“But what?”

“But this guy is intelligent. He’d know that. Somehow, I don’t think it applies to him.”

Alexa finishes up, claps her hands, and sits next to me on the bed. “Be optimistic,” she says. “You’re doing everything you can.”

“It’s worth a shot,” I agree. “I’ll give Joel a week or two and see what comes of it.”

She looks at me, confused. “What does that mean, you’ll give him a week or two? What happens in a week or two if he can’t find anybody?”

“I turn myself in,” I say.

Her hand, caressing my leg, suddenly stops. She grips my calf. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m totally serious. I’ll go to the police and tell them everything. Maybe he’s bluffing about how he’s framed me with physical evidence. And if he’s not, if he really did plant chewed-up pens and whatever else at the crime scenes, then maybe I can still convince them I’m a patsy.”

“Maybe you can’t. Then you go to prison for something he did.”

I shrug. “I’m not going to let him kill anybody else. I’m not.”

She wags her finger at me, but decides not to argue the point. We still have a couple of weeks to battle out that issue. And as long as Alexa stays by my side night after night and provides me a rock-solid alibi, so our theory goes, “James” will not kill anybody else.

So our theory goes.

“Okay, then, how about that present you promised me after I unpacked?”

“I probably built it up too much,” I say. “It’s not that exciting.”

“Whatever. What is it?”

I fish it out of my pocket. It can’t be that much of a surprise.

It’s a house key. A key that opens all three doors of my house—front, back, and side/garage.

She smiles at me, touches her nose to mine. “Wow, my very own shiny silver house key.”

“It set me back four bucks,” I say. “So if you don’t like it, let me know and we’ll exchange it for a nicer key.”

She kisses me and runs her fingers through my hair. She’s always touching me, my hair, my neck, my arms.

“You sure know how to charm a girl,” she says, pulling me on top of her.

48.

Shauna

Wednesday, July 3

No matter how much you prepare for a trial in advance, no matter how many boxes you check in the weeks before it begins, the final days are always a sprint. Bradley John and I, joined by Arangold Construction’s in-house lawyer, the two Arangolds, father and son, and three paralegals, have been working around the clock the last few days. The trial starts next Tuesday, the ninth, and should last about three weeks. Bradley and I have divvied up the work—about two-thirds of the witnesses mine—and are now poring over the numerous pretrial motions our opponent, the city, has filed to tie us up in the closing hours.

Day has turned into night has turned into day, the movement of the hands on the clock nothing but a signal that we have less and less time to get ready. Some people, facing deadlines like this, just want it to be over. I’m the type who always wants more time.

We’ve taken a break to eat some sandwiches that Marie ordered for us, subs in paper wrapping with grease stains, their contents described in shorthand with black Magic Marker. A copy of today’s Herald is strewn about, the headline about the scandal du jour, an investigative report that shows the mayor’s administration has wasted millions of dollars on the city’s new contractor to handle garbage disposal and waste hauling. Not the hugest deal in the world, but the Herald reporters are the ones who exposed it, so it has to be a big deal.

It’s okay with me, however, because it’s my theme for the trial. City employees who sleep on the job, unmanned hotlines where complaining callers can’t get anyone to answer—the inefficient, incompetent city looking to blame my client, a hardworking father-son operation, for the mistakes that the city itself made.

I make a pit stop in the bathroom, and when I come out I see the light on in Jason’s office. A Jason sighting has been rare these days. I haven’t spent much time thinking about him, given the trial, unless you count the number of times I’ve cursed him under my breath for bailing on this case and leaving me with too much to do.

I venture into his office, not sure of much of anything when it comes to Jason anymore. I checked with Marie the other day on Jason’s comings and goings, only to find that his appointment calendar seems to be shrinking.

“Hey,” I say without much enthusiasm, not a Happy to see you tone of voice.

He has his back to me, removing a bottle of water from his small refrigerator near his desk. When he turns to me, I draw a quick breath.

He is even skinnier than the last time I saw him, his face almost gaunt, the circles beneath his eyes prominent and dark. His hair is hanging in his face, the bangs curling around almost to his cheeks. He has two or three days’ growth on his face, like sandpaper.

He is no longer the imposing jock-turned-lawyer, the high and tight haircut and formidable presence. He looks more like Kurt Cobain.

“How’s it goin’?” Jason nods at me. “Final sprint, right?”

“Um, yeah . . . yeah, final sprint.”

“Something wrong?” he asks. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

That’s because I have.

I invite myself into his office, stand by one of the chairs but don’t sit. “Thought maybe you were sick,” I say. “Marie said you’ve referred some of your cases out.”

He sighs. “A couple of dogs. Nothing worth keeping.”

I move my head up and down. “You’re not going into retirement?” I say, broaching the issue delicately.

“Spending more time on the yacht? Sailing the world? Not just yet. Everything okay on the trial?”

How nice of him to ask. “You know how it is. You’re sure you don’t have enough time to get everything together. And then, somehow, it comes together.”

“Right, right.” He nods at me again. “You’re pissed off I bailed on you?”

Well, at least he noticed. He’s seemed so caught up in his own little world, I didn’t think he would take note of something like, oh, completely breaking his word to me and not helping with the trial, not being a good law partner. While we’re at it, let’s add not being a good friend to the list.

“We’re managing,” I say, deflecting the question. There’s a lot of deflecting going on in this exchange. “What about you?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

“Me? I’m all good.” Deflect.

“How are things with Alexa?”

“Oh, yeah, she’s good. It’s good. Spending a lot of time with her.”

The inanity of this conversation, catching up with each other like we’re a couple of college classmates who bumped into each other years later, is enough to make my head explode. I want to grab him by the arms and shake him, but it takes two for a conversation like that, and only one of us is interested.

“Tell her to cook you some meat and potatoes,” I say. “You’re shrinking.”

“Right. Oh, hey.” He looks past me. I turn, too. Alexa comes waltzing in, carrying a shopping bag full of groceries.

Plans for the evening? I don’t ask, but it’s July 3. The fireworks are tonight. Maybe that’s what they’re doing. People who aren’t about to start a trial go out and watch the fireworks. People with boyfriends snuggle up on a blanket and drink wine and watch the sky explode while they grope each other. I haven’t been groped in a long time. I wouldn’t mind being groped a little, or a lot.

“You remember Alexa,” says Jason.

How could I forget Alexa! How’s it goin’, girl?