I don’t answer. This guy is always a step ahead, always inside my brain.

“Tell me something. How was that pizza? You seem like a garlic kind of guy.”

“Is that right?” Let him talk. Maybe he’ll give something up.

“I’ll give you credit, my man. That was a close one, over there at Linda’s house. Maybe if your knee was feeling better, you’d have caught me.”

“How do you know I’m not watching you right now?” I ask.

He breathes out of his nose, blurring the connection. “No, I don’t think so. Listen, I just want you to know, your plan isn’t going to work. I don’t care where you are. I’m still going to do whatever I want to do.”

“But how do you frame me, then?” I ask. “How do you know I’m not in Hawaii right now? Or with five people who can verify my alibi?”

He gets a good laugh out of that one. “You really don’t get it,” he says. “That’s okay. You’ll know soon enough, Jason Kolarich. I just want you to know: This next one? This next one is going to be my favorite.”

THE DAY OF ALEXA HIMMEL’S DEATH

Tuesday, July 30

85.

Shauna

10:00 A.M.

I open my eyes and roll my head over to my bedside clock and begin with panic—it’s ten!—my brain hardwired for work after two consecutive trials, month after month of seven-day workweeks. It’s a moment before it all returns to me: I’m off today, will probably be off for days, maybe the whole week, maybe the entire time that Jason needs before he goes to some professional clinic.

I rub my eyes and listen. The television is on in the living room, SportsCenter, I think, some animated guy talk. The scent of strong coffee.

It was a long night, like all of them have been since Jason started his recovery. Jason popping awake every couple of hours, hitting the floor for push-ups and sit-ups to combat the nervous energy, the itch, the cravings. Jason at six this morning, fists pumped in the air, Seven hours again! Seven!, celebrating his newfound tolerance, Seven is the new six! I watched him with my eyes half shut, dancing around like Rocky, knowing that in one hour he was going to be doubled over, grimacing from cramps and nausea.

I poke my head out of the bedroom. Jason is back to his exercise, push-ups on the floor. I take a quick shower, towel-dry my hair, and throw on a robe. It feels like a lazy Sunday morning.

When I get back to the living room, Jason is in a T-shirt and shorts, his laptop open on the floor. His eyes meet mine. “Not good,” he says.

“What? Another e-mail?”

He nods, pushes the laptop toward me. I sit down on the floor and read what’s on the screen. It’s a new e-mail from Alexa, sent an hour ago:

Tuesday, July 30, 9:01 AM

Subj: I REALLY wasn’t kidding

From: “Alexa M. Himmel” <[email protected]>

To: “Jason Kolarich” <[email protected]>

Hi, there. Hope you’re well. I’m really concerned about the attached letter getting out. Maybe we can put our heads together and figure out how to prevent it. But if you keep ignoring me then I guess there’s nothing i can do. . . . . .

< BAD.Letter.pdf >

“There’s an attachment,” I say, my stomach swimming now.

“There sure is,” he says.

BAD Letter, I think. BAD, in all caps. A special meaning to a lawyer. The document pops up on the screen:

To: The Board of Attorney Discipline

Subject: Jason Kolarich, Attorney ID # 14719251

I am writing to report an attorney named Jason Kolarich, currently practicing at the law firm of Tasker and Kolarich. Jason has become addicted to a painkiller called oxycodone. It has hampered his ability to practice law, I fear to the detriment of his clients. He has lost a good deal of weight, and his behavior has become erratic. I am not a lawyer, so I don’t know if the drugs have stopped him from defending his clients properly. I don’t know if there are rules governing this, but I thought the state’s board that regulates lawyers should know about this.

More than anything, I think a client, before they hire a lawyer, should know if that lawyer is a drug addict.

I am afraid to sign this letter, but I hope you will look into it.

I look at Jason, who is staring passively at the ceiling.

“Isn’t she a peach?” I say.

“She’s hurting,” he says. “She’s hurting so much.”

I close up the laptop. “Do you think she’d do it? Send it?”

Jason gets up, stretches his arms. “Everything she said in that letter is true, Shauna. I hope I didn’t let any clients down. I don’t think I did. God as my witness, I don’t think I did. But I can’t know for sure. I’ll never know for sure.”

“Jason, this isn’t the time for self-reflection. This is the time for self-preservation.”

He scratches his hand and looks out the window. “I need to talk to her,” he says. “I need to go see her.”

“That’s what she wants,” I say. “Just call her.”

“No, I need to see her.” He shakes his head. “This has to be face-to-face.”

86.

Jason

12:15 P.M.

I ring Alexa’s doorbell and take a couple of steps back. A flutter of nerves passes through me, but my whole body is so screwed up right now, it’s hard to tell what’s causing which problem inside me. My skin is tingling, my abdominal muscles are churning, a dull ringing has taken up nearly permanent residence between my ears.

I hear footsteps approaching the front door and steel myself. The curtain over the small side window moves, and then the lock on the door clicks.

“Hi,” she says. She is wearing a long football jersey and torn jeans, no shoes or socks. Her hair is matted and messy. Her eyes are red and puffy but, it seems, hopeful.

Hopeful, that is, until her eyes move to the suitcases next to me.

“I brought your things,” I say.

“I don’t want them. Keep them.”

“Alexa, c’mon.”

She leaves the door open and walks into her living room. I’d rather have this conversation on the front porch, but this will do. I carry in the suitcases and set them down by the door.

“Do you . . . want something?” She sits on her leg on the couch.

“I’m fine.” I sit next to her. It’s an old, beat-up leather couch. “I just want to talk to you for a few minutes. Is that okay?”

Her eyes narrow. “Now you want to talk.”

“You got my attention, yes,” I say. “I got your e-mail and that letter. If you feel like you want to send that, go ahead and send it. I won’t deny what you wrote. Maybe I deserve to be reprimanded. I’m sure I do, actually—”

“Forget about the letter,” she says, her expression switching in a finger-snap. “You know I could never hurt you.” She touches my arm. Somehow it would feel cruel to recoil, to move my arm away, to deny her that small gesture.

My phone rings, giving me an excuse to reach into my pocket, thereby breaking free of her and altering my body position. “Just need to make sure it isn’t Joel,” I say, by way of apology. Actually, I know it’s not Lightner calling because we programmed the Dragnet theme as a ringtone for his calls, but Alexa doesn’t know that. I look at the face of the phone and don’t recognize the number, then set it down on the couch between us.