“No, not at all,” I hear myself say. “I could use the help. But I think I’ve looked pretty much everywhere.”

She surveys the room, nodding her head and humming to herself. “You don’t know what you’re looking for, that’s part of the problem.”

“That’s the main problem, yeah.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She spins around the room. “Did you pull up the carpet?”

“First thing I did.”

“The refrigerator,” she says.

“Check.” But I’m sure I’ll recheck it.

She keeps looking around. “Looks like you checked the heater.”

Check. But will recheck.

“The couch,” she says.

“Check.” But will recheck.

“We should go through your files again, probably.”

“Probably. I looked through them all.”

“Did you check every piece of paper?” she asks.

“Every piece—no. I was looking for things that didn’t belong.”

“It could be a piece of paper,” she says. “We don’t know what it is.”

That’s true. She’s right.

“What about the diplomas and pictures on the walls?” she asks.

“The walls? No.” I shake my head, feeling a surge. Her words trigger a memory.

You played football at State, didn’t you? “James Drinker” asked me.

Yes. Yes. He was standing, admiring my ego wall when I returned from the bathroom after taking the Altoids. I remember now. What is wrong with my brain?

“Haven’t gotten that far yet,” I say. Making it sound like I was just about to head there. I probably would’ve thought of that, eventually. I’d prefer to think so.

“Let’s check those first,” she sings.

There are . . . ten frames on the walls. My college and law school diplomas. Certifications from various courts to practice before those tribunals. Certificates from the public defender and county attorney offices for my work there. A picture of me cross-examining a witness, drawn by a courtroom sketch artist when I was defending Senator Almundo from federal corruption charges. And my favorite, the photograph of me, taken by one of the university photographers, my body angled while airborne, my arms outstretched, my hands closing over the football. I don’t remember if I caught the ball.

I start with that one, because that’s the one “James” specifically referenced. I lift it off its hook and look behind it. Nothing but a flat, smooth wooden frame. I balance it on my knee and twist off the levers that hold the backing in place, removing each piece of the frame, the matting, and the photo itself. He could have stuck something deep within it, after all.

Nothing. Alexa does the same thing with my college diploma.

I go next to the certificate from the county attorney’s office, my name in a thick gothic font on gold paper. If I’m right about this guy, it was my time as an assistant county attorney that brought us together. If “James” has any sense of irony, this is where it will be.

I gently lift the frame off its perch, a horizontal piece of wire resting on a nail, and turn it over.

“Well, lookee here,” I murmur.

Fastened to the back of this frame, with Scotch tape, is a hypodermic needle, the hollow tube with the syringe attached. And from what I can tell, some fluid still inside.

“He’s injecting them with something,” I say to Alexa. “That’s his signature.” And I’d bet any money that this particular needle was used to inject the first two victims, the ones already dead when the man who called himself James Drinker paid a visit to this office.

77.

Jason

Tuesday, July 23

“A needle,” Joel says. “With fluid still inside?”

“Some, not a lot,” I say, perching my cell phone on my shoulder. I’m at my town house now with Alexa. The needle is inside a sandwich bag, resting on my bed. “Maybe a quarter of the vial?”

“Well, that would be a signature, all right. Maybe it’s some kind of incapacitating agent. Or, well, it could be anything. He could’ve injected it when they’re half dead, or all dead, or he could have used it to subdue them in the first place.”

“It could be something meaningful,” I say.

“It’s a milky, cloudy liquid?”

“Yep. Y’know, I’m wondering if I should just take it to the cops. What if there are fingerprints on it?”

“Is that what you think?” he asks. “That this guy went to all this trouble to set you up, but he was dumb enough to put his greasy fingers all over it?”

He’s right. I take this to the cops and I’m in no different position than I was before. I still can’t identify the killer any more than a fake name he gave me. There’s still some unknown evidence out there that “James” has planted at the crime scenes. I’d be in just as helpless a position as before. Correction—worse: Now I happen to be in possession of one of the killer’s weapons, complete with DNA on the needle tip, no doubt, of the skin and blood of Alicia Corey and Lauren Gibbs.

“How are we doing on that other topic? That thing we discussed yesterday?”

Alexa, he means. His suspicions about Alexa.

Alexa’s in the master bathroom right now, the water running, but still I answer in a whisper. “She helped me find this, Joel. I was chasing my tail looking for stuff. It was her idea to check the pictures on the wall.”

“That a fact? It was her idea, was it?” He sounds almost cheerful. He seems to think this proves something.

“You’re delusional,” I say.

I hang up with Joel and get on my knees by the nightstand next to my bed. There is a small drawer and I pull it out completely, removing it from its hinges. I tape the sandwich bag containing the needle to the underside of the drawer and carefully replace it.

“That’s not much of a hiding place,” Alexa says when she emerges from the bathroom.

“Well, hopefully, it won’t need to stay hidden long,” I say. “We’re going to catch this guy. I can taste it now.”

78.

Shauna

Wednesday, July 24

Two o’clock. Bradley and I look at each other with blank expressions. Rory Arangold puts an arm around my shoulder and whispers, “Either way, you were amazing.”

The trial has ended. Closing arguments were completed a half hour ago, followed by instructions from the judge to the jury. The seven women and five men who will decide our fate have retired for deliberations. There is no chance they’ll come back today. They’ll get started today, will elect a foreperson and get organized, maybe will make some introductory comments. Tomorrow, Thursday, will be all day. And they won’t want to carry this case over into next week. Friday, I’m almost positive. Friday, we’ll get the verdict.

The adrenaline begins to drain from my limbs, from my neck and shoulders, my body turning to rubber. Jason, I think to myself. I need to talk to Jason. But I have to see this thing through. The jury shouldn’t take more than two days. Wait for the verdict, be there for the client until then, stay on my game just another day or two, hold my freakin’ breath, and then Jason.

Rory mentions dinner, Bradley says something about a stiff drink, but I tell them I have an appointment and I’ll try to meet with them later. I have a feeling that I won’t. I’ll make up an excuse, a headache or something, and by then they’ll be so drunk they won’t care. A rain check, I’ll say. We’ll celebrate after the jury gives us the good news.