She’s putting Jason’s football into a box, along with a few other items from his desk. The rest of the office is intact, and there’s just the one box. So he’s packing up a few items but not moving out entirely. Not yet.

“He asked me to grab some things,” she says.

I nod. I consider turning and leaving, but I stand my ground.

“Alexa,” I say, “I’m concerned about Jason.”

She braces herself. “Jason’s fine,” she says. Not What do you mean? What’s your concern? Immediately defensive. As if she expected the question and had an answer at the ready.

“He’s not fine,” I say. “I think we both know he’s not fine.”

“I don’t know what you—”

“Alexa, I just walked in on him buying drugs from a drug dealer. Right here, in this office. And if I know he’s doing it, then you must know, too.”

She raises her chin. “He’s in pain. He has chronic pain and a doctor who doesn’t believe him.”

“He doesn’t have chronic pain,” I say. “He hasn’t had pain in his knee for months. Do you see him hobbling around? Do you see him grimacing in pain?”

She sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t see those things because he’s taking medication. The point is to not grimace in pain. That’s why we have painkillers.”

“I think it’s time you opened your eyes,” I say.

She cocks her head. “And I think it’s time you minded your own business.”

And there it is. A turf battle. This isn’t about Jason at all, not for her. This is about possession, about yours and mine.

“Jason is my business,” I say, knowing that I’m playing her game, but playing it anyway.

Her face wrinkles up, mock confusion. “Really? How many times have you two spoken in the last month? Because I’m with him every day, and I have to tell you, your name hardly ever comes up.”

My hands ball into fists as I move toward her. The kettle at boil. This woman, this woman is poison.

“I’ve seen your act, sweetheart,” I say. “You like the ones who are broken, don’t you? You’ve got a tiny radar that goes beep-beep-beep when you spot one. You could see from a mile away that Jason was struggling. That’s why you were drawn to him, wasn’t it? That’s what you want. You want him broken so you can control him. I’ll bet you’re right there with a pill every time he needs one, aren’t you? Here you go, Jason. Take that pill. There, there, Jason. Am I getting warm?”

She crosses her arms and glares at me. “I’m with Jason because he’s a great guy. If you can’t see—”

“I know Jason’s a great guy. Don’t you tell me Jason’s a great guy. I love Jason.”

Her lips part, then a small smile breaks out. Her eyes dance with some newfound inspiration. “I think we’re finally getting somewhere,” she says.

“Are we? Where are we getting, Alexa? Do tell.”

“You went a couple of rounds with him over the years, but somehow he never picked you, did he? This isn’t about Jason. This is about you, Shauna.”

I’m speechless, like I’ve just taken a punch to the stomach, the breath whisked from me. I should have seen that coming. It’s the default position for someone like her, a comeback so venomous and hateful and childish.

Is it also true?

I start to leave, pivot, end up walking in a circle, unable to decide on my next move. The air in this room is toxic. If I stay here, I don’t know what will happen. My hands are visibly shaking. I open my mouth to speak, unsure if I’m capable.

Control it, Shauna. Keep control.

“If you have any true feeling for Jason at all,” I say, “you will get him help.”

I leave the room and walk down the hall, numb, hollow. I walk past Bradley’s office. He says something to me, but I don’t respond, I don’t even make out the words. I walk into my office and pick up my phone. I find the phone number in my contacts.

Joel Lightner answers on the third ring.

“Joel, it’s Shauna,” I say. “I need to talk to you.”

55.

Jason

Monday, July 8

I empty the martini glass and place it carefully down on the table. It was a bad idea. My body can’t handle the alcohol, and given the other things I’m putting in my body these days, I’m taking a risk even with one drink. For a moment, I think the vodka’s going to come right back up. Across from me, Joel Lightner is watching me very carefully.

“She didn’t kick you out,” he says to me.

“She did. She said the words.”

“She said the words, but she didn’t mean them.”

“You’re a freakin’ mind reader now. A man of many talents.” I gesture to the waitress for another round out of instinct, knowing that I won’t touch a drop of it.

“Shauna wouldn’t kick you out of the firm because you refused to help her with a trial,” Lightner informs me.

The waitress is quick with the next martini. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s probably for the best. It’s probably time, y’know?”

“Time for what? Time for you to run your own law firm? You have any idea how much of a pain in the ass it is to administer something like that? Until I hired an office manager, I was miserable having my own agency. The payroll and the books and the human resources bullshit. I know you, Kolarich. You don’t want to run your own office. You want to try cases and battle it out in court. You want someone else handling the rent payments and balancing the books.”

That isn’t what I meant. I have no intention of having my own law firm, either.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I say, my thoughts clouding up. “Let’s talk about how you can’t figure out who ‘James Drinker’ is and why the hell he’s decided to single me out for the biggest mind-fucking of all time.”

“Hey, I’m not Superman. We ran the list of violent ex-cons released in the last year, I even went back eighteen months, and you didn’t prosecute any of them. Maybe if you could give me a complete list of everyone you prosecuted, but you can’t. The juvie stuff is sealed up, and there’s all sorts of misdemeanor casework that you can’t remember and I don’t have records of. He could be anybody.”

He’s right, of course. None of this is his fault. I’m just lashing out.

“Maybe this idea with Linda will work out,” says Lightner.

“I still don’t like the idea.” I was never keen on using Linda as bait. But Joel talked me into it. He said it was Linda’s idea. Linda Sparks is a former Marion Park cop, a martial arts expert with a license to carry a firearm, a firearm she knows how to use very well. And she has two of Lightner’s other investigators tailing her night and day. If “James” goes after her, he won’t get very far.

But that assumes a lot of things I don’t know. It assumes that “James” even followed me to that Greek restaurant in the first place, and that he would take the bait if he was there. But we sure made Linda an inviting target. She fits the profile, and I flirted with her openly, even giving her my business card, which would be irresistible to “James.” A dead woman with my business card in her purse? If “James” was there, he’s going to tail Linda, check out where she lives, scout out the whole thing. If he keeps to form, it will be a week or so before he makes a move. Could be longer than a week, could be shorter.

“Hey,” I say. “What about this signature of his? Remember you said the cops told you he left a signature at every crime?”

Joel takes a sip of his drink and smacks his lips. “I remember.”

“You can’t get me any more information on that? If I knew what that was—”

“Jason, no cop investigating a serial killer is going to tell someone like me what the offender’s signature is. That’s their one chit. They hold it back so they can differentiate between bogus confessions and real ones, helpful information and unhelpful, and so they can separate copycat crimes from the real offender. Nobody’s going to tell me that information, and I wouldn’t ask them to.”