“Really?” I don’t hide my skepticism. “And how do we explain how we even knew each other before that court hearing on June fourth, when I was representing Billy Braden? What’s your story there? How is it that we didn’t meet until June fourth, but somehow we were dating in May when the first two murders occurred?”

“We met on April twenty-fifth,” she answers, not missing a beat. “People versus Kerry Alexander.”

I draw back. I remember the case, of course. My guy was charged with attempted criminal sexual assault. He was convicted on the lesser-included offense of battery, which meant he got nine months inside instead of nine years. That goes down as a loss, but he called it a win. Yeah, that was late April, that sounds right.

“You were there? Two months ago in court?”

“Yes, I was. I was the court reporter when the jury came back.” A sheepish smile crosses her face. “I wanted to introduce myself to you then, but I didn’t. You were pretty caught up with everything. Your client sure seemed happy with the verdict. You didn’t, though. You seemed . . . troubled, I guess. Like something was bothering you.”

This is the first I’ve heard of a previous time we were together in court. She never mentioned this. She first knew of me in April?

“I never had a reason to bring it up before,” she says, reading my thoughts. “But it’s a matter of public record. Anyone can look it up. So,” she says with a shrug, “we could point to that and say that we started seeing each other at that time. Late April, not early June.”

I shake my head. “Even if we could theoretically pull this off—”

“We could. We easily could.”

“—but even so, I’m not making you lie for me, Alexa. That’s not happening.”

She runs her hand up my arm, soothing me. “You’re not making me do anything. Last I checked, I’m a big girl.”

I pull away from her. “No. It’s very sweet, but no.”

“Sweet?” Now she objects, recoiling. “This is no time for sweet. This is serious. And I’m serious. You didn’t kill those girls, and I’m not going to let anybody say that you did. I appreciate your moral objection, but this will get us to the right result, which is that you’re innocent.”

I don’t have the energy to fight about this right now. It’s not something we have to decide immediately, or hopefully ever.

She seems to understand how I’m feeling. She doesn’t push the subject. She sits with me quietly, caressing my arm. “Is your knee bothering you?” she asks. “It seems like it is.”

I look down at my dress shoes, which I haven’t polished for months. There was a time when I’d keep those things spit-shined, like mirrors. “Actually,” I say, “it’s killing me.”

“You should take a pill, then.” Still running her hand up and down my arm.

So I do, removing the Altoids tin, popping in a tablet and chewing it up, letting out a long sigh.

“I hate that you’re in so much pain,” she whispers. “But I’m here. I’m here for you, Jason. For anything. You know that, right?” She takes my hand and interlocks her fingers with mine.

We sit in silence. We don’t check our e-mail on our phones. We don’t sip coffee. We don’t even look at each other. We just sit, heads together, holding hands, until relief finally comes, heat pouring through my body like warm syrup.

“We have to stay together,” she says. “Every night. You see that, don’t you? Any night that you’re alone is a night that ‘James Drinker’ can pull some stunt and try to frame you. We have to be together every night, Jason.”

I’m not even thinking about that right now. At this moment, I am weightless; my feet have left the ground.

“Okay,” I say.

“We have to go everywhere together.”

“Okay.”

“We have to do everything together.”

“Right.”

“Good,” she says. “We’ll get through this, honey. We’ll get through this together.”

46.

Jason

Tuesday, July 2

Under the new rule that I can’t go anywhere alone, Alexa escorts me all the way to my office before leaving me. Inside, my law firm is a barren wasteland, with Shauna and Bradley John out on a trip to Arangold Construction as they prepare for trial. I walk into my office, poorly lit and overly air-conditioned, and pass the seat where the man who called himself James Drinker once sat and spewed all his bullshit to me.

I put my head back against the seat, thinking about everything that’s happening, and for some reason I feel a little better about things. Surely, I can figure some way out of this mess. There’s nothing that this asshole can do to me that would make the police believe that I’m a killer, right? What could he possibly have on me?

I almost jump out of my chair when my phone buzzes. I’m thinking James Drinker every time that phone goes off these days. When I check the caller ID, it reads Unknown.

Yep. It’s him.

I answer the call but don’t speak. I don’t need to speak.

“Should I assume you’re paying attention now, Jason?” he asks. He is speaking slowly, without inflection, but it’s not hard to hear the satisfaction in his voice. A game to him. I just wish I knew what the game was.

“I’m paying attention. Why don’t you stop by and we can talk about it?”

“Oh . . . I don’t think I’m going to do that. I was just wondering when you plan to turn yourself in to the police. So you can tell them you’re innocent, but somebody’s framing you.”

I don’t answer. He’s reminding me that this is exactly what I told him to do, to go to the authorities and explain that he thought he was being set up.

“You’re not going to the cops, are you?” he asks. “You won’t follow the same advice you gave me.”

“You had a reason for calling,” I say. “Why don’t you just get to it?”

“I just did,” he says. “I want you to turn yourself in to the police and explain that this is all a misunderstanding, that you were set up. Framed! I’m sure they’ll believe you, Jason.”

I don’t say anything.

“Tell them that a guy came into your office wearing a disguise and giving a fake name. They’ll believe that.”

I close my eyes.

“And tell them you violated your oath as a lawyer and gave up that guy to the cops. What was it you did, by the way? An anonymous phone call to the hotline, your voice concealed? An anonymous note like you see in the movies, with words cut out from a newspaper?”

I don’t say anything.

Then I do: “You better hope the police catch you before I do.”

“Oh, I do hope that,” he says. “For me, it’s the difference between exoneration and death. But it’s the same result for you, Jason. Either way, you go down for five murders.”

“Do I?” My heartbeat kicks up. If he has something on me, I need to know what. But I can’t seem too eager. I have to let him come to me.

“You’re wondering what it is, aren’t you? You’ve been scrambling your brain trying to figure out what’s going on. Just play it out, Jason. I mean, you’re the one who advised me on how to frame somebody, aren’t you?”

I do a slow burn, thinking back to when we talked the first time, so ridiculous in hindsight, when he asked me how I would frame somebody and I laid out a list for him.

Motive, I told him. Close enough—I met all of the victims, or at least was in the same area with them; if I then became obsessed with them, which is what the theory would probably be, there’s my motive. People have killed for less.

Opportunity, I recall saying. Check. I was home alone each of the five nights the women were murdered.