That should be my focus right now, the verdict, this case. I’ve kept my focus thus far. I’ve stayed on program. I haven’t missed a single beat. We’ve done everything we wanted to do, from start to finish, for better or for worse. It’s a good feeling, in itself, knowing that you have no regrets about your performance.

But I’m not in a place right now to feel good. I just want to get out of here, make my appointment, and go home.

The Arangolds aren’t finished with me, hugging me and shaking my hand and filling me with praise. They are good people, and they deserve to keep their business. They deserve to win this case. I tell them all of that, knowing that they won’t be hearing these words from me later tonight over wine or something stiffer.

Jason, I think to myself. I need to talk to Jason.

Two more days. It can wait two more days.

79.

Jason

Friday, July 26

My office is a wasteland. Everything that Alexa helped me put back together I have taken apart again. I’m taking no chances. I’m going back over this entire office to make sure that the hypodermic needle I found behind my framed prosecutor’s certificate is the only thing that my friend “James” planted. I’ve tossed my car, as well, though there’s never been a sign of anyone breaking into it. No chances. Taking no chances.

I’m drifting hard, trying to keep my spirits high, focusing on the fact that I’ve checked at least one move that “James” has made, but realizing that there is a bad side to my discovery, too—it proves that my tiny glimmer of hope that “James” was making this whole thing up about a frame-up was wasted prayers, that, in fact, he is doing that very thing. And that means that even if I discover who he is, and I turn him in to the police, I’m going to have some explaining to do of my own. Not an insurmountable climb, I hope, but the truth is, I don’t know what lies ahead for me. I don’t know what “James” has planted at the crime scenes.

Which means that I could be sprinting toward my own execution squad.

My eyes pop open, and I realize I’ve drifted off—not an uncommon occurrence these days, during lulls of stress—when I hear the celebratory voice of my associate, Bradley John.

“Not guilty on all counts!” he shouts. “Not guilty on all counts!”

Marie’s voice now, whooping it up, too. I pop a pill from my Altoids tin and push myself out of my chair, glancing at the clock. It’s just after ten o’clock. The jury must have announced first thing this morning.

“A complete and total defense verdict,” Bradley is saying to Marie. “Four counts, all in our favor. And here she is,” he says, taking Shauna’s hand as she appears in the hallway. “Hey!” he says when he sees me. “Defense verdict, all the way around!”

I give my congratulations, a high five to Bradley and a quick friends hug with Shauna. Defense verdicts in a plaintiff-happy forum like our civil courts is cause for mass celebration. There will be a long, liquid lunch that will turn into a long night. I’m hardly in the mood for this, but they deserve it. Shauna did it. She took on the city and knocked their teeth in.

“I need to talk to you,” Shauna whispers to me, but she allows for the merriment to continue for a while. There’s no alternative. This is a major, major win for our law firm, one of the biggest.

It’s early enough that lunch is premature, so everyone agrees to hold off on the heavy celebration for an hour or so, Shauna actually mentioning that her stomach is bothering her and she may want to postpone the festivities. That would be fine with me.

I walk back to my office, Shauna following me. Instinctively, I take a seat behind my desk, a bit more formal than the couch we’d usually share, without giving it any thought. Maybe that’s saying something right there. Shauna, for her part, chooses not to sit at all. She is wearing a solid frown. Someone who just won a heater case, who just saw two years’ worth of grueling work lead to a spectacular result, is frowning at me.

“Could I have one of those mints?” she says to me, nodding to the small tin of Altoids. Shit. I left them out. I was in too much of a hurry getting up to congratulate them.

“Sure.” As casually as I can, I bring out the other tin—the real Altoids—and open it up.

Shauna looks at me. “No, I want one from the red tin,” she says. “The peppermint.”

“What’s the difference?” I shake the blue tin in my hand for emphasis.

“I want the peppermint kind,” she says again, her eyes growing hot.

“Shauna—”

“I’ll give you a thousand dollars for one of the peppermint ones that you just slipped back in your pocket.”

“What the fuck, Shauna?”

“What the fuck, Jason? I’m serious.”

We stare at each other. This isn’t going well. My cell phone buzzes—Alexa—but I let it go to voice mail. This is not the time for evasion. Shauna has busted me, and we both know it.

“That’s what I thought,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Now, listen to me, Jason. Are you listening? I mean, really listening?”

My face is hot, my eyes stinging. I don’t answer.

“I’m not going to let you throw your life away. You are going to get off those pills, and I’m going to be there with you. We’re going to do it together. But it doesn’t work until you admit it.”

I laugh, like the whole thing is ridiculous, but nobody in this room is fooled. “So this is, like, an intervention? Where’s my brother, on the other side of the door? Where’s Lightner? Where’s Dr. Phil?”

“It’s just me,” she says. “It’s me. The person who cares about you more than anyone in this world. It’s me, Jason.” She pats her chest for emphasis. “I’ve got all the time in the world to help you. I’ll do whatever you need.”

“There’s nothing to do, kiddo, and this is getting redundant. We’ve been over this before. If this is going to be you hectoring me about a problem I don’t have, then it’s going to be a short conversation. Go out and celebrate, and leave me alone. I’ve got enough to deal with right now,” I say, and now the emotions are starting to build. “I’ve got a damn serial killer who, as far as I know, is scouting out his next target right now, and who’s apparently setting me up for the crime. And I can’t find out who he is. I can’t, Shauna. It’s—well, it’s taking up a bit of my time right now, okay? So please, take your touchy-feely intervention and conduct it on somebody else.”

Shauna watches me, almost clinically, like she’s observing me for an objective evaluation. Then, without warning, her eyes begin to fill. Her expression doesn’t change. If anything, it grows stonier. But those eyes always give her up.

“I’m pregnant,” she says.

80.

Jason

Friday, July 26

I search Shauna’s face, uncertain I heard the words correctly, but surer every second, as the tears roll down her face, as she picks at a fingernail, her eyes casting downward.

“I’m pregnant,” she says, “and I’m terrified.”

“No. No.” I am out of my chair now, coming around my desk.

I approach her, and she weeps silently, the way she always does, her shoulders bobbing, and when she looks back up at me she has to blink away tears furiously, her mouth in a scowl.