I pull out my phone and shoot a text message to Joel: ???

He texts back a minute later: SO FAR NOTHING. WHAT WAS THAT WITH ALEXA? SHE ALMOST SCREWED THE WHOLE THING UP. OR WAS THAT PART OF THE PLAN?

“You never know where business will come from,” I say.

NOT PART OF PLAN, SHE DOESN’T KNOW, I text back to Joel. JUST A JEALOUS GIRLFRIEND.

“You were flirting with her,” Alexa says to me. “Just admit it.”

I look at her and cock my head. “You’re being ridiculous. Admit that.”

THE BUSINESS CARD WAS A NICE TOUCH, Lightner texts back. I thought so, too.

Alexa throws down her menu. “Take me home,” she says. “I don’t want to be here.”

“What? We just got here.”

Her face is crimson, her mouth turned downward, a pouty scowl. “My head hurts. I’m leaving. You can stay if you want. Maybe the hostess can join you for dinner. What’s her name, anyway?”

Linda. Her name is Linda. She just started at this restaurant yesterday. She has another job, too: She’s one of Joel Lightner’s best investigators, the beautiful blond who interrupted our meeting the other day; apparently Alexa didn’t turn around and see her that day, standing in the doorway. I probably should have discussed this whole scheme with Alexa, but I don’t want her involved. She’s involved enough, anyway, purely by her association with me.

“I don’t know the hostess’s name,” I lie.

“Well, now you can learn it.”

“Wow,” I say, opening my hands as Alexa gets up, not even waiting for me. “You’re going to walk out on me?”

“Sure looks that way.”

And she’s gone. I throw down some cash to cover the appetizer and drinks we ordered and make my way out. Alexa has already left the restaurant. I’ll catch up to her.

First, I take the opportunity for one more stop at the hostess station. I whisper something to Linda—“You be careful now”—and she makes a point of laughing, like I just said something really charming. I shake her hand good-bye, my other hand covering our handshake. Affectionate but not too forward. I don’t want to come on too strong here. I just want this beautiful young woman to stand out to whoever it is who may be watching. Joel has promised that they’ll have her under the tightest of scrutiny, and that she is armed and well trained herself.

He’d better be right. Because if this has gone as planned, Linda Sparks has just become target number six.

51.

Jason

Monday, July 8

A low growl, then thick sweaty gums, fangs dripping with saliva, black nose with nostrils flaring in anticipation; my movements are slow but steady, unsure of what will provoke it, and then its eyes come to life and it SPRINGS—

“Shit,” I whisper to myself. I catch my breath, wait for my pulse to even out, wipe sweat off my face. My dreams have graduated from serial killers and dead women and insects feasting on my skin to animals, mean and snarling, ready to pounce.

I roll over and Alexa is staring at me, wide awake, propped up on one elbow.

I blink twice and say, “What . . . are you doing?”

“You had a bad dream,” she whispers. “Are you in pain? I think the pain causes the nightmares.”

“I . . . yeah, maybe. Why are you up?”

“I heard you waking up,” she says, but she doesn’t look like she just woke up. She looks like she’s been watching me sleep.

She opens her hand. “I got you a pill. There’s water on the nightstand.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay. You don’t have to . . . do that. I mean, I can do it myself.”

“I know you can. I’m just trying to help.”

I take the pill and chew it up. These dreams suck. It would be nice if I could sleep through the night just once, instead of lurching forward in terror every two hours.

“You’re low on pills,” she says. “You know that, right?”

Of course I know that. I monitor those things more closely than anything in my life. “I’ve got it covered,” I say.

I put my head back on the pillow and stare at the ceiling. I should be feeling better soon.

“I’m sorry about what happened tonight,” she says. “With that girl. I get jealous. I guess that’s obvious.”

My breathing evens out. It’s kicking in now, the euphoria, the giddiness. I look over at her, my eyes having adjusted to the darkness, her features becoming clearer now. Is she . . . Has she . . .

“Are you . . . crying?” I ask.

“No, no. No, no. I’m not sad. I’m happy. I’m happy when we’re together. Are you?”

“I’m . . . happy,” I murmur.

“You’d tell me if you weren’t, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m happy. Go back to sleep.” I reach over and touch her arm.

“I don’t like it when you talk to pretty girls,” she whispers to me. “I don’t want to share you. Is that so bad?”

“No . . . no . . .”

And then my thoughts turn into swirls, sideways and inside out, and then I’m falling, falling, falling onto something feathery and warm.

52.

Shauna

Monday, July 8

Team Arangold—me and Bradley plus the client—leaves the courthouse at two-thirty, having spent the last several hours arguing pretrial motions in advance of jury selection tomorrow morning. We are counting time by the hours now, and the tension is showing in all of us. We had a decent afternoon in front of Judge Getty, so we’re off to a good start, but you just never know with this stuff. Twelve people who know absolutely nothing about this case will hear from both sides and pick a winner. To call that prospect unsettling is an understatement of the highest order. The future of a family construction business hangs in the balance.

And yet.

And yet, as Bradley and I walk across the courthouse plaza toward our law firm, all I can think about is my asshole law partner. And that little Barbie doll of his with the Cleopatra haircut and the cute figure and stunning blue eyes.

“What do you think of her?” I ask Bradley. We’ve spent so much time together, going into battle on the Mariel trial and now this one, that a relationship has formed beyond the formal employer-employee framework—not that we were ever that formal to begin with.

“She’s hot,” he says.

“Okay, thanks, Bradley. That’s hugely helpful.”

“Should I assume, because you’re asking, that you don’t like her?”

I consider denying the charge, but he’s right—I wouldn’t be asking otherwise. “I’m just not sure that it’s a good fit. And I’m not sure Jason’s in a place right now where he can tell what’s good for him and what’s not.”

Bradley looks over at me, as if to comment, but doesn’t. He just mumbles a hmph of agreement, or at least not disagreement.

“Spill it,” I say.

“You’re very protective of him, is all.”

“So what if I am?”

“So nothing. I mean, he’s like that with you, too. If he thought somebody was going to do you wrong, he’d break him in half. You’re very important to him.”

“Not lately,” I say, surprising myself by the injection of self-pity, wishing I could snatch that embarrassing comment out of the air and shove it back into my big fat mouth.

We zigzag across an intersection, walking in shade now, a relief from the stifling heat.