. “Did you get my voice mail?”

Jason seems to appreciate the segue, but not so much the new topic. “I did, yeah. I did.”

“And? Are we a go on Arangold?”

“Yeah, sure.” He gives me a wide smile. “I’m on it. I’ll start on it today.”

I eye him with suspicion, not trying to hide it. But he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes drift to the window and he smiles again, even chuckles to himself.

“Are you . . . drunk?” I ask.

He waves me off. “Just high on life.”

Yeah, right. The day that Jason Kolarich is high on life is the day that gravity ceases to exist.

“Okay, sport. If you’re sure. Want to get dinner tonight?”

He shakes his head. “Can’t do it, girl. Got plans.”

Jason and I have had our moments, so I’m entitled to a little ambivalence when a woman enters his life. And make no mistake, a woman has entered his life. Whenever he gets vague about his personal life—Got plans, he said—it means it’s somebody he cares about.

“Do tell,” I say.

“That court reporter? Alexa? Nice girl, it turns out.”

I saw her briefly when she stopped in a couple of weeks ago. She was striking, as I recall. And Jason, the bastard, is tall, dark, and handsome, even if he doesn’t realize it. And what court reporter personally delivers a transcript? So I guess it isn’t a grand surprise that there were fireworks.

“That’s nice to hear,” I say. I start to leave, but look back in at him. “Seriously, you’re—you’re okay?”

“Sure. I’m fine. No worries.”

He’s not fine. But I don’t comment further. Anytime I get near the subject, he swats my hand away.

You’re not his mother, I keep reminding myself. I’ve got a client and three lawyers holding on a conference call right now, waiting for me, so that will have to do for the time being.

26.

Jason

Tuesday, June 18

My head pops off my pillow before my eyes even open. My heart is racing and I shake away the fading whispers of the dream, insects attacking my skin in swarms. I scratch my forearms and knuckles and palms, but it doesn’t take away the itch. I look at the clock. It’s half past four. I push myself out of bed as Alexa, lying next to me, releases a breath and moans softly. She was out with friends last night and came to my house afterward, about eleven. We had a nice hour of sex before we collapsed on the bed.

In my bathroom, I grab a pill from the box of allergy medicine. I’m getting low and will need to replenish soon.

I close my eyes and they dance beneath my eyelids. I let out a deep sigh as the warmth spreads through me . . .

It’s going to be okay. I’ll figure something out. Sleep is what I need.