“MS. MCNE­IL, yo­ur da­ugh­ter spit at her te­ac­her. We don’t to­le­ra­te things li­ke that at Tyler Ele­men­tary.”

    After one qu­ick exc­han­ge of glan­ces with her eight-ye­ar-old da­ugh­ter, Juli­et McNe­il un­ders­to­od that Mary Jane’s story was dif­fe­rent from the prin­ci­pal’s. She fo­ught the fe­eling of dre­ad se­eping thro­ugh her. If Mrs. Cum­mings kic­ked Mary Jane out, Juli­et’s child wo­uld be fa­cing the fo­urth new scho­ol in her bri­ef, three-ye­ar edu­ca­ti­onal ca­re­er.

    “Mary Jane will apo­lo­gi­ze to her te­ac­her,” she sa­id for the third ti­me that Fri­day mor­ning. “And she and I will spe­ak mo­re abo­ut this when we get ho­me.”

    The wo­man le­aned for­ward, not a strand of her cle­arly dyed red­dish-brown ha­ir mo­ving out of pla­ce. Pro­bably didn’t da­re to. “I he­si­ta­te to say this in front of the child, Ms. McNe­il…”

    Juliet lo­oked at the ra­ised fa­ce of her simp­le but ele­gant gold watch, trying to dist­ract her­self from the pa­nic that thre­ate­ned to ma­ke her so­und hars­her than she in­ten­ded.

    “Anything you ha­ve to say to me re­gar­ding Mary Jane can be sa­id in front of her,” she sa­id calmly. That calm was hard to co­me by when what she wan­ted to do was yell. Or cry. “I try not to hi­de things from my da­ugh­ter and it se­ems to work well for us.”

    Mary Jane had only be­en in this San Di­ego pub­lic scho­ol sin­ce the Janu­ary se­mes­ter chan­ge, and af­ter two months the wri­ting was al­re­ady on the wall. The child was too in­tel­li­gent for her own go­od, a free spi­rit, too outs­po­ken-all of which ma­de it hard for her to fit in with ot­her kids her age.

    She al­so had a fat­her who didn’t know she exis­ted.

    “Yes, well, then.” The prin­ci­pal tur­ned from Juli­et to the fi­ne-bo­ned child sit­ting in a vinyl cha­ir next to her mot­her, her skinny legs, mostly co­ve­red by an ank­le-length de­nim skirt, stic­king stra­ight out in front of her. Mary Jane, her hands fol­ded ac­ross her sto­mach and her short dark ha­ir a ri­ot of curls fra­ming her che­rub che­eks, lo­oked the epi­to­me of in­no­cen­ce. And in Juli­et’s opi­ni­on, that was exactly what she was.

    “The thing is, Ms. McNe­il,” the wo­man star­ted aga­in a full thirty se­conds la­ter, “I’m not so su­re the­se talks you ha­ve with yo­ur child are do­ing much go­od. Nor do I think a simp­le apo­logy will do it this ti­me.”

    “Spitting was wrong, I ag­ree,” Juli­et sa­id in a con­ci­li­atory to­ne. As a pri­va­te de­fen­se at­tor­ney, she’d had a lot of ex­pe­ri­en­ce re­ading jurors’ fa­ces. Mrs. Cum­mings had al­re­ady ma­de up her mind on this one. Juli­et brus­hed an auburn curl over her sho­ul­der and con­ti­nu­ed any­way. “It’s al­so not so­met­hing Mary Jane has ever do­ne be­fo­re. I won­der, has an­yo­ne as­ked her abo­ut the in­ci­dent?”

    The ol­der wo­man, her fo­re­he­ad cre­ased in a cle­ar exp­res­si­on of im­pa­ti­en­ce, sa­id, “Yes, I ha­ve the comp­le­te re­port from Mrs. Thac­ker.”

    “What re­ason did Mary Jane gi­ve for spit­ting at her te­ac­her?”

    A he­avy sigh ca­me from the se­at next to Juli­et. Her da­ugh­ter’s ank­le-length black bo­ots bob­bed. Juli­et didn’t da­re lo­ok over. She co­uldn’t af­ford the dist­rac­ti­on.

    She al­so didn’t ha­ve ti­me to find anot­her scho­ol right now.

    But even wit­ho­ut that lo­ok of con­fir­ma­ti­on from her da­ugh­ter ear­li­er, Juli­et co­uldn’t be­li­eve Mary Jane wo­uld re­al­ly do such a thing. Drop so­met­hing and bre­ak it, spill so­met­hing, trip over so­met­hing, pro­bably. But spit at her te­ac­her? The child was ne­ver de­li­be­ra­tely me­an.

    “She spit on her te­ac­her!” Mrs. Cum­mings sa­id. “I re­al­ly think the re­ason is ir­re­le­vant.”

    “Maybe.”

    Mary Jane co­uld ta­ke the truth, but she was still a child. Her fe­elings co­uld be hurt by tho­ught­less adults pas­sing judg­ment wit­ho­ut know­led­ge or un­ders­tan­ding.

    “Do you mind if we just ask her?” The whis­per brush of ho­se aga­inst ho­se as Juli­et cros­sed one ank­le over the ot­her so­un­ded lo­ud. “The first amend­ment to the Cons­ti­tu­ti­on of this co­untry sta­tes that ever­yo­ne has a right to a tri­al.”

    Her hands loc­ked on the top of her desk, Mrs. Cum­mings didn’t mo­ve. Tho­ugh her smi­le was rat­her ghostly, it re­ma­ined in pla­ce as she stu­di­ed Juli­et. Then, slowly, she tur­ned her ga­ze to the lit­tle girl who­se wi­de-eyed lo­ok al­most lost her mot­her the gro­und she’d just won.

    “Okay, Mary Jane, can you tell me why you spit on Mrs. Thac­ker?”

    “I didn’t ac­tu­al­ly spit on her.” Mary Jane’s vo­ice, tho­ugh so­mew­hat sub­du­ed as she sta­red her prin­ci­pal in the eye, was her usu­al pe­cu­li­ar com­bi­na­ti­on of child­ho­od lisp and adult­li­ke de­li­very.

    Mrs. Cum­mings sat up stra­igh­ter, her lips pinc­hed with di­sap­pro­val. “We ha­ve wit­nes­ses, se­ve­ral of them.”

    “I did spit and it did get on her,” Mary Jane exp­la­ined, eyes sin­ce­re. “I just didn’t me­an it to get on her. She wal­ked aro­und the cor­ner and I co­uldn’t ma­ke it stop co­ming out.”

    God, Juli­et lo­ved this child. “Why did you spit at all?” she as­ked.

    Mary Jane glan­ced down, mo­ving her bo­ots back and forth aga­inst each ot­her. “Jeff Tur­ner sa­id that I was back­ward be­ca­use the­re we­re lots of things I don’t know how to do ’ca­use I don’t ha­ve a dad to te­ach me.”

    She and Mary Jane we­re happy to­get­her. Why co­uldn’t the world just let them be?

    “Things li­ke spit­ting?” Juli­et as­ked.

    Mary Jane nod­ded. “So I told him I co­uld too spit, as go­od as an­yo­ne with a dad. And he told me to pro­ve it, so that’s what I was do­ing when Mrs. Thac­ker ca­me to call us in from re­cess.”

    Trying not to smi­le at that ima­ge, or to think abo­ut the hurt­ful things kids did to each ot­her, Juli­et lo­oked back at the prin­ci­pal. And wa­ited. This was her call.

    “The po­int is-” Mrs. Cum­mings, hands to­get­her, le­aned to­ward Juli­et “-that yo­ur da­ugh­ter, whet­her she me­ant to or not, spit on her te­ac­her in front of all the ot­her child­ren. We can’t just ig­no­re that fact. Ma­in­ta­ining the dis­cip­li­ne re­qu­ired to pre­vent may­hem with six hund­red stu­dents all in one bu­il­ding for six ho­urs every day ta­kes di­li­gen­ce and ca­re­ful­ly pro­tec­ted bo­un­da­ri­es.”

    “I un­ders­tand, but-”

    “I was qu­ite wil­ling to sign the ne­ces­sary forms to al­low Mary Jane to at­tend this ins­ti­tu­ti­on even tho­ugh she li­ves out­si­de our bo­un­da­ri­es, but she has not li­ved up to her si­de of the ag­re­ement. I’m go­ing to-”

    She co­uldn’t be­ar to see Mary Jane be­co­me the out­si­der aga­in as a new kid in yet anot­her scho­ol. “Ple­ase, Mrs. Cum­mings.” Juli­et sat for­ward. She’d beg if she had to. She was just be­gin­ning jury se­lec­ti­on on the big­gest tri­al of her ca­re­er-oppo­sing Pa­ul Schus­ter, a pro­se­cu­tor who put far much mo­re va­lue on win­ning than on truth.

    “She’s exp­la­ined that the spit­ting wasn’t in­ten­ti­onal,” Juli­et sa­id qu­i­etly.

    The frown on the prin­ci­pal’s pla­in fa­ce was not en­co­ura­ging. Even if Juli­et won this one, they lost. She co­uldn’t fe­el go­od abo­ut sen­ding Mary Jane to a scho­ol that didn’t want her.

    The child was unc­ha­rac­te­ris­ti­cal­ly still be­si­de her as Mrs. Cum­mings sat back, eyes lo­we­red. Si­lent.

    There was a ti­me to spe­ak, and a ti­me to let the facts spe­ak for them­sel­ves. Watc­hing her imp of a da­ugh­ter sit­ting so so­lemnly be­si­de her, chin sli­ding lo­wer on her chest as the se­conds pas­sed, Juli­et wil­led the facts to spe­ak qu­ickly.

    “I don’t know how I co­uld exp­la­in this to a clas­sro­om full of third-gra­ders.” The prin­ci­pal fi­nal­ly lo­oked up, her ga­ze pin­ned on Juli­et. “If I let Mary Jane back in­to class, they’re go­ing to think that what she did was okay.”

    “I don’t work with kids all day long li­ke you do,” Juli­et sa­id, “but it se­ems to me that they’ll think what you tell them to think. Co­uldn’t this be a les­son in how things are not al­ways what they se­em? Or an examp­le of how tel­ling the truth can get you out of tro­ub­le?”

    “Spitting at all is aga­inst scho­ol ru­les.”

    Filling with des­pe­ra­ti­on, Juli­et spo­ke ur­gently. “I know, ma’am, and I’m su­re no one’s sor­ri­er than Mary Jane. But spit­ting on the playg­ro­und can’t be a re­ason for ex­pul­si­on, can it?”

    “No,” Mrs. Cum­mings sa­id, eyeb­rows ra­ised. “Not by it­self. But this isn’t Mary Jane’s first inf­rac­ti­on.” She lo­oked over at the girl. “And I’m sorry Jeff Tur­ner was bot­he­ring you. I’ll ha­ve anot­her talk with his fat­her, but I just don’t see how I can over­lo­ok the fact that you’re in this of­fi­ce mo­re fre­qu­ently than an­yo­ne el­se in yo­ur class.”

    Juliet le­aned for­ward. “The ot­her in­ci­dents are in the past,” she sa­id, fin­ding it dif­fi­cult to bre­at­he aro­und the tight­ness in her chest. “Mary Jane ac­cep­ted her pu­nish­ment and ma­de all ne­ces­sary re­pa­ra­ti­ons. All we ha­ve on the tab­le to­day is spit­ting and, jud­ging by yo­ur own words, that’s not pu­nis­hab­le by ex­pul­si­on.”

    The prin­ci­pal sat for a long ti­me, and then her fa­ce sof­te­ned slightly. “All right, I’ll gi­ve her one mo­re chan­ce. But if the­re’s a next ti­me…”

    Thank you, God. Juli­et didn’t he­ar the rest of the war­ning. The bot­tom li­ne was that Mary Jane co­uldn’t ma­ke any mo­re mis­ta­kes.

    “But you’re go­ing to ha­ve to stay af­ter scho­ol for a we­ek, yo­ung lady, and cle­an Mrs. Thac­ker’s black­bo­ards for her as pu­nish­ment.”

    “Yes, ma’am.”

    “And apo­lo­gi­ze to her in front of yo­ur clas­sma­tes.”

    “Yes, ma’am.”

    With that, Mrs. Cum­mings nod­ded.

    Juliet ga­ve her da­ugh­ter a hug and a whis­pe­red “I lo­ve you,” and hur­ri­ed back to her of­fi­ce at Tru­man and As­so­ci­ates, one of the city’s le­ading law firms. They’d had a nar­row es­ca­pe.

    

    “MR. RAMS­DEN, I’m Pa­ul Schus­ter. Thank you for se­e­ing me.”

    Blake to­ok the ol­der man’s hand, was surp­ri­sed by his we­ak grip, and in­di­ca­ted one of the two lush navy le­at­her cha­irs in front of his desk.

    “It’s not of­ten I get a call from an as­sis­tant at­tor­ney ge­ne­ral,” he sa­id, cu­ri­o­us. He’d re­ad abo­ut Schus­ter; the man was one of the sta­te’s “win­nin­gest” pro­se­cu­tors, ac­cor­ding to the pa­pers.

    There we­re so­me who sa­id in­no­cent pe­op­le we­re rot­ting away in pri­son be­ca­use of that.

    “As a mat­ter of fact,” Bla­ke ad­ded, ta­king the man’s bu­si­ness card, “this is a first.”

    “It’s the first ti­me I’ve be­en in the Rams­den Bu­il­ding, too,” Schus­ter sa­id, lif­ting the back of his black-and-whi­te twe­ed jac­ket as he set down his soft-si­ded le­at­her bri­ef­ca­se and sat. “Li­ke ever­yo­ne el­se in San Di­ego, I’ve dri­ven by it co­unt­less ti­mes.”

    Blake nod­ded. The bu­il­ding was one of the first things he’d do­ne af­ter his re­turn to the Sta­tes-and the fa­mily bu­si­ness-fi­ve ye­ars be­fo­re. One thing he’d le­ar­ned du­ring his fo­ur-ye­ar so­j­o­urn ab­ro­ad was that ima­ge was everyt­hing. Show them you’re big and imp­res­si­ve, and you will be. He’d al­so ga­ined an al­most spi­ri­tu­al ap­pre­ci­ati­on for the ar­tistry of the arc­hi­tec­tu­re he’d spent fi­ve ye­ars in col­le­ge analy­zing.

    “It’s as in­te­res­ting in­si­de as it is out. The spi­rals and co­lumns are fas­ci­na­ting,” the pro­se­cu­tor ad­ded.

    “You’ve ne­ver be­en to Bar­ce­lo­na, I ta­ke it?”

    Schuster’s frown held mo­re qu­es­ti­on than anyt­hing. “No, why?”

    “They’re ba­sed on the Sag­ra­da Fa­mi­lia, a fa­mo­us Ga­udi church.” He co­uld bo­re the man with all the ot­her arc­hi­tec­tu­ral de­ta­ils rep­re­sen­ted in the new ho­me of Rams­den En­terp­ri­ses, one of the sta­te’s ol­dest and most eli­te cus­tom-ho­me bu­il­ders-and now its le­ading com­mer­ci­al bu­il­der as well-but he wo­uldn’t. “Ga­udi was an in­no­va­tor, part of the art no­uve­au mo­ve­ment. He cre­ated fa­iry ta­les out of rub­bish. And this par­ti­cu­lar pro­j­ect is one he ne­ver fi­nis­hed.”

    To his cre­dit, Schus­ter ap­pe­ared in­te­res­ted.

    Rocking back in his cha­ir, Bla­ke pla­ced his hands on his thighs. Af­ter fi­ve ye­ars, he still wasn’t used to the cre­ased dress slacks he wo­re.

    “You’re a busy man, Schus­ter. I’m su­re you didn’t co­me he­re to dis­cuss arc­hi­tec­tu­re. Un­less you’re in the mar­ket for a new one-of-a-kind ho­me?”

    “What do you know abo­ut the Ter­ra­cot­ta Fo­un­da­ti­on?”

    “Only what I’ve re­ad in the pa­pers. It’s a pri­va­tely ow­ned and ad­mi­nis­te­red fo­un­da­ti­on who­se al­le­ged pur­po­se is to ra­ise funds, thro­ugh in­vest­ments and do­na­ti­ons, and dis­per­se them to third-world co­unt­ri­es.”

    “How abo­ut Se­map­hor?”

    Resisting the ur­ge to adopt a less re­la­xed po­si­ti­on, Bla­ke sa­id, “It’s a nonp­ro­fit or­ga­ni­za­ti­on that ra­ises pub­lic awa­re­ness of cha­ri­tab­le fo­un­da­ti­ons.”

    “Your fat­her was on the bo­ard.”

    Blake knew that. The open po­si­ti­on had be­en of­fe­red to Bla­ke fi­ve ye­ars be­fo­re, when he’d flown ho­me in shock to ta­ke up the re­ins of the fa­mily bu­si­ness.

    “Is the­re a prob­lem he­re?” he as­ked as he le­aned for­ward, put­ting his fe­et firmly on the flo­or and res­ting his fo­re­arms on the ed­ge of his desk. The glass was co­ol on the skin left ba­re by the rol­led-up sle­eves of his dress shirt.

    Schuster sho­ok his gra­ying he­ad. “Not with you, no.” The pock­marks on the man’s fa­ce ga­ve a hint of fi­er­ce­ness to his se­ri­o­us exp­res­si­on.

    “And not with my fat­her, eit­her.” Of that Bla­ke was cer­ta­in. Wal­ter Rams­den might ha­ve be­en ob­ses­si­ve, inf­le­xib­le, and im­pos­sib­le to li­ve with, but he had be­en as ho­nest as they ca­me. In all his de­alings.

    “How well do you know Eaton James?”

    CEO of Ter­ra­cot­ta In­dust­ri­es, which ow­ned the Ter­ra­cot­ta Fo­un­da­ti­on. “Well eno­ugh.”

    Schuster ra­ised one eyeb­row. Bla­ke lo­oked away and sta­red out the twelfth-flo­or wall of win­dows that flan­ked the west si­de of his of­fi­ce, gi­ving him a vi­ew that-if all ci­vi­li­za­ti­on we­re wi­ped away-wo­uld ta­ke him stra­ight to the oce­an. Ha­ving it so clo­se, that vast pla­ce of mystery and li­fe, so­me­how cal­med him.

    “The man tri­ed to swind­le my fat­her.” Bla­ke ga­ve Schus­ter da­tes. Ti­mes. Qu­otes from an in­vest­ment ag­re­ement. Ac­co­unts. “That’s what I me­an by well eno­ugh.”

    “Are you wil­ling to tes­tify to this?”

    Of co­ur­se. If he had to. The one thing that held ste­ady in his li­fe was his com­pul­si­on to tell the truth. To tell it and to li­ve it. But he didn’t re­lish sho­wing his la­te fat­her for the fo­ol he’d ap­pa­rently be­en in that in­ci­dent, par­ti­cu­larly sin­ce it was the only ti­me in the man’s en­ti­re li­fe that he’d be­en led by sen­ti­ment rat­her than lo­gic.

    “I ha­ve a pa­per tra­il out­li­ning a se­ri­es of in­vest­ment fra­uds that, with yo­ur va­li­da­ti­on, co­uld na­il James to the wall,” Schus­ter sa­id. “Wit­ho­ut yo­ur tes­ti­mony-the exp­la­na­ti­on that will tie all the pa­per evi­den­ce to­get­her-he co­uld walk.”

    “When do you ne­ed me in co­urt?”

    

    “YOU SU­RE LO­OK glo­omy.”

    Leaning her he­ad aga­inst the back of the se­at, Mary Jane nod­ded.

    “Was it ro­ugh, apo­lo­gi­zing in front of ever­yo­ne?”

    “Nah.” She hadn’t ca­red. She was sorry she’d spit on Mrs. Thac­ker.

    “Then what?”

    “I just wish I didn’t ha­ve to go to any dumb scho­ol.”

    What she wis­hed was that she co­uld stay ho­me whe­re Mom al­ways knew what she me­ant, knew that she wo­uldn’t do bad things on pur­po­se, and didn’t think it was we­ird that she didn’t know her dad.

    She wis­hed she’d ne­ver told that to dumb Jeff Tur­ner any­way. But he’d ma­de her re­al­ly mad when he’d sa­id her dad didn’t want her be­ca­use her ha­ir was so curly and she sa­id we­ird stuff.

    At le­ast she hadn’t told Jeff that her dad didn’t know her, eit­her-didn’t even know abo­ut her.

    “School’s not dumb, Mary Jane. You’re a very smart lit­tle girl, but if you don’t le­arn facts and in­for­ma­ti­on, that in­tel­li­gen­ce isn’t go­ing to do you a lot of go­od.”

    “You co­uld te­ach me at ho­me.”

    “Honey, you know I ha­ve to work.”

    “Well, I can stay ho­me alo­ne and te­ach myself.”

    “Did so­me­one say so­met­hing me­an to you af­ter I left?”

    Thank go­od­ness it had be­en yes­ter­day when Jeff had sa­id her dad didn’t want her. Be­ca­use she co­uldn’t lie to her mom, and she didn’t want to tell her what he’d sa­id.

    “No.”

    What if the thing Jeff sa­id was true? What if her fat­her didn’t want her?

    “You su­re?” Mom’s fa­ce was all soft and kind of smi­ling when she lo­oked over at Mary Jane.

    She nod­ded. And lo­oked out the win­dow for a whi­le, thin­king abo­ut her dad. Mom had told her a long ti­me ago who he was. Her mom didn’t ke­ep it a sec­ret, be­ca­use her grand­ma had kept sec­rets from Mom and Aunt Mar­cie that had tur­ned out to hurt them a lot.

    That big bu­il­ding down­town was her dad’s. And she was glad he didn’t know abo­ut her. If a man ca­me to li­ve with them, it wo­uld just mess up the best li­fe she’d ever had. Still…

    “Do you think Bla­ke Rams­den wo­ul­da wan­ted me if you’d told him I was born?”

    “He wasn’t anyw­he­re whe­re I co­uld ha­ve told him,” Mom sa­id. “You know that.”

    “But when he did get so­mew­he­re, do you think he wo­ul­da wan­ted me?”

    Mom was qu­i­et for a whi­le and that sca­red Mary Jane. If Jeff Tur­ner was right abo­ut this, was he right abo­ut the ot­her dumb stuff he sa­id, too? Did ever­yo­ne re­al­ly ha­te Mary Jane and la­ugh at her be­hind her back be­ca­use she mostly got all the ans­wers?

    Did they say they didn’t want to be her fri­end?

    “I be­li­eve that if he knew you, he’d lo­ve you as much as I do,” Mom fi­nal­ly sa­id.

    That was go­od. “But wo­uld he want me?”

    “I can’t spe­ak for him, swe­etie,” Mom sa­id. “But I don’t see how he co­uldn’t want you. I’ve told you be­fo­re that I wo­uld con­tact him for you if you wan­ted me to,” she ad­ded. “Wo­uld that help?”

    “No!”

    The tre­es we­re go­ing by re­al­ly fast and it ma­de her a lit­tle dizzy, sta­ring out at them. She li­ked them tho­ugh. They we­re too big to be hurt by just abo­ut anyt­hing, ’cept light­ning, and they hel­ped you bre­at­he.

    “Did you want me?” She’d hadn’t plan­ned to ask that.

    Mom pul­led in­to the­ir stre­et and in­to the­ir car­port and stop­ped the car, but she didn’t open her do­or. Mary Jane didn’t eit­her.

    “Why all the qu­es­ti­ons abo­ut be­ing wan­ted?” Mom as­ked, frow­ning a lit­tle.

    She shrug­ged. A shrug wasn’t a lie.

    “When I first fo­und out I was preg­nant with you, I was sca­red to de­ath.” That was so­met­hing Mary Jane had ne­ver he­ard be­fo­re. She sta­red at her mom.

    “You we­re?” She’d ne­ver se­en Mom sca­red of anyt­hing. Usu­al­ly she ma­de the scary stuff bet­ter.

    “Uh-huh.”

    “Scared of me, a lit­tle baby? How co­me?”

    Mom’s fin­gers pus­hed curls off Mary Jane’s fo­re­he­ad. She li­ked it when Mom did that.

    “I wasn’t af­ra­id of you. I was af­ra­id that I wo­uldn’t be ab­le to ta­ke ca­re of you. I was alo­ne and not even a re­al law­yer yet be­ca­use I hadn’t ta­ken the bar exam. I had no idea how I’d sup­port us.”

    Oh. That kind of stuff. “But you did.”

    Mom smi­led. “Yes, I did.”

    “So then did you want me?”

    “Very much.”

    That was eno­ugh. But Mary Jane li­ked tal­king abo­ut this. It ma­de her fe­el go­od. Li­ke she re­al­ly was spe­ci­al and not a lo­ser li­ke Jeff Tur­ner sa­id.

    “When did you first know you wan­ted me?” she as­ked, still sit­ting with her se­at belt on even tho­ugh she was get­ting pretty hungry.

    Mom had kind of a fa­ra­way lo­ok, and Mary Jane knew she was re­mem­be­ring. She wis­hed she co­uld re­mem­ber, too.

    “I al­ways wan­ted you,” she sa­id, her vo­ice soft li­ke she was tel­ling a dre­am. “But the first ti­me I knew you we­re go­ing to be mo­re im­por­tant to me than anyt­hing el­se in my li­fe was the first ti­me I felt you mo­ve.”

    “In yo­ur sto­mach?”

    “Yep.”

    Mary Jane grin­ned. “What did it fe­el li­ke?”

    “Like a tiny lit­tle but­terfly flut­te­ring its wings.”

    That wasn’t so bad. She wasn’t ever go­ing to ha­ve ba­bi­es her­self. That wo­uld be too gross.

    But she was su­re glad Mom had.

    

    

    “MY PAWN TO yo­ur king,” Bla­ke mut­te­red to him­self. Still in the gray su­it and co­or­di­na­ting gray, black-and-whi­te tie he’d worn to the of­fi­ce that day, he sto­od at the com­pu­ter in his glass-wal­led ho­me of­fi­ce the last Wed­nes­day night in March. He pus­hed a co­up­le of keys, hit En­ter, to­ok one fi­nal lo­ok at the ga­me on the scre­en, and left the ro­om. His op­po­nent, a man he’d met in Kash­mir, In­dia, se­ve­ral ye­ars be­fo­re, wo­uld be at le­ast an ho­ur fi­gu­ring his way out of that one.

    He had gu­ests co­ming for din­ner, Don­kor and Jami­la Rah­man. A Chris­ti­an fat­her and da­ugh­ter he’d li­ved with for a whi­le in Egypt-be­fo­re his mar­ri­age to Jami­la’s clo­sest fri­end.

    After chec­king the last-mi­nu­te de­ta­ils on the din­ner his ho­use­ke­eper had pre­pa­red for him that af­ter­no­on, Bla­ke mo­ved from the kitc­hen, with its shiny black ap­pli­an­ces, gra­ni­te co­un­ter­tops and do­ub­le oven, to the si­de of his ho­use that didn’t over­lo­ok the oce­an. In cont­rast to the wes­tern si­de, the­se ro­oms didn’t ha­ve win­dows. The ho­use was bu­ilt in­to the si­de of a cliff in the qu­a­int vil­la­ge of La Jol­la.

    The east si­de was whe­re he’d put his tre­asu­re ro­om-a mu­se­um with track ligh­ting, bu­ilt-in shel­ves and marb­le tab­les that ho­used all the ar­ti­facts and so­uve­nirs of his tra­vels. It was al­so whe­re he ho­used his wi­ne cel­lar.

    The cel­lar-mo­re of a wall-si­ze wi­ne clo­set-had be­en his wi­fe’s idea.

    A wo­man who’d be­en orp­ha­ned yo­ung, Amu­net had grown up half Egyp­ti­an, half French and la­ter, a New Yor­ker. She’d be­en vi­si­ting Egypt when Bla­ke was the­re hel­ping to re­bu­ild a small vil­la­ge that had be­en hit hard by we­at­her and po­verty. Don­kor, a man of me­ans and a cha­ri­tab­le he­art, had be­en the lar­gest do­nor and over­se­er of the pro­j­ect.

    Blake cho­se the wi­ne, chec­king the ye­ar, alt­ho­ugh he knew the­re was not one bot­tle in the ho­use that wasn’t worthy of a fi­ne res­ta­urant.

    Donkor and Jami­la had be­en the only “fa­mily” pre­sent at the ur­ban Egyp­ti­an wed­ding Amu­net had wan­ted. From the car pa­ra­de with all the flo­wers and rib­bons and hon­king of horns, thro­ugh the an­ci­ent tra­di­ti­on of the Zaf­fa, a hu­man pa­ra­de of belly dan­cers and drum­mers sin­ging to them, to the Kos­ha, two be­dec­ked se­ats in front of the wa­iting gu­ests whe­re he and Amu­net had exc­han­ged rings, his lo­vely bri­de had be­en in her ele­ment. Sur­ro­un­ded by no­ise, ex­ci­te­ment, be­a­uty, dan­cing and ac­ti­vity, and eno­ugh pe­op­le to dist­ract her from anyt­hing that might ha­ve be­en mis­sing.

    Of co­ur­se, Bla­ke hadn’t se­en it that way then. He’d just be­en crazy in lo­ve with the unu­su­al wo­man who lo­ved him so in­ten­sely. And she’d be­en comp­le­tely open to wha­te­ver path his he­art di­rec­ted him to ta­ke.

    Or so he’d tho­ught.

    Putting the wi­ne on ice, Bla­ke car­ri­ed it thro­ugh the kitc­hen to the di­ning ro­om, which al­so spor­ted a wall of win­dows that over­lo­oked the oce­an. He lit the cand­les, dim­med the lights, and flip­ped a switch that tur­ned on the CD of soft flu­te and gu­itar mu­sic that wo­uld play thro­ug­ho­ut the eve­ning.

    He hadn’t se­en eit­her of the Rah­mans sin­ce his di­vor­ce fo­ur ye­ars ear­li­er.

    He was re­ady for the­ir ar­ri­val with a go­od twenty mi­nu­tes to spa­re. Not at all li­ke him. Mo­ving back thro­ugh the kitc­hen and Amu­net’s gar­den ro­om to his of­fi­ce, Bla­ke lo­oked in on his chess ga­me.

    It was exactly as he’d left it.

    Then he pic­ked up the news­pa­per he’d be­en avo­iding sin­ce he’d co­me ho­me. On the front pa­ge, in the very cen­ter and lar­ge eno­ugh for him to see the dimp­le at the cor­ner of her che­ek, was a pho­tog­raph of Juli­et McNe­il, one of the part­ners at Tru­man and Eaton James’s de­fen­se at­tor­ney.

    He hadn’t known, when he’d ag­re­ed to be Pa­ul Schus­ter’s wit­ness, that Juli­et wo­uld be op­po­sing. Not that it wo­uld’ve mat­te­red. Eaton James had bro­ken the law. He had to be held ac­co­un­tab­le.

    He hadn’t se­en her in al­most a de­ca­de, ex­cept for a cur­sory con­ver­sa­ti­on when they’d pas­sed each ot­her on the si­de­walk a few ye­ars ago.

    Still, if Bla­ke was go­ing to me­et the lady aga­in, he’d rat­her it be in mo­re ag­re­e­ab­le cir­cums­tan­ces-or at le­ast on the sa­me si­de of the fen­ce. On the ot­her hand, it wo­uld be in­te­res­ting to see her at work, aga­inst a man li­ke Pa­ul Schus­ter.

    She didn’t ha­ve a chan­ce in hell of win­ning. And, as he re­mem­be­red it, Juli­et wasn’t a wo­man who easily ac­cep­ted de­fe­at.

    He grin­ned, drop­ping the pa­per as the do­or­bell chi­med.

    

    “WE DIDN’T CO­ME JUST to ha­ve din­ner with you,” Don­kor, dres­sed in his usu­al garb of se­da­te su­it and tie, an­no­un­ced as he pus­hed back his empty din­ner pla­te. He’d had se­cond hel­pings of the chic­ken cor­don bleu and spi­nach sa­lad Pru Dun­can had pre­pa­red.

    Jamila glan­ced up and then away. Bla­ke had known, sin­ce she’d fa­iled to me­et his eyes when they’d kis­sed and hug­ged hel­lo, that so­met­hing was wrong. He’d al­so known that he’d ha­ve to wa­it to find out what it was un­til Don­kor felt the ti­me was right for tal­king.

    “Is the­re so­met­hing I can help you with? You ne­ed a pla­ce to stay whi­le you’re he­re in the Sta­tes? You’re al­ways wel­co­me to stay with me as long as you li­ke. You know that. I ha­ve mo­re bed­ro­oms than I ne­ed.” Mo­re so­li­tu­de than he ne­eded, too.

    Donkor sho­ok his he­ad.

    “We ha­ve to fly out to­mor­row.” Jami­la’s nor­mal­ly ef­fu­si­ve vo­ice was sub­du­ed. Dab­bing at her lips with the cloth nap­kin, she ga­ve him a bri­ef smi­le.

    “I tho­ught you just ar­ri­ved last night.” He’d sent a car to the Los An­ge­les air­port to pick them up. They’d sta­yed in the city due to the la­te ho­ur.

    “We did.” She lo­oked as be­a­uti­ful as ever with her long dark ha­ir up in a twist that left ring­lets es­ca­ping down the si­des of her fa­ce. Her oli­ve skin was smo­oth and ma­de up to per­fec­ti­on, her slim fi­gu­re out­li­ned but not openly disp­la­yed in her silk pant­su­it.

    “We ha­ve so­me news.” Don­kor’s de­ep vo­ice was as so­lemn as his da­ugh­ter’s had be­en.

    And that was when it hit him. “You’ve he­ard from Amu­net.”

    “Yes.”

    No one sip­ped wi­ne. Or mo­ved. Bla­ke glan­ced from one to the ot­her. They’d be­en comp­le­tely sympat­he­tic to both him and Amu­net du­ring the di­vor­ce. They’d un­ders­to­od that ne­eds ne­it­her he nor Amu­net had be­en ab­le to al­ter had dri­ven them apart. Cer­ta­inly that wasn’t abo­ut to chan­ge.

    “You’re he­re to tell me she’s re­mar­rying?” Don­kor had be­en the only per­son, ot­her than Amu­net her­self, who’d known qu­ite how hard Bla­ke had fal­len. “Be­ca­use it’s re­al­ly okay. She was a part of a dre­am-an un­re­al li­fe that was des­ti­ned to end. I think, at le­ast in part, I must ha­ve known that all along.”

    “You wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve mar­ri­ed her if you’d known that.” Don­kor’s to­ne bro­oked no ar­gu­ment. “That’s not yo­ur way.”

    Blake wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve ta­ken vows he didn’t in­tend to up­hold. He’d for­got­ten, for a mo­ment, that Don­kor knew a lot mo­re abo­ut him than how much he’d lo­ved his wi­fe.

    Jamila wi­ped her mo­uth aga­in. This ti­me mis­sing, and dab­bing her eye ins­te­ad. Her eye?

    Blake lo­oked over at her. She was crying.

    Donkor spo­ke.

    “Amunet is de­ad, son. Her fu­ne­ral is on Sa­tur­day. In New York. We wan­ted to tell you in per­son.”

    

    SHE’D COM­MIT­TED SU­ICI­DE. His ex-wi­fe, a wo­man who’d ra­ised him to le­vels of emo­ti­on-both go­od and bad-that he’d ne­ver re­al­ly un­ders­to­od, was de­ad. And whi­le ne­it­her Don­kor nor Jami­la wo­uld ever ha­ve sa­id so, the imp­li­ca­ti­on was that her de­ath was partly be­ca­use of him.

    While she hadn’t be­en ab­le to be­ar the humd­rum li­fe of an exe­cu­ti­ve’s wi­fe, trap­ped in one city, hos­ting cock­ta­il par­ti­es and do­ing lunch, ne­it­her had she be­en happy as a di­vorc­ée. She’d be­en so cont­ra­dic­tory, such a stran­ge blend of mo­dern and an­ci­ent, for­ward thin­king and tra­di­ti­onal. She’d tra­ve­led the world, first by her­self and la­ter with Bla­ke-unmar­ri­ed, un­ca­ring what pe­op­le tho­ught. Go­ing whe­re­ver the mo­od to­ok her, to the grot­to in Pa­ris, a fis­her­men’s bar in Ire­land, the wilds of Af­ri­ca. Nan­nying. Do­ing tem­po­rary of­fi­ce work. Dan­cing for fo­od. But she’d be­en a vir­gin on the­ir wed­ding night.

    God, what a night that had be­en.

    Sipping warm whis­key from a high­ball glass, Bla­ke sat alo­ne in his li­ving ro­om on a cha­ir of the sof­test fab­ric, lo­oking out over the sha­dows to the dim lights of ships on the oce­an. Wa­iting for Pa­ul Schus­ter’s call. He’d told Schus­ter he’d be ava­ilab­le to tes­tify on Fri­day mor­ning.

    And he was go­ing to be in New York.

    Shaking his he­ad, Bla­ke to­ok anot­her sip. And sta­red. A light had be­en bob­bing out in the dis­tan­ce for half an ho­ur. The bo­at was he­aded in the di­rec­ti­on of Alas­ka. A chilly pla­ce.

    This was a night for chil­led he­arts.

    He’d be­en pre­pa­red to re­ce­ive an in­vi­ta­ti­on to Amu­net’s third wed­ding. He’d mis­sed the se­cond, a Las Ve­gas qu­ic­kie that had en­ded al­most as so­on as it had be­gun. And he’d al­re­ady de­ci­ded to at­tend the third, whe­ne­ver it ca­me along. He was over her-or he un­ders­to­od, at le­ast, that they we­re ne­ver me­ant to be fo­re­ver. They we­re from very dif­fe­rent worlds, fin­ding hap­pi­ness in comp­le­tely op­po­si­te things. He wis­hed her well. Wan­ted her happy.

    He’d ne­ver ex­pec­ted to be at­ten­ding her fu­ne­ral.

    

    “I AP­PRE­CI­ATE the pho­ne call,” Pa­ul Schus­ter sa­id when he and Bla­ke fi­nal­ly con­nec­ted. He was as ag­re­e­ab­le and fri­endly as he’d be­en the two ot­her ti­mes Bla­ke had spo­ken with him in the past we­eks.

    “Obviously I’ve be­en fol­lo­wing the tri­al,” Bla­ke told the ot­her man, still sit­ting in the dark, sip­ping whis­key-his third-and watc­hing the ships. Sli­ding down, he­ad aga­inst the back of the cha­ir, he lif­ted an ank­le to the op­po­si­te knee. “You’re do­ing a gre­at job. I’m sorry to be put­ting a dam­per on things.”

    “Don’t worry abo­ut it,” Pa­ul sa­id, with as much energy at ten o’clock at night as he’d pro­bably had at ten in the mor­ning. “Actu­al­ly, I ha­ven’t even dec­la­red you as a wit­ness yet.”

    “Juliet McNe­il do­esn’t know I’m tes­tif­ying?” He’d be­en won­de­ring what she wo­uld think abo­ut se­e­ing him aga­in.

    They’d had one inc­re­dib­le night to­get­her on­ce.

    A long ti­me ago.

    “No one knows you’re tes­tif­ying, inc­lu­ding my staff,” Schus­ter sa­id, surp­ri­sing him.

    Blake sip­ped and nod­ded, his eyes half clo­sed as he watc­hed anot­her ship ap­pro­ach. “I tho­ught you had to dec­la­re as so­on as you tur­ned up new evi­den­ce. Gi­ve the de­fen­se a chan­ce to re­vi­ew the in­for­ma­ti­on.”

    “I ha­ven’t se­en the evi­den­ce yet, so tech­ni­cal­ly I don’t ha­ve any. I’d be­en ho­ping to get the pa­per­work to­day, which is why I had you on hold for Fri­day. The way it’s lo­oking now, it’s pro­bably go­ing to be Mon­day.”

    “What are the chan­ces of the re­cords not tur­ning up?”

    “Slim to no­ne.”

    “But the­re’s a chan­ce.”

    “Not one I’m wil­ling to ack­now­led­ge.”

    If Bla­ke had be­en a lit­tle mo­re cle­ar­he­aded, he might ha­ve con­ti­nu­ed to push for per­cen­ta­ges. He li­ked things on the tab­le, in black and whi­te or not at all.

    “I’m glad I don’t ha­ve yo­ur job,” he sa­id ins­te­ad.

    Schuster la­ug­hed. “Just call when you’re back in town.”

    Blake sa­id he wo­uld.

    He drop­ped the pho­ne. To­ok anot­her sip-a small one. It was go­ing to be a long night and he ne­eded to be up at the crack of dawn to get his bu­si­ness af­fa­irs in or­der be­fo­re he left for New York.

    But for now, the­re was not­hing to do but sit. And wa­it. And think.

    

    “JULES?”

    Instantly awa­ke as she re­cog­ni­zed the vo­ice on the ot­her end of the li­ne, Juli­et sat up. It was la­te Thurs­day night, the first of Ap­ril.

    “Marce? What’s up?”

    “Nothing.”

    “It do­esn’t so­und li­ke not­hing. You’ve be­en crying.” It wasn’t so­met­hing Juli­et co­uld ig­no­re in the no­ni­den­ti­cal twin sis­ter she’d be­en watc­hing out for all the­ir li­ves.

    Marcie la­ug­hed, snif­fed, la­ug­hed aga­in. “It re­al­ly is not­hing, Jules, I pro­mi­se. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just lying he­re ha­ving a hard ti­me fal­ling as­le­ep and sud­denly I start thin­king abo­ut you, mis­sing you and be­fo­re I know it, I’m blub­be­ring li­ke an idi­ot.”

    “You ne­ed to get out of that town.” Un­li­ke Juli­et, who’d left Map­le Val­ley be­hind the se­cond she’d gra­du­ated from high scho­ol, Mar­cie at thirty-fo­ur was still li­ving in the small, mostly tra­iler-po­pu­la­ted nort­hern Ca­li­for­nia town.

    That fact sca­red Juli­et every ti­me she tho­ught abo­ut it. She’d se­en what be­ing co­oped up in Map­le Val­ley had do­ne to the­ir mot­her.

    Marcie, in cont­rast to the­ir des­ti­tu­te mot­her, was one of the mo­re well-to-do in­ha­bi­tants in town, ha­ving ma­de a suc­cess of the lo­cal be­a­uty shop. But still…

    “I know,” her sis­ter sa­id. “I do ne­ed to get away.”

    Where Mar­cie li­ved was Mar­cie’s de­ci­si­on. They both knew that and had ack­now­led­ged it many ti­mes. But that didn’t stop Juli­et from ca­ring, or wor­rying, or hel­ping whe­re she co­uld help.

    It wo­uld be dif­fe­rent if Mar­cie was happy in Map­le Val­ley. But with her proc­la­ma­ti­ons of dis­sa­tis­fac­ti­on, she cons­tantly re­af­fir­med Juli­et’s fe­ars. If she didn’t get out of that town with its li­mi­ted pos­si­bi­li­ti­es, she wo­uld wit­her and pre­ma­tu­rely age as the­ir mot­her had.

    “So co­me to San Di­ego for the we­ekend.”

    While Mar­cie didn’t vi­sit as of­ten as Juli­et and Mary Jane wo­uld li­ke, she was a fa­irly fre­qu­ent oc­cu­pant of the­ir Mis­si­on Be­ach cot­ta­ge.

    “I don’t know. Hank has a big sa­le go­ing at the hard­wa­re.”

    Juliet star­ted co­un­ting. She had to at le­ast get to ten be­fo­re she’d be ab­le to re­in in the frust­ra­ti­on that she had no right to un­le­ash on her sis­ter. She ma­de it to fo­ur. And a half.

    “So?”

    “Well, it’s hard on him. He’ll be ex­ha­us­ted. I sho­uld be he­re.”

    “Why in hell sho­uld you be the­re?” She sat up in bed, pul­ling a pil­low over her as the co­vers fell to re­ve­al the spag­het­ti-strap shirt and bi­ki­ni bri­efs she slept in. The­ir mot­her’s li­fe had be­en ru­ined by her cho­ice to sac­ri­fi­ce her­self, her ne­eds and de­si­res, for a man. Why co­uldn’t Mar­cie see that she was do­ing exactly the sa­me thing?

    “Do you ha­ve cli­ents on Sa­tur­day?” Juli­et as­ked.

    “Not that I can’t resc­he­du­le.”

    “So co­me.”

    “Hank will be di­sap­po­in­ted.”

    “Marcie! For God’s sa­ke! You aren’t mar­ri­ed to the guy!”

    Last Juli­et had he­ard, Hank still hadn’t as­ked, af­ter mo­re than fif­te­en ye­ars of da­ting.

    “I know.”

    “You don’t even li­ve with him.”

    “I know.”

    In the dark, Juli­et sta­red out her bed­ro­om win­dow to the be­ach be­yond. When the we­at­her was warm eno­ugh, she lo­ved to sit in her ro­om la­te at night with the win­dow up, lis­te­ning to the wa­ves as they cras­hed along the dis­tant sho­re.

    “He’s not the­re, is he?”

    “No.”

    “So co­me.”

    “Okay.”

    Blinking, Juli­et pus­hed the pil­low asi­de. “Re­al­ly?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Great! Mary Jane will be thril­led! We’ll go to Se­aport Vil­la­ge.” It might be con­si­de­red to­uristy by most San Di­egans, but Juli­et, Mary Jane and most es­pe­ci­al­ly Mar­cie lo­ved wal­king thro­ugh the shops and res­ta­urants along the wa­terf­ront. “Bring yo­ur in-li­ne ska­tes. Mary Jane’s be­en prac­ti­cing and I think she’s re­ady to go out with us.”

    More than anyt­hing, Juli­et was re­ady to spend so­me ti­me with her sis­ter.

    “Okay,” Mar­cie sa­id, her vo­ice lo­sing the we­ak thre­ad of te­ars. “And how abo­ut I throw in a ni­ce dress, too, and tre­at us all to a de­ca­dent din­ner in Be­verly Hills?”

    “Throw in the dress. You don’t ne­ed to tre­at.”

    “I know,” Mar­cie sa­id, her vo­ice soft. “But I want to, Jules. Thanks.”

    “For what?”

    “Being you.”

    “Thanks for be­ing you, too,” she sa­id, the reply ne­ver gro­wing old, no mat­ter how many ti­mes it was re­pe­ated.

    “Love you.”

    “You, too.”

    Juliet hung up the pho­ne, a we­ight she hadn’t even known she was car­rying lif­ted from her sho­ul­ders. A we­ekend with Mar­ce and Mary Jane, pla­ying, ha­ving a la­te-night glass of wi­ne or two with her sis­ter, was just what she ne­eded.

    And af­ter on­ce aga­in dis­cus­sing the pos­si­bi­lity of a li­fe chan­ge for Mar­cie, per­haps she’d ha­ve a chan­ce to talk to her sis­ter abo­ut Mary Jane. The child had be­en a mo­del stu­dent sin­ce the spit­ting in­ci­dent the pre­vi­o­us month. But the epi­so­de had bro­ught back a fe­ar to Juli­et’s he­art that, this ti­me, wo­uld not be so easily era­di­ca­ted.

    She than­ked God for Mary Jane’s abi­lity to see all kinds of truths, to be awa­re of truth in dif­fe­rent lights. And she was wor­rying her­self sick abo­ut whet­her her da­ugh­ter co­uld fit in­to a so­ci­ety that pre­fer­red con­for­mity to ori­gi­na­lity.

    Sliding down in bed, she punc­hed the pil­low, le­aned back and watc­hed the sha­dows and oc­ca­si­onal bob­bing light on the oce­an. She knew exactly what Mar­cie wo­uld say. Mary Jane was well adj­us­ted, mo­re se­cu­re than any kid eit­her of them had ever known-cer­ta­inly mo­re se­cu­re than eit­her of them had be­en, in spi­te of the fact that they’d al­ways had each ot­her-and the­re was no mis­ta­king that the kid was ge­nu­inely happy. Hell, per­fect stran­gers wo­uld glan­ce at Mary Jane on the stre­et and smi­le.

    Marcie was go­ing to tell Juli­et she was ra­ising her da­ugh­ter well.

    Juliet clo­sed her eyes and wil­led sle­ep to co­me. She had anot­her long day in co­urt to get thro­ugh be­fo­re Mar­cie ar­ri­ved. She was pro­bably just ti­red from so many days of sit­ting thro­ugh the pro­se­cu­ti­on’s por­ti­on of the Ter­ra­cot­ta ca­se. Wa­iting for her turn had al­ways be­en the har­dest part of her job.

    Yeah, that was it. She was just ti­red.

    So why, then, was she fin­ding it so im­pos­sib­le to get to sle­ep?

    

    BLAKE LEFT NEW YORK as so­on as the fu­ne­ral en­ded. A small af­fa­ir, hos­ted by the adop­ti­ve pa­rents Amu­net hadn’t se­en in ten ye­ars pri­or to this last trip ho­me, it las­ted less than half an ho­ur. Jami­la ga­ve the eulogy. The­re we­re a co­up­le of songs. An Egyp­ti­an po­em was re­ad. And then it was over.

    That qu­ickly, a li­fe that had be­en too vib­rant for this world was go­ne. Fo­re­ver. It was the third ti­me in fi­ve ye­ars that he’d bu­ri­ed tho­se clo­sest to him. First his pa­rents, af­ter the car ac­ci­dent, and now Amu­net.

    He cal­led Pa­ul Schus­ter from the air­port to let him know he’d be back in plenty of ti­me to ap­pe­ar in co­urt on Mon­day, then bo­ar­ded his pla­ne.

    With only one glass of che­ap whis­key to de­aden the une­asi­ness in his he­art, he sat back in the blue le­at­her first-class se­at and tri­ed not to think abo­ut li­fe, or de­ath, or the past co­up­le of days.

    In spi­te of everyt­hing, it had be­en go­od to see Don­kor and Jami­la. It was such a sha­me the­ir li­ves kept them so far apart from him, in spi­te of how much they mis­sed each ot­her.

    The whis­key didn’t help much, nor did the mo­vie they we­re sho­wing on the six-ho­ur flight. He’d al­re­ady se­en it. Twi­ce. And the­re su­re as hell wasn’t a lot to lo­ok at thro­ugh the win­dow. Not when you we­re flying abo­ve the clo­uds at thirty-two tho­usand fe­et.

    He wo­uld ha­ve pic­ked a brigh­ter co­lor than the ro­yal blue Amu­net’s pa­rents had cho­sen for the in­si­de of her cas­ket. And dres­sed her in so­met­hing long, whi­te and flo­wing.

    For the first ti­me sin­ce he’d known him, Don­kor had lo­oked ti­red. Old.

    The flight at­ten­dant ca­me by and Bla­ke as­ked for a bot­tle of wa­ter to ma­ke his whis­key last a lit­tle lon­ger. He tal­ked to her abo­ut the flight, and as­ked if she had to turn aro­und and go right back to New York or if she’d be flying so­mew­he­re el­se first.

    He didn’t he­ar her ans­wer.

    He went to the rest ro­om.

    And he re­mem­be­red the last ti­me he’d flown with his ex-wi­fe. They’d be­en on the way to Ca­li­for­nia to bury his pa­rents.

    That led him along a pa­in­ful ro­ad of me­mo­ri­es, mostly of his fat­her. The dic­ta­tor. The ho­no­rab­le hus­band and fat­her. The ho­nest bu­si­nes­sman. He tho­ught abo­ut Eaton James, and his fat­her’s he­art at­tack.

    Finally, in des­pe­ra­ti­on, he­ad lying aga­inst the pad­ded rest, he tur­ned his tho­ughts to the up­co­ming tri­al. Tes­tif­ying was so­met­hing he co­uld ac­tu­al­ly do.

    And from the­re, with the hum of the airp­la­ne co­co­oning him in his own lit­tle world, he tho­ught abo­ut Juli­et McNe­il and the night they’d met.

    Though he’d ne­ver known her well, sin­ce they’d tal­ked far mo­re abo­ut the­ir se­pa­ra­te fu­tu­res than any past ex­pe­ri­en­ces that wo­uld ha­ve de­fi­ned them, he’d felt a par­ti­cu­lar af­fi­nity with her, bor­ne of the­ir one inc­re­dib­le night to­get­her. He’d be­en a very yo­ung twenty-three to her much mo­re ma­tu­re and fo­cu­sed twenty-fi­ve. She’d be­en pre­pa­ring to sit for the bar exam, af­ter win­ning eno­ugh scho­lars­hip mo­ney to put her­self thro­ugh the eli­te Uni­ver­sity of Vir­gi­nia Scho­ol of Law, and had ma­de it very cle­ar that she was not go­ing to be swa­yed from her go­als by en­tang­ling her­self in a re­la­ti­ons­hip that co­uld only dist­ract her. Ha­ving just comp­le­ted his MBA, af­ter ear­ning a deg­ree in arc­hi­tec­tu­re, Bla­ke had be­en in the fi­nal sta­ges of pre­pa­ring for what was sup­po­sed to ha­ve be­en a ye­ar of world tra­vel, a pre­re­qu­isi­te his fat­her had set for Bla­ke’s emp­loy­ment with the fa­mily bu­si­ness.

    For Bla­ke, the jo­ur­ney had be­en much mo­re. It had be­en a ti­me to fi­nal­ly ac­hi­eve the fre­edom that had con­su­med his tho­ughts for ye­ars. A ti­me to get out from un­der his fat­her’s ex­pec­ta­ti­ons-and his own-that he li­ve up to the old man. When he was gro­wing up, he’d cons­tantly had to pro­ve his in­tel­li­gen­ce and worth. The trip had be­en a ti­me to find out what he re­al­ly wan­ted to do with his li­fe…or slowly die wit­ho­ut ever ha­ving be­en ali­ve.

    During his last we­ekend at ho­me, he’d met Juli­et at a bar on the be­ach.

    “Would you li­ke so­me wi­ne with yo­ur ste­ak?” Bla­ke was a bit surp­ri­sed by the di­sap­po­int­ment that shot thro­ugh him as the flight at­ten­dant he’d prac­ti­cal­ly clung to for di­ver­si­on ear­li­er in­ter­rup­ted his re­mi­nis­cing with a din­ner that smel­led de­li­ci­o­us.

    “Thanks.” He nod­ded, hol­ding up his arms as she pla­ced dis­hes, sil­ver­wa­re and a full wi­neg­lass be­fo­re him.

    The ste­ak was go­od. And the ot­her pas­sen­gers we­re mo­re tal­ka­ti­ve as they all sha­red din­ner in the­ir own lit­tle world. That was just as well, he tho­ught, lis­te­ning to the wo­man on the ot­her si­de of the ais­le as she told him abo­ut the grand­son she’d just left be­hind in New York.

    There was no po­int in ma­king anyt­hing sig­ni­fi­cant out of an en­co­un­ter that had hap­pe­ned ni­ne ye­ars be­fo­re. Be­ca­use if he was ho­nest with him­self, he’d ha­ve to ad­mit that his me­mo­ri­es of that night-the fa­bu­lo­us sex he and Juli­et had sha­red, the con­ver­sa­ti­on and la­ugh­ter-we­re mo­re a re­sult of the amo­unt of al­co­hol they’d con­su­med than anyt­hing el­se.

    And Bla­ke Rams­den was al­ways ho­nest with him­self.

    

    

    THEY’D JUST CO­ME IN from a bi­ke ri­de along the be­ach on Sun­day, plan­ning to ha­ve a qu­ick lunch be­fo­re Mar­cie had to le­ave for the air­port, when the pho­ne rang.

    “I’ll get it!” Mary Jane ran off to the study.

    “I’d ho­pe it was one of her scho­ol fri­ends cal­ling ex­cept that she do­esn’t ha­ve any,” Juli­et mumb­led.

    “It’s pro­bably Hank, for­get­ting what ti­me my flight gets in. He of­fe­red to co­me pick me up so I didn’t ha­ve to pay to park my car.” With her long blond ha­ir up on top of her he­ad in a claw clip, her fa­ce cle­ar of ma­ke­up and her slim leggy fi­gu­re dres­sed in Juli­et’s whi­te ter­ry-cloth swe­at su­it, Mar­cie lo­oked be­a­uti­ful, he­althy and vib­rant. She ba­rely re­semb­led the worn-lo­oking wo­man who’d met Juli­et and an exu­be­rant Mary Jane at the San Di­ego air­port two nights be­fo­re.

    “Oh co­me on,” Juli­et te­ased her sis­ter. “You kid­ding? A trip all the way to San Fran­cis­co? An ad­ven­tu­re in the big city? He’s pro­bably be­en up sin­ce dawn.”

    Marcie chuck­led and punc­hed Juli­et on the arm. “Hank’s not that bad. He’s ta­ken me to din­ner in San Fran­cis­co twi­ce sin­ce Christ­mas!”

    “Mom! It’s for you!” Mary Jane cal­led.

    The sis­ters, as iden­ti­cal in si­ze and sha­pe as they we­re op­po­si­te in co­lo­ring, shrug­ged and grin­ned.

    “I’ll be right back.” Le­aving her sis­ter to start lunch, Juli­et to­ok the call.

    

    “WHAT’S UP?”

    Marcie’s qu­es­ti­on was im­me­di­ate when Juli­et, still we­aring her black Lycra pants, swe­ats­hirt and ten­nis sho­es, re­tur­ned to the kitc­hen fi­ve mi­nu­tes la­ter. The si­de trip to her ro­om to bre­at­he pro­bably wo­uld ha­ve wor­ked if she’d be­en fa­cing an­yo­ne but the ot­her two McNe­il wo­men.

    “You’ve got that we­ird lo­ok on yo­ur fa­ce,” Mary Jane pi­ped up, her mo­uth full of pe­anut but­ter and jel­ly as she watc­hed her mot­her co­me in­to the kitc­hen and ta­ke her se­at. “The one whe­re so­met­hing might be wrong but you’re go­ing to pre­tend it isn’t.”

    “Eat,” Mar­cie sa­id.

    “I am eating.”

    With her short dark curls, Mary Jane might be­ar no re­semb­lan­ce to her blond aunt, but the­re was no do­ub­ting the ado­ra­ti­on the two had for each ot­her. When Mary Jane had fo­und out her aunt was bor­ro­wing the whi­te swe­at­su­it, she’d im­me­di­ately run in and chan­ged in­to her iden­ti­cal-if slightly mo­re sta­ined-one.

    “Eat yo­ur chic­ken sa­lad,” Mar­cie tur­ned to Juli­et, in­di­ca­ting the pla­te wa­iting in front of her. “The pro­te­in will do you go­od.”

    It wasn’t a lar­ge por­ti­on, abo­ut as much as Mar­cie had gi­ven her­self. Juli­et sta­red out the bay win­dow of the kitc­hen al­co­ve, tel­ling her­self that she was ner­vo­us for not­hing.

    She’d ma­de so­me very dif­fi­cult cho­ices in her li­fe. And whi­le she’d al­so adop­ted the very an­no­ying ha­bit of se­cond-gu­es­sing her­self abo­ut one or two of them, she knew, de­ep in­si­de, that she’d do­ne the best that she co­uld. She’d se­en him a few ye­ars ago and the en­co­un­ter had run exactly as she’d ha­ve scrip­ted it, had she known ahe­ad of ti­me it was go­ing to hap­pen: qu­ick, im­per­so­nal and une­vent­ful.

    He’d be­en mar­ri­ed. And thank­ful that he didn’t ha­ve child­ren.

    “You know that ca­se I told you I was wor­king on?”

    Marcie watc­hed her clo­sely. “Eaton James.” She stab­bed a pi­ece of chic­ken with her fork. “He’s so big he’s yo­ur only cli­ent right now.”

    Juliet nod­ded. Her sis­ter al­ways kept track.

    “Blake Rams­den is go­ing to be in co­urt to­mor­row, as a wit­ness for the pro­se­cu­ti­on.”

    Mary Jane to­ok anot­her bi­te of her sand­wich, ad­ding a po­ta­to chip to the wad in her mo­uth. She che­wed and swung her fe­et whi­le she watc­hed her mot­her, and lis­te­ned.

    Fork mid­mo­uth, Mar­cie sta­red. “How do you fe­el abo­ut that?”

    “Obviously une­asy.” Juli­et fo­cu­sed on calm. Nor­malcy. She to­ok a bi­te of chic­ken. “Surp­ri­se evi­den­ce is ne­ver wel­co­me, par­ti­cu­larly in a ca­se as con­vo­lu­ted as this one is. True to form, Pa­ul Schus­ter is at­temp­ting to con­fu­se the jury with a pa­per tra­il that pro­bably to­ok ye­ars to ac­cu­mu­la­te, only half of which is re­al­ly re­le­vant.”

    “Can’t you obj­ect?”

    “She do­es.” Pic­king up her glass of milk, Mary Jane rol­led her eyes. “The pro­se­cu­ti­on talks pse­udo-lo­gic, huh, Mom?”

    “Yeah.” Juli­et smi­led. The milk mus­tac­he only slightly det­rac­ted from the ma­tu­rity of her da­ugh­ter’s cont­ri­bu­ti­on to the con­ver­sa­ti­on.

    “Doesn’t it pre­sent a conf­lict of in­te­rest ha­ving him as a wit­ness for the ot­her si­de?”

    “No.” Juli­et sho­ok her he­ad. “I cer­ta­inly ha­ve no per­so­nal re­la­ti­ons­hip with him!”

    “Still…”

    “I’ll exp­la­in to Eaton James that I met Bla­ke Rams­den in a bar ye­ars ago, but that the­re’s be­en not­hing bet­we­en us sin­ce. He’s not go­ing to ca­re.”

    “So what’s Rams­den got to do with the Ter­ra­cot­ta Fo­un­da­ti­on?”

    “I ha­ve no idea. Schus­ter’s fa­xing me a copy of the evi­den­ce he plans to pre­sent. I know that Rams­den’s fat­her do­na­ted a subs­tan­ti­al sum of mo­ney to Ter­ra­cot­ta se­ve­ral ye­ars ago to be put in so­me land in­vest­ment that didn’t pay off. Ter­ra­cot­ta, and tho­se par­ti­cu­lar in­ves­tors, lost everyt­hing they put in­to the pro­j­ect. But no one has ever sug­ges­ted any evi­den­ce of fra­ud. Eaton James was up front with ever­yo­ne abo­ut the risk in­vol­ved.”

    “Mr. Rams­den di­ed when I was a lit­tle kid,” Mary Jane re­min­ded them all. “And Bla­ke was still go­ne then, right, Mom?”

    Juliet nod­ded.

    “But he’s be­en back a long ti­me,” Mary Jane ad­ded.

    Marcie lo­oked from one to the ot­her of them, pus­hed the chic­ken sa­lad aro­und on her pla­te with a fork and to­ok a small bi­te. Then she put down her fork.

    “Okay,” she sa­id, cros­sing her arms. “Ni­ce try, but we both know the co­urt ca­se isn’t what I was as­king abo­ut. Are you go­ing to tell me how you fe­el abo­ut se­e­ing him aga­in?”

    “You don’t ca­re, do you, Mom?”

    Juliet lo­oked at her sis­ter. “You ha­ve a pla­ne to catch.”

    “We don’t ha­ve to le­ave for anot­her half ho­ur. At le­ast.”

    If not for the so­mew­hat qu­es­ti­oning lo­ok in her da­ugh­ter’s eyes, Juli­et might still not ha­ve ans­we­red. Truth was, she didn’t ha­ve an ans­wer.

    “I gu­ess I’m a lit­tle une­asy,” she sa­id. “I me­an, I did know him bri­efly. It co­uld be kind of awk­ward.”

    “Know him bri­efly? He’s the fat­her of yo­ur child!”

    “Biological, only.” Mary Jane was che­wing aga­in. She’d fi­nis­hed one-half of her sand­wich, le­aving the crusts, and had star­ted on the ot­her.

    “A child whom, I might add, he knows not­hing abo­ut.”

    Pulling her ha­ir down out of its pony­ta­il, Juli­et sho­ok her he­ad. “That’s a de­ci­si­on I ma­de a long ti­me ago.”

    “I know. And I un­ders­tand why. But that do­esn’t me­an it can’t be chan­ged.”

    “I don’t want it chan­ged!” The­re was not­hing child­li­ke in the small body at the op­po­si­te end of the small tab­le from her mot­her. “It’s al­ways just be­en the two of us and I li­ke it that way. Be­si­des, it’s not li­ke he wan­ted to marry my mom.”

    With a qu­ick frown in Juli­et’s di­rec­ti­on, Mar­cie le­aned to­ward Mary Jane. “I know he didn’t, ho­ney, and I know you li­ke it with just you and yo­ur mom, but may­be you only fe­el that way be­ca­use you don’t know what you’re mis­sing.”

    “Missing?” The lo­ok the girl ga­ve her aunt was si­mi­lar to one that Mrs. Cum­mings had bes­to­wed on Mary Jane in her of­fi­ce the pre­vi­o­us month. “You think I want to be li­ke Tommy Ben­son at scho­ol? Or Sa­rah Car­mic­ha­el? Or Tan­ya Bud­dinsky?”

    “Buddinsky?” Mar­cie as­ked Juli­et.

    “Her last na­me is Bu­eh­la.” Juli­et lo­we­red her he­ad a notch as she lo­oked at Mary Jane. Her da­ugh­ter knew bet­ter than to de­me­an her­self with na­me-cal­ling. She co­uldn’t qu­ite ke­ep the twitch of a grin from her lips, ho­we­ver. Tan­ya had had a fi­eld day with Mary Jane’s pos­sib­le ex­pul­si­on from scho­ol the month be­fo­re. She had spre­ad so­me fa­irly in­ven­ti­ve sto­ri­es abo­ut Juli­et and the­ir lit­tle cot­ta­ge on the be­ach as well.

    Picking up her sil­ver­wa­re, Mar­cie re­ac­hed for Juli­et’s pla­te and put it on top of her own. “So why don’t you want to be li­ke the­se ot­her kids?”

    “They’re splits!”

    “Splits?”

    “Their pa­rents are di­vor­ced,” Juli­et trans­la­ted.

    “Yeah and they ha­ve to go part of the ti­me to one ho­use and part of the ti­me to the ot­her and the­ir stuff is al­ways get­ting left in the wrong pla­ce. And the­re’s the ho­li­days.” Mary Jane’s for­ce­ful to­ne ma­de it so­und as tho­ugh tho­se wo­uld exp­la­in them­sel­ves.

    “The ho­li­days?”

    “One at one ho­use and one at anot­her and ever­yo­ne’s cons­tantly figh­ting abo­ut it.”

    “Oh, ho­ney, it’s not al­ways that way,” Mar­cie sa­id.

    “Mostly it is, and any­way, how wo­uld you li­ke to open yo­ur Christ­mas pre­sents and then ha­ve to le­ave them right away and go so­mep­la­ce el­se?”

    “To get mo­re pre­sents? That might be co­ol.”

    “Who ne­eds mo­re pre­sents if you don’t get to play with them?”

    With one ra­ised eyeb­row, Juli­et as­ked her sis­ter if she’d had eno­ugh.

    “How abo­ut ne­eding mo­re lo­ve?” Mar­cie as­ked softly, sen­ding a stab to Juli­et’s sto­mach.

    “You guys lo­ve me.” Mary Jane didn’t miss a be­at. “Mo­re than most kids in my class are lo­ved, I’ll bet, even tho­se with two pa­rents mar­ri­ed. So­me ho­uses are go­od with dads. This one is go­od wit­ho­ut one.”

    “You su­re abo­ut that, ho­ney?” Juli­et didn’t know whe­re the qu­es­ti­on ca­me from. She’d be­en very open with Mary Jane from the be­gin­ning, tel­ling the child that she wo­uld con­tact her fat­her any­ti­me she wan­ted her to.

    Getting up, Mary Jane drop­ped her pla­te on top of her aunt’s. “Po­si­ti­ve.” She pic­ked up all three pla­tes and car­ri­ed them over to the sink. “Now, wo­uld you two just go on tal­king abo­ut Mom and qu­it wor­rying abo­ut me?”

    Juliet lo­ved her da­ugh­ter, but how in the hell she’d ever pro­du­ced such a pre­co­ci­o­us and outs­po­ken one was be­yond her.

    With her chin on her hand and her el­bow on the tab­le, Mar­cie lo­oked at her. “So?”

    “So what?” Juli­et fin­ge­red the ed­ge of her twe­ed pla­ce mat.

    “How do­es Mom fe­el abo­ut se­e­ing Bla­ke Rams­den aga­in?”

    Shrugging, she lo­oked at her da­ugh­ter get­ting wa­ter all over the co­un­ter and flo­or as she spra­yed the three pla­tes and put them in the open dish­was­her be­si­de her.

    “He ne­ver con­tac­ted me af­ter that one ti­me to­get­her. Ne­ver fol­lo­wed up on the event to find out if the­re’d be­en any con­se­qu­en­ces. You know, hurt fe­elings, di­se­ase, and-even tho­ugh we’d star­ted out ta­king pre­ca­uti­ons-a baby…”

    “I know.”

    “He sho­uld ha­ve.”

    “I ag­ree.”

    Marcie al­ways had. Juli­et wo­uld ne­ver be ab­le to re­pay her sis­ter for all the sup­port she’d of­fe­red, then and now. She re­mem­be­red the nights Mar­cie had sat on the bath­ro­om flo­or with her, hel­ping her study for her bar exam. Juli­et had fo­ught an al­most cons­tant bat­tle bet­we­en mind and body in tho­se days. She’d of­ten tho­ught she co­uld ha­ve ma­de it in­to the Gu­in­ness Bo­ok of World Re­cords for the length of ti­me she’d suf­fe­red from a mor­ning sick­ness that had ne­ver be­en li­mi­ted to mor­nings.

    “Besides, he was out of re­ach,” she ad­ded, sit­ting back to gi­ve Mary Jane ac­cess to the tab­le she was at­temp­ting to wi­pe down with a sop­ping-wet cloth. The pla­ce mats wo­uld so­ak up the ext­ra mo­is­tu­re when the child put them back. “For ye­ars. He’d men­ti­oned that he was le­aving for one, but it was clo­ser to fo­ur.”

    “I know.”

    Of co­ur­se Mar­cie knew. Her sis­ter’s pa­ti­en­ce was unen­ding when she was lis­te­ning to Juli­et ago­ni­ze over a de­ci­si­on ma­de so many ye­ars be­fo­re. Wo­uld she ever be comp­le­tely free from gu­ilt?

    “I might’ve be­en ab­le to re­ach him thro­ugh his fat­her,” she con­ti­nu­ed, watc­hing the lit­tle girl who­se fa­ce was so se­ri­o­us as she fol­ded the dishc­loth and hung it on the rack in­si­de the cup­bo­ard do­or. Mary Jane had a lot of energy, yet she con­cent­ra­ted fi­er­cely on even the smal­lest tasks. “But he’d be­en so ada­mant abo­ut the fact that he had to ha­ve that ti­me away from his fat­her. I res­pec­ted that.”

    “And you didn’t want him to know you we­re preg­nant,” Mar­cie ad­ded.

    With a qu­ick kiss to her mot­her’s che­ek, Mary Jane ran off to­ward the bed­ro­oms in the back of the ho­use.

    “I didn’t want the en­tang­le­ment of a re­la­ti­ons­hip with him,” Juli­et ag­re­ed, only slightly de­fen­si­ve. “Do you think I was wrong?”

    “No.” That opi­ni­on had ne­ver chan­ged.

    “I just co­uldn’t do it.” The words we­re torn from her as she re­mem­be­red back, felt the crus­hing we­ight that had be­en a cons­tant bur­den du­ring tho­se months of tor­men­ting her­self with a de­ci­si­on she hadn’t be­en pre­pa­red to ma­ke. “The only thing I knew abo­ut li­fe back then was that I co­uldn’t, at any cost, re­pe­at Mom’s mis­ta­kes. Be­ca­use, re­al­ly, who did she help, Mar­ce? Us? Dad? Her­self? Dad ne­ver wan­ted us. We’d ha­ve be­en bet­ter off not kno­wing that. He ne­ver wan­ted her, eit­her. She lost every dre­am she’d ever had. And we pa­id for that, too. I co­uldn’t do that. Not to me, or to my baby.”

    Marcie’s hand, as it co­ve­red Juli­et’s, was warm and soft. Gro­un­ding. “It’s okay, Jules, you don’t ha­ve to tell me. I get it. We both saw what Mom went thro­ugh mar­rying Daddy just be­ca­use she was preg­nant with us, everyt­hing she ga­ve up. And Lord knows, we le­ar­ned from everyt­hing that ca­me af­ter that. Why do you think I’m thirty-fo­ur ye­ars old and still li­ving alo­ne?”

    “Because Hank hasn’t as­ked you to marry him.”

    “Well,” Mar­cie lo­oked away-and then back. “The­re is that.”

    “Move to San Di­ego, Mar­ce. You’ve sa­id so many ti­mes that you want to. Mary Jane and I ha­ve ro­om he­re.”

    “I’m half-owner of…a sa­lon that-”

    “Can be sold,” Juli­et in­ter­rup­ted. She tur­ned her hand over, grab­bing her sis­ter’s. “That pla­ce has be­en run­ning for fifty ye­ars and just li­ke you bo­ught it when Miss Molly had her stro­ke, so will so­me­one el­se when you le­ave. If you lo­ved it, that wo­uld be one thing, but you talk abo­ut it li­ke it’s a le­ad ball aro­und yo­ur neck.”

    “Maybe…”

    “We ha­ted what the di­vor­ce did to Mom, ha­ving no mo­ney, no way to sup­port us. We ha­ted that town, the way li­fe just stop­ped the­re. The way Mom slowly ga­ve up. And so­me­ti­mes it se­ems li­ke, ins­te­ad of do­ing the op­po­si­te of what she did, you’re let­ting the lu­re of se­cu­rity snag you, too. It sca­res me to de­ath when I think of you the­re in Map­le Gro­ve, li­ving in a tra­iler-albe­it much ni­cer than Mom’s-watc­hing te­le­vi­si­on every night. I can’t be­ar the tho­ught of se­e­ing the sa­me thing that hap­pe­ned to her hap­pen to you…”

    Marcie met her ga­ze he­ad-on, eyes mo­ist with emo­ti­on. “That’s not go­ing to hap­pen, Jules. I’m not Mom.”

    She’d lo­ve to be con­vin­ced. But what if Mar­cie was just too clo­se to the si­tu­ati­on to see the si­mi­la­ri­ti­es? The­ir mot­her cer­ta­inly hadn’t se­emed to be awa­re that she’d ne­eded help.

    “You’re mo­re of an ar­tist than a ha­ird­res­ser, Mar­ce. You’ve al­re­ady had an of­fer from a Hol­lywo­od stu­dio at that ha­ir show, who knows what el­se co­uld turn up if you lo­oked. And you’d pro­bably ma­ke three ti­mes the mo­ney you’re ma­king.”

    “Maybe.”

    For the first ti­me, as she watc­hed the tho­ughts play ac­ross her sis­ter’s fa­ce, Juli­et al­lo­wed her­self to ho­pe. “Will you at le­ast think abo­ut it?”

    “Yeah.” A co­up­le of te­ars slid down Mar­cie’s fa­ce. And then she smi­led. “Ye­ah, I’ll think abo­ut it.”

    “Okay.”

    Standing, Juli­et felt bet­ter, a lit­tle bit in cont­rol of her li­fe aga­in.

    “And you, sis-” Mar­cie sto­od as well, eye to eye with Juli­et “-you go­ing to tell Bla­ke Rams­den he has a child?”

    She ope­ned her mo­uth to say no. Ada­mantly.

    “How many mo­re scho­ols you go­ing to go thro­ugh be­fo­re you re­ali­ze you ha­ve to do so­met­hing dif­fe­rent?” Mar­cie pres­sed, her fa­ce clo­se eno­ugh for Juli­et to see the whi­te flecks in her twin’s blue eyes.

    “Different do­esn’t ha­ve to me­an tel­ling Rams­den he fat­he­red a kid ni­ne ye­ars ago. Tel­ling him won’t ma­ke any dif­fe­ren­ce at all if he do­esn’t want her. Mom pre­ten­ded Dad wan­ted us and lo­ok how hor­rib­le it was when we fo­und out the truth. I’m not go­ing to risk put­ting Mary Jane thro­ugh that.”

    “But you’re con­si­de­ring tel­ling him.”

    As they’d be­en do­ing sin­ce they we­re ba­bi­es sha­ring the sa­me crib, Juli­et and her sis­ter loc­ked ga­zes, spe­aking on a le­vel mo­re in­ten­se than words. A con­ver­sa­ti­on that per­mit­ted not­hing but the de­epest truth.

    “I don’t know.”

    

    SHE WASN’T DO­ING anyt­hing mo­re than sit­ting with her back to him be­hind a tab­le at the front of the ro­om, but Bla­ke co­uld still fe­el the energy pul­sing aro­und Juli­et McNe­il as he wal­ked in­to the co­urt­ro­om Mon­day mor­ning. It had be­en that way in the bar on the be­ach all tho­se ye­ars ago, too.

    He didn’t know what it was abo­ut her, but the wo­man did not al­low her­self to be ig­no­red.

    Taking a se­at in the last row of the co­urt­ro­om, he le­aned back, ma­king his six-fo­ot-two-inch body as in­cons­pi­cu­o­us as pos­sib­le. Schus­ter had tho­ught he’d be cal­ling Bla­ke to the stand abo­ut an ho­ur in­to the one o’clock ses­si­on. He’d wa­ited un­til one-fifty to show up, ho­ping to be in and out in half an ho­ur, forty-fi­ve mi­nu­tes tops.

    Having left for New York so unex­pec­tedly, wit­ho­ut an op­por­tu­nity to pre­pa­re an­yo­ne to stand in for him, he still had catc­hing up to do.

    Two-thirty rol­led aro­und and still Bla­ke sat. Schus­ter was bet­ter in per­son than the pa­pers had ever pa­in­ted him. In­tel­li­gent. Met­ho­di­cal. Brin­ging out every int­ri­ca­te de­ta­il that the jurors might ot­her­wi­se ha­ve mis­sed.

    Details that me­ant not­hing to Bla­ke. The pa­per tra­il of mock com­pa­ni­es, fal­se in­vo­ices and no­ne­xis­tent ven­dors that Schus­ter was la­ying was far too con­vo­lu­ted to fol­low wit­ho­ut ha­ving star­ted at the be­gin­ning.

    That fact left Bla­ke with far too much ti­me and too lit­tle di­ver­si­on to avo­id the tho­ughts that con­ti­nu­ed to pla­gue him in spi­te of his or­de­ring him­self to stop.

    If he’d be­en he­re in San Di­ego fi­ve ye­ars ago, co­uld he ha­ve pre­ven­ted the events that fol­lo­wed? The de­aths of his pa­rents? If he’d co­me ho­me when he’d ori­gi­nal­ly sa­id he wo­uld, co­uld he ha­ve sa­ved the li­fe of the very be­a­uti­ful and very lost free spi­rit he’d se­en bu­ri­ed just two days be­fo­re?

    “I obj­ect! A per­so­nal land purc­ha­se ma­de be­fo­re my cli­ent was ap­po­in­ted di­rec­tor of the Ter­ra­cot­ta Fo­un­da­ti­on is ir­re­le­vant to this ca­se.”

    The jud­ge, an ol­der, slightly over­we­ight man who lo­oked to be in his mid-fif­ti­es, lo­oked atop his re­ading glas­ses to­ward Pa­ul Schus­ter. “Co­un­sel?”

    “If it ple­ases the co­urt, Yo­ur Ho­nor, I am at­temp­ting to es­tab­lish a pat­tern of bu­si­ness de­alings that has fol­lo­wed the de­fen­dant thro­ugh most of his adult li­fe-a pat­tern that is di­rectly re­la­ted to the ca­se at hand.”

    Blake wasn’t su­re that Schus­ter had sa­id anyt­hing re­le­vant at all, but fi­gu­red he had when the jud­ge nod­ded. “You may con­ti­nue.”

    Those we­re pretty much the sa­me words Bla­ke’s fat­her had sa­id to him the first ti­me he’d cal­led ho­me-a ye­ar to the da­te from when he’d left-to tell his fat­her he wasn’t thro­ugh with tra­ve­ling. The old man had ta­ught Bla­ke well and he’d pre­sen­ted his ca­se so lo­gi­cal­ly that the­re was no ro­om for ar­gu­ment. He co­uld fe­el his fat­her’s disp­le­asu­re from half­way aro­und the world, and knew that the el­der Rams­den’s ac­qu­i­es­cen­ce had be­en of­fe­red in a way me­ant to ma­ni­pu­la­te Bla­ke right back to the fold.

    He’d ta­ken it at fa­ce va­lue ins­te­ad, thus suc­ces­sful­ly me­eting one of the chal­len­ges he knew his ti­me away had be­en me­ant to help him to mas­ter-stan­ding up for what was right, even in the fa­ce of conf­lict.

    Growing up un­der the thumb of Wal­ter Rams­den had ta­ught him to avo­id conf­lict at any cost. It had ta­ken Bla­ke a long ti­me to bre­ak the hold his fat­her had over him. And mo­re, to see that it wasn’t him­self who was so lac­king.

    The ti­me away, whi­le much lon­ger than ori­gi­nal­ly in­ten­ded, had be­en fra­ught with pa­in­ful int­ros­pec­ti­on, int­ros­pec­ti­on that had ta­ken him many pla­ces, ta­ught him what mat­te­red and what did not.

    “Ms. McNe­il, do you ha­ve any qu­es­ti­ons?”

    Schuster had fi­nis­hed with his se­cond wit­ness of the af­ter­no­on.

    Juliet sto­od, her long body as gor­ge­o­us as he re­mem­be­red, even in the se­da­te brow­nish skirt and matc­hing jac­ket. Her arms we­re long and slen­der and she mo­ved with such con­vic­ti­on.

    “Not at this ti­me, Yo­ur Ho­nor.”

    Juliet sat, le­aned over to whis­per so­met­hing to a su­ited man on her right. A mem­ber of her te­am?

    Eaton James, the man Bla­ke con­si­de­red an ac­comp­li­ce with him­self in his fat­her’s de­ath, was se­ated on her left.

    The jud­ge tur­ned to the el­derly man on the stand. “You may step down.” He as­ked Schus­ter to call his next wit­ness.

    Blake sat up, re­ady to go.

    He le­aned back with a de­li­be­ra­tely de­ep in­ha­la­ti­on as a na­me ot­her than his was cal­led. Lif­ting the sle­eve of his jac­ket whe­re it res­ted aga­inst his leg, he had to stif­le the gro­an of frust­ra­ti­on. It was three o’clock. If he didn’t get out of he­re so­on, he wasn’t go­ing to ma­ke it to the McGaf­fey si­te be­fo­re work shut down for the day. The si­te check had be­en sche­du­led for the pre­vi­o­us Fri­day.

    He won­de­red what Juli­et McNe­il was thin­king as she sat the­re watc­hing the pro­ce­edings. What she’d whis­pe­red to her col­le­ague. Whi­le Bla­ke didn’t know her well, he’d bet a ye­ar’s in­co­me that her re­la­xed, al­most bo­red, stan­ce dis­gu­ised a mind that was ra­cing as fast as Schus­ter’s.

    Amunet had had a mind that was unab­le to slow down. Al­ways thin­king, plan­ning, won­de­ring, she’d had a hard ti­me sta­ying in one pla­ce for long wit­ho­ut gro­wing bo­red. With a trust fund left by her long-de­ce­ased French fat­her, and a wan­der­lust in her so­ul to match his, she’d qu­ickly be­co­me tra­vel com­pa­ni­on to him, play­ma­te, and then wi­fe.

    That tug at his sto­mach was back. It hap­pe­ned every ti­me he tho­ught of the ir­re­vo­cab­le step he’d ta­ken, so su­re, in his yo­uth and ar­ro­gan­ce, that he was ab­so­lu­tely do­ing the right thing. He’d be­en ho­nest with her; he was a man who was lo­oking for me­aning in the so­me­ti­mes me­aning­less acts he saw, trying to un­ders­tand vi­olen­ce, star­ving child­ren, de­ath. And lo­ve. A man lo­oking for ans­wers with no way to pre­dict whe­re they might le­ad… So why did he fe­el gu­ilty abo­ut be­ing led back ho­me?

    This ti­me when the jud­ge as­ked Juli­et if she had any qu­es­ti­ons, she sho­ok her he­ad. Then she be­gan gat­he­ring up her pa­pers, sli­ding them in­to a le­at­her bri­ef­ca­se.

    “Then this co­urt is adj­o­ur­ned un­til to­mor­row mor­ning, 8:30 sharp.” The ga­vel ca­me down hard, re­so­un­ding aro­und the co­urt­ro­om, as if to emp­ha­si­ze the fact that Bla­ke had just was­ted an en­ti­re af­ter­no­on he co­uldn’t af­ford to was­te.

    As pe­op­le ro­se aro­und him and shuf­fled out, Bla­ke felt im­pa­ti­ent to be with them. Juli­et McNe­il was busy spe­aking with the men at her tab­le. Bla­ke lo­oked for Pa­ul Schus­ter.

    “I’ll ne­ed you he­re first thing in the mor­ning,” the man sa­id af­ter co­ming down the si­de of the co­urt­ro­om and jo­ining Bla­ke.

    Blake nod­ded.

    “You’re next,” Schus­ter ad­ded, “so it sho­uld go fa­irly fast.”

    With one last glan­ce at the wo­man to whom he did not want to spe­ak, Bla­ke nod­ded aga­in and, as a re­por­ter ap­pro­ac­hed Schus­ter, qu­i­etly left.

    

    

    “WHY ARE YOU CHAN­GING?”

    With her arm half in and half out of one of her fa­vo­ri­te navy silk-li­ned su­it jac­kets, Juli­et tur­ned to see a fully dres­sed Mary Jane stan­ding in the do­or­way of her clo­set Tu­es­day mor­ning. She fi­nis­hed re­mo­ving the jac­ket.

    “You lo­ok cu­te,” she told the child. To­day Mary Jane had on a short de­nim skirt, an oran­ge long-sle­eved swe­ater, oran­ge socks and ten­nis sho­es. The kid had her own sen­se of style. Even in this, she sto­od out from the crowd.

    “Thanks,” she sa­id, co­ming in to hold Juli­et’s jac­ket whi­le she step­ped out of the navy skirt. It had to go on the han­ger first.

    The child sto­od, unu­su­al­ly si­lent, watc­hing whi­le Juli­et step­ped in­to one of her most ex­pen­si­ve su­its-black skirt and ta­ilo­red red jac­ket with black silk pi­ping.

    “What was wrong with the first one?”

    “Nothing.”

    Pulling her fa­vo­ri­te black pumps from the­ir slot, Juli­et did a men­tal run-thro­ugh of the qu­es­ti­ons she had for Eaton James that mor­ning in light of the new evi­den­ce the pro­se­cu­ti­on wo­uld be int­ro­du­cing. And of the first wit­nes­ses she’d be cal­ling when the pro­se­cu­ti­on fi­nal­ly res­ted.

    Mary Jane was lo­oking in her jewelry box, pul­ling out the eigh­te­en-ka­rat gold-and-di­amond he­art neck­la­ce, bra­ce­let and ear­rings she usu­al­ly wo­re with this su­it.

    “Are you go­ing to see my fat­her this mor­ning?” She han­ded them to her mot­her.

    “Yes.” Schus­ter was win­ding up and so far, he hadn’t gi­ven them anyt­hing she co­uldn’t re­but. They we­ren’t ar­gu­ing abo­ut the facts, but abo­ut whet­her or not Eaton James’s in­ten­ti­ons we­re fra­udu­lent. The­re was no per­so­nal ga­in to gi­ve truth to that cla­im. The man might ha­ve be­en des­pe­ra­te and stu­pid, but he hadn’t do­ne anyt­hing with the in­tent to ste­al from his in­ves­tors.

    “Is that why you’re we­aring the red po­wer su­it?”

    “No!”

    With her he­ad slightly lo­we­red, Mary Jane pe­ered up at Juli­et, her full lips puc­ke­red di­sap­pro­vingly.

    “Okay, okay, yes, may­be that’s why. I’m re­al­ly trying not to think abo­ut it.” She held out her bra­ce­let and her wrist. “He’s just a guy.”

    “Don’t tell him abo­ut me, okay?” The girl’s fo­re­he­ad cre­ased as her lit­tle fin­gers fumb­led with the clasp.

    “Of co­ur­se not, imp. I’d ne­ver do so­met­hing li­ke that wit­ho­ut tel­ling you.”

    “Promise?” Wi­de gre­en eyes sta­red up at her.

    “Yes.” Une­qu­ivo­cal­ly.

    Pulling the lit­tle girl in­to her arms, Juli­et knew the­re was at le­ast one thing in her li­fe she’d got­ten comp­le­tely right.

    And that she’d gi­ve her li­fe for it.

    For her.

    

    JULIET WAS LET­TING THE pro­se­cu­ti­on lay everyt­hing out on the tab­le, wa­iting for Schus­ter to show all his cards so that, when her turn ca­me to exp­la­in tho­se cards, she co­uld do so wit­ho­ut con­fu­sing the jury. The tac­tic didn’t al­ways work, but in a ca­se as con­vo­lu­ted with pa­per tra­ils as this one, it was an al­most su­re win.

    That was why she’d let every sing­le wit­ness pass un­qu­es­ti­oned by the de­fen­se. Tho­se she ne­eded, if any, she’d call back.

    It was al­so why Jud­ge Lock­hard didn’t ha­ve much pa­ti­en­ce with her. Jud­ges didn’t li­ke it when de­fen­se at­tor­neys re­fu­sed to cross-exa­mi­ne.

    And then Schus­ter cal­led his last wit­ness that Tu­es­day mor­ning in early Ap­ril. As she’d be­en do­ing for a co­up­le of we­eks, she wa­ited whi­le Schus­ter qu­es­ti­oned Bla­ke Rams­den, re­ve­aling to the twel­ve-mem­ber jury that un­til his de­ath, Wal­ter Rams­den had held a se­at on the bo­ard of Se­map­hor-along with Eaton James. Se­map­hor ser­ved as a cle­aring­ho­use of sorts, col­lec­ting and pro­vi­ding da­ta to po­ten­ti­al cont­ri­bu­tors all over the world. Schus­ter ma­in­ta­ined that James used this con­nec­ti­on to find his prey.

    “Objection!” Juli­et sto­od, her ga­ze so­lidly on the jud­ge. “Yo­ur Ho­nor, the pro­se­cu­ti­on is le­ading the wit­ness.”

    Judge Henry Lock­hard sig­hed, frow­ned and sa­id, “Obj­ec­ti­on sus­ta­ined. Jury, ple­ase dis­re­gard the last re­mark and it will be stric­ken from the re­cord. Co­un­sel, you may con­ti­nue.”

    Juliet sat. She re­min­ded Eaton not to show any emo­ti­on ot­her than res­pect, or per­haps any dist­ress he might be fe­eling at the tar­nis­hing of his go­od na­me. She wa­ited for his nod and re­tur­ned her at­ten­ti­on to the no­te­pad on the tab­le in front of her.

    She had no re­ason to si­ze up this wit­ness. She al­re­ady knew his si­ze.

    Eaton James, when she’d disc­lo­sed her very bri­ef as­so­ci­ati­on with the wit­ness, had se­emed mo­re ple­ased than dist­res­sed.

    “Mr. Rams­den, what do you know abo­ut Eaton Es­ta­tes?” Schus­ter con­ti­nu­ed.

    “It was a land de­ve­lop­ment pro­j­ect in the Cay­man Is­lands. Eaton James ap­pro­ac­hed my fat­her with an in­vest­ment plan that pro­j­ec­ted at le­ast a do­ub­le re­turn on any mo­ni­es spent. In ad­di­ti­on, three per­cent of all pro­fits we­re to go to the Ter­ra­cot­ta Fo­un­da­ti­on, spe­ci­fi­cal­ly to fe­ed orp­hans in Hon­du­ras. The Fo­un­da­ti­on ma­de much of its mo­ney thro­ugh such in­vest­ments.”

    His vo­ice hadn’t chan­ged.

    “And did yo­ur fat­her in­vest?”

    “Yes.”

    “How much?”

    “Half a mil­li­on dol­lars.”

    “What hap­pe­ned?”

    He was we­aring a gray su­it, whi­te shirt and ma­ro­on-whi­te-and-gray stri­ped tie. His sho­es we­re Ita­li­an le­at­her-or so­met­hing that ap­pe­ared just as ex­pen­si­ve. She’d no­ti­ced them when he’d ap­pro­ac­hed the wit­ness stand. Ot­her than that, Juli­et didn’t lo­ok at Bla­ke Rams­den. The­re was no po­int in stud­ying the fat­her of her child for evi­den­ce of ge­ne­tic si­mi­la­ri­ti­es.

    “I was in the Cay­man Is­lands at the ti­me. My mot­her cal­led, tel­ling me she was con­cer­ned be­ca­use my fat­her had be­en get­ting the ru­na­ro­und from James, and she as­ked me to check out Eaton Es­ta­tes.”

    “And did the de­ve­lop­ment exist?”

    Schuster’s sho­es brus­hed the flo­or softly as he wal­ked back and forth from the jurors’ box to the wit­ness stand a few fe­et away.

    “Yes. It was a plot of land that was sin­king in­to the sea.”

    The fo­ots­teps stop­ped.

    “So, comp­le­tely use­less.”

    “Yes.”

    “Then what hap­pe­ned?”

    Schuster be­gan to pa­ce aga­in. Juli­et knew by he­art the exp­res­si­ons the man was we­aring for the jurors’ be­ne­fit. But hers wo­uld be the ones they to­ok with them in­to de­li­be­ra­ti­on.

    “I cal­led my mot­her and she re­la­yed the in­for­ma­ti­on to my fat­her, who conf­ron­ted James. She cal­led the next day to tell me James had ad­mit­ted the land was worth­less, but cla­imed that he’d only just dis­co­ve­red that him­self. He’d be­en swind­led with the rest of his in­ves­tors.”

    “Mr. Rams­den, wo­uld you say yo­ur fat­her was a savvy bu­si­nes­sman?”

    “Absolutely.”

    “As a mat­ter of fact, he’d ne­ver ma­de a bad in­vest­ment in his li­fe, had he?”

    “This was a first.”

    “Why do you think he was so suc­ces­sful in that area? Luck?”

    Blake ga­ve a hu­mor­less chuck­le and Juli­et glan­ced up ins­tinc­ti­vely. And then qu­ickly away. He wasn’t smi­ling, his lips we­re twis­ted in­to an “I know bet­ter” qu­irk that Juli­et re­cog­ni­zed all too well. She’d se­en it di­rec­ted at her just that mor­ning, from a pa­ir of eight-ye­ar-old lips in her clo­set at ho­me.

    “Walter Rams­den wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve gi­ven up cont­rol of his li­fe, or his mo­ney, to so­met­hing as cap­ri­ci­o­us as luck. He was suc­ces­sful be­ca­use he had an un­can­ny ta­lent for eva­lu­ating pe­op­le-as tho­ugh he had a se­cond ear that he­ard what a per­son wasn’t sa­ying as cle­arly as what he was.”

    “And what did yo­ur fat­her ha­ve to say abo­ut the Eaton Es­ta­tes de­al?”

    “When I spo­ke to my mot­her af­ter my fat­her’s me­eting with Eaton, she sa­id he was cer­ta­in James was lying. That the man had known be­fo­re he bo­ught the pro­perty that it was was­te­land. And that he’d pa­id a frac­ti­on of the cost cla­imed on the no­tes he’d pas­sed on to my fat­her. He al­so sa­id the­re was no way of pro­ving his sus­pi­ci­on, that Eaton had his ba­ses all very well co­ve­red, inc­lu­ding the fact that no ext­ra mo­ney had tur­ned up anyw­he­re el­se.”

    “So, how do you exp­la­in, if yo­ur fat­her was this ta­len­ted…” Schus­ter pa­used and ap­pro­ac­hed the jurors.

    Juliet ga­ve the man full marks for the lit­tle bit of emp­ha­sis he put on that word, le­ading the jury right to the tho­ught they we­re al­re­ady go­ing to ha­ve, that per­haps Wal­ter Rams­den wasn’t as gif­ted as his son cla­imed, thus vo­iding the va­lue of Bla­ke’s tes­ti­mony. She knew, too, that wha­te­ver was co­ming next wo­uld plant in the­ir minds so­met­hing that wo­uld dis­co­unt that sus­pi­ci­on. In a de­tac­hed, analy­ti­cal way, she wa­ited to see how he pul­led it off.

    “…if Wal­ter Rams­den did in­de­ed ha­ve the abi­lity to sen­se the po­ten­ti­al le­gi­ti­macy of his bu­si­ness as­so­ci­ates, why did he in­vest in Eaton Es­ta­tes?”

    Surprised when Bla­ke didn’t im­me­di­ately ans­wer, Juli­et lo­oked up and saw the he­si­ta­ti­on in his eyes, eyes that sta­red out but we­ren’t fo­cu­sed. Pen to tab­let, she scrib­bled.

    “I know why. I’d be­en ab­ro­ad at the ti­me, stud­ying arc­hi­tec­tu­re-and vo­lun­te­ering on va­ri­o­us de­ve­lop­ment pro­j­ects. Ac­cor­ding to my mot­her, my fat­her fol­lo­wed my prog­ress from co­untry to co­untry.”

    He pa­used. Juli­et was sta­ring. This was not­hing li­ke the man she’d known that night so long ago. That Bla­ke Rams­den had co­me clo­se to ha­ting his fat­her-or at le­ast the tyranny with which the old man had ru­led his son.

    “At the ti­me the Eaton of­fer was first ma­de, I was in Hon­du­ras, hel­ping mo­der­ni­ze a vil­la­ge who­se po­pu­la­ti­on was three child­ren to every adult. They we­re all hungry, po­verty stric­ken. Eaton of­fe­red to fe­ed tho­se kids.”

    Damn. The jurors we­re swim­ming right to­ward Schus­ter. He was go­od. Al­most as go­od as she’d he­ard.

    And she knew what was co­ming next.

    “If it ple­ases the co­urt, I’d li­ke to sub­mit Ex­hi­bit do­ub­le Z in­to the re­cords.” Schus­ter pul­led out the do­cu­ment he had fa­xed to Juli­et’s ho­me Sun­day night. “This is a re­cord of a land as­ses­sment ins­pec­ti­on sho­wing that the pro­perty was sin­king.

    “Please no­te, furt­her,” Schus­ter sa­id softly, “the da­te of the in­vest­ment is the month be­fo­re the sa­le da­te.” He wal­ked the do­cu­ment over to Bla­ke Rams­den. “Can you con­firm this is the sa­me do­cu­ment you saw?”

    A long pa­use fol­lo­wed. Juli­et shif­ted in her se­at. Glan­ced at the jud­ge. The jurors. Tap­ped her pen aga­inst the back of her left hand.

    Eaton mo­ved be­si­de her, bre­at­hing he­avily. Re­ac­hing over, Bla­ke han­ded back the do­cu­ment. “Yes.”

    Juliet put her hand on Eaton’s knee. “It’s okay. Sit still. We get the ball last.”

    He sat back, but he wasn’t calm. No one was. It was anot­her fi­ve mi­nu­tes be­fo­re Jud­ge Lock­hard of­fe­red her the wit­ness for cross-exa­mi­na­ti­on.

    This ti­me, Juli­et ac­cep­ted the of­fer. She had no de­si­re to spend a se­cond day in co­urt with Bla­ke Rams­den.

    Picking up her black le­at­her-bo­und tab­let, Juli­et ro­se. She didn’t ne­ed the no­tes. She co­uld re­ci­te them-and everyt­hing in bet­we­en the li­nes-by ro­te. But she ne­eded so­met­hing to lo­ok at.

    It felt go­od to stand. To mo­ve aro­und af­ter so many ho­urs of sit­ting.

    She was go­ing to ha­ve to con­nect with the wit­ness if she wan­ted the jury to con­nect to the res­pon­se she drew from him.

    With a long slow bre­ath, she ap­pro­ac­hed the wit­ness stand. Lo­oked up. Smi­led.

    And had to swal­low when he smi­led back.

    Mary Jane’s smi­le.

    “Mr. Rams­den, I’m su­re you un­ders­tand, as do­es the jury, that the po­int in qu­es­ti­on he­re is not whet­her Eaton James had va­ri­o­us bu­si­ness in­te­rests that sho­wed no pro­fit or loss, or even any mo­ve­ment. An­yo­ne can es­tab­lish a bu­si­ness and then not do anyt­hing with it. It is, as the pro­se­cu­tor has so adeptly shown, just a mat­ter of pa­per­work. The qu­es­ti­on is one of in­tent. Did Eaton James in­tend to rob pe­op­le of the­ir mo­ney? Or was he just an ho­nest bu­si­nes­sman who didn’t ha­ve the luck of one as ta­len­ted as, say, yo­ur fat­her?”

    She pa­used. Sto­od right in front of him and didn’t lo­ok away. His tie was slightly lop­si­ded, ma­de to ap­pe­ar mo­re so by the way the wi­der ma­ro­on stri­pe ca­me aro­und the left si­de, whi­le the right was flan­ked by a skin­ni­er gray one.

    “According to yo­ur tes­ti­mony, you be­li­eve that the for­mer was the ca­se, is this cor­rect?”

    “It is.”

    His eyes we­re dif­fe­rent. Ol­der. And tho­ugh she wo­uldn’t ha­ve tho­ught it pos­sib­le, mo­re com­pel­ling.

    Not that it mat­te­red. She was ol­der, too. Dif­fe­rent things ca­ught her at­ten­ti­on the­se days.

    Things li­ke the con­ver­sa­ti­on she’d be ha­ving with Mary Jane that night at the din­ner tab­le. Her da­ugh­ter was go­ing to grill her. And Juli­et had to be ab­le to gi­ve stra­ight ans­wers.

    “Tell me, Mr. Rams­den, how long did yo­ur fat­her ex­pect you to stay ab­ro­ad?”

    His eyes nar­ro­wed. “A ye­ar.”

    “And how long, in fact, we­re you away?”

    “Almost fo­ur ye­ars.”

    “Four ye­ars.”

    She sto­od the­re, palms on the stand, nod­ding. “Did you ever co­me ho­me for a vi­sit du­ring that ti­me?”

    “No.” Bla­ke’s fa­ce was im­pas­si­ve.

    “But you spo­ke with yo­ur fat­her of­ten? Ho­li­days, Sun­days, and so on. You we­re, af­ter all, his only child.”

    “I was, yes.”

    Bingo. He hadn’t ans­we­red the first qu­es­ti­on. Her in­terp­re­ta­ti­on of the exp­res­si­on she’d re­ad ear­li­er had be­en right on. It was a ta­lent she’d co­me to rely on and bre­at­hed a sigh of re­li­ef every ti­me it ca­me thro­ugh for her.

    “And did you spe­ak with him of­ten?”

    “No.”

    “You didn’t?” She so­un­ded shoc­ked. “Well, how of­ten then? On­ce a month? Twi­ce, may­be?”

    “I spo­ke to him on­ce.”

    “Once a ye­ar?”

    “Once. Pe­ri­od.”

    “In fo­ur ye­ars you spo­ke to yo­ur fat­her only on­ce?”

    “Objection, Yo­ur Ho­nor!”

    It had ta­ken him long eno­ugh.

    “Your Ho­nor-” Juli­et step­ped up to the bench “-Mr. Schus­ter’s li­ne of qu­es­ti­oning was ba­sed on Mr. Rams­den’s opi­ni­on of his fat­her. I’m only cla­rif­ying the re­la­ti­ons­hip upon which that opi­ni­on was ba­sed.”

    “Sustained.”

    In the early days, Juli­et wo­uld ha­ve tur­ned aro­und to see Schus­ter’s re­ac­ti­on. Such things didn’t mat­ter any­mo­re.

    “Just out of cu­ri­osity, wo­uld you mind tel­ling the co­urt when that one pho­ne call to­ok pla­ce?”

    “A ye­ar af­ter I’d left.”

    “When you we­re due to co­me ho­me.”

    “That is cor­rect.” He nod­ded on­ce, his ga­ze ste­ady on hers. The chal­len­ge only spur­red a rush of ad­re­na­li­ne that had gi­ven her the ed­ge up most of her li­fe.

    “So…if yo­ur fat­her’s bu­si­ness acu­men had chan­ged, say, due to old age, or per­haps a gro­wing for­get­ful­ness or lo­ne­li­ness for his only son, may­be you wo­uldn’t ha­ve known.”

    The ro­om was si­lent. Juli­et co­uld fe­el the jurors’ eyes, but even mo­re, the for­ce of the­ir at­ten­ti­on.

    “I was in to­uch with my mot­her. She ne­ver in­di­ca­ted that was the ca­se.”

    Had she be­en pla­ying a ga­me of mock co­urt, as she’d do­ne with mem­bers of her study gro­up in law scho­ol, she’d ha­ve is­su­ed a po­li­te and grin­ning thank you very much for the ope­ning he’d just gi­ven her.

    “Ah, yo­ur mot­her. How did she ta­ke yo­ur ab­sen­ce?”

    “Naturally, she mis­sed me.”

    “Naturally. As, I as­su­me, did yo­ur fat­her.”

    Blake didn’t ans­wer. She didn’t push.

    “Would you think it pos­sib­le, kno­wing yo­ur mot­her as well as you did, re­ali­zing the dif­fi­cult po­si­ti­on she must ha­ve be­en in, that she co­uld ha­ve co­lo­red the truth just a bit? Per­haps she fo­cu­sed on the Hon­du­ran child­ren as yo­ur fat­her’s re­ason for the purc­ha­se just to play on yo­ur sympat­hi­es, to brid­ge the gap bet­we­en the two of you. To ma­ke you fe­el you still had his sup­port?”

    “My mot­her did not lie.”

    “I didn’t say she did, Mr. Rams­den. I as­ked if it was pos­sib­le that cer­ta­in as­pects of the Eaton de­al to­ok on mo­re sig­ni­fi­can­ce for her than ot­hers?”

    He sta­red stra­ight at her. And the­re was an­ger in his eyes.

    “Please ans­wer the qu­es­ti­on.”

    “It’s pos­sib­le.”

    “That sa­id, it’s al­so pos­sib­le that she mi­sin­terp­re­ted the ot­her things she re­la­yed abo­ut this par­ti­cu­lar bu­si­ness tran­sac­ti­on. Per­haps even to use it as le­ve­ra­ge to bring you ho­me.”

    “No.”

    “Did you know, Mr. Rams­den, that a let­ter was sent from Eaton James to all the Eaton Es­ta­tes in­ves­tors, tel­ling them of the­ir loss?”

    “Yes, it ar­ri­ved a co­up­le of days af­ter my mot­her cal­led to ask me to vi­sit the pro­perty.”

    “It was post­mar­ked two days be­fo­re.”

    “It ar­ri­ved two days af­ter.”

    “Or not.” Juli­et step­ped back. “It’s pos­sib­le, Mr. Rams­den, that yo­ur mot­her al­re­ady knew the land was worth­less when she cal­led to ha­ve you check it out, isn’t it?”

    “It’s highly un­li­kely.”

    “But pos­sib­le.”

    His chin drop­ped aga­in, mo­re slowly this ti­me. And then ro­se aga­in. “Yes.”

    Juliet tur­ned, as tho­ugh go­ing back to her se­at. And then, three-qu­ar­ters of the way the­re, she tur­ned back.

    “One ot­her thing.” She sa­ved li­ves by pla­ying the bar­ra­cu­da. And right now, the fu­tu­re of an ad­mit­tedly stu­pid but in­no­cent bu­si­nes­sman was on the li­ne. “Yo­ur fat­her di­ed of a he­art at­tack the next ye­ar, did he not?”

    “He did.”

    “He was dri­ving at the ti­me.”

    “Yes.”

    “And yo­ur mot­her was in the car.”

    “Yes.”

    “You lost them both. I’m so sorry.” She lo­oked down. Tho­ught abo­ut Eaton’s wi­fe-and te­ena­ge child­ren-sit­ting be­hind them. The li­ves she was at­temp­ting to sa­ve.

    Blake sa­id not­hing.

    “Did you re­ali­ze yo­ur mot­her knew abo­ut yo­ur fat­her’s bad he­art?”

    “Not un­til I got ho­me.”

    “But she knew. Had known for al­most two ye­ars.”

    “Yes.”

    “Wouldn’t you think that kno­wing her hus­band co­uld go at any mo­ment might be mo­ti­va­ti­on eno­ugh to do wha­te­ver it to­ok to get her only son ho­me?”

    She’d do­ne what she’d be­en hi­red to do. She’d disc­re­di­ted his tes­ti­mony. And lost his res­pect.

    For the first ti­me in her li­fe, Juli­et ha­ted her job.

    “No mo­re qu­es­ti­ons, Yo­ur Ho­nor.”

    

    

    JULIET MCNE­IL HUNG aro­und for a long ti­me. Schus­ter had go­ne. The press had go­ne. Even Eaton James and his fa­mily had rid­den down the ele­va­tor to the first flo­or of the Ca­li­for­nia Su­pe­ri­or Co­urt. Still, tho­ugh he had no re­al lo­gi­cal re­ason for do­ing so, Bla­ke sto­od the­re at the bank of ele­va­tors and wa­ited.

    He was do­ne he­re. Un­less cal­led for furt­her tes­ti­mony, he’d be­en dis­mis­sed and wo­uldn’t be back. He’d li­ved in the sa­me town with Juli­et McNe­il for fi­ve ye­ars and fo­und no re­ason to be in to­uch with her. Had had not­hing to say to her.

    Voices ca­me from down the hall. Ma­le. And one very dis­tinc­ti­ve fe­ma­le. The men ca­me aro­und the cor­ner from the co­urt­ro­om. Nod­ded at Bla­ke, pus­hed the down but­ton. Juli­et must ha­ve stop­ped off in the wo­men’s ro­om at the junc­tu­re of the two hal­lways.

    An ele­va­tor ca­me. The two men, ap­pa­rently at­tor­neys on Juli­et’s staff, held the do­or, lo­oking at him. Bla­ke sho­ok his he­ad. And they we­re go­ne.

    It was bet­ter this way, with no one aro­und. Just a qu­ick ack­now­ledg­ment, for old ti­mes’ sa­ke. So­met­hing he might not ha­ve bot­he­red with if not for the fu­ne­ral he’d at­ten­ded over the we­ekend-and all the me­mo­ri­es aro­used by the past we­ek.

    Hearing the swish of a do­or, Bla­ke sto­od up­right, hands in the poc­kets of his gray slacks, fa­cing the hall. Her he­ad pul­led back a bit when she saw him, but her step didn’t fal­ter. She had to be the most con­fi­dent wo­man he’d ever met.

    That con­fi­den­ce had at­trac­ted Bla­ke ni­ne ye­ars ago. And at­trac­ted him now.

    “I tho­ught you’d be long go­ne.” That was anot­her thing he re­mem­be­red qu­ite cle­arly abo­ut that foggy night so long ago. The wo­man had a ha­bit of sa­ying what was on her mind rat­her than co­uc­hing her tho­ughts in pla­ti­tu­des. Dis­con­cer­ting.

    And yet, de­light­ful­ly ref­res­hing in that he’d known whe­re he sto­od with her. The­re’d be­en no ga­me pla­ying. No so­ci­al dis­ho­nesty.

    “I ne­ver had the chan­ce to say hel­lo.” He pus­hed the down but­ton. “And didn’t want to go wit­ho­ut at le­ast sa­ying go­odb­ye.”

    “Oh.” Her ha­ir was still long-the gold-stre­aked auburn co­lor stri­king-and cur­led past her sho­ul­ders. “Well, I wish it co­uld ha­ve be­en un­der dif­fe­rent cir­cums­tan­ces, but it was ni­ce se­e­ing you,” she sa­id. She didn’t avo­id lo­oking at him, but ga­ve equ­al at­ten­ti­on to the ligh­ted bar atop the ele­va­tor, in­di­ca­ting the car’s cur­rent flo­or.

    “You lo­ok go­od.”

    “You, too.” Ex­cept that she wasn’t re­al­ly lo­oking. And then she did. “I watc­hed yo­ur of­fi­ce bu­il­ding go up. Imp­res­si­ve. You’re do­ing very well.”

    Blake nod­ded. “I had go­od te­ac­hers.” Inc­lu­ding his fat­her, the man he’d spo­ken of so harshly that night just be­fo­re he’d left the co­untry. Was that what this was abo­ut? A ne­ed to cor­rect any mis­con­cep­ti­ons? He’d be­en a kid then. Too con­cer­ned with his own rights and far too in­sen­si­ti­ve to tho­se of ot­hers.

    “I’m…uh…sorry.” She til­ted her he­ad in the di­rec­ti­on of the co­urt­ro­om from which they’d co­me. “For back the­re.”

    “We we­re on op­po­si­te si­des of the fen­ce,” he told her-as tho­ugh ne­it­her of them co­uld ha­ve ex­pec­ted anyt­hing dif­fe­rent.

    The ele­va­tor ca­me. Bla­ke held open the do­or whi­le she step­ped in­si­de, then jo­ined her. Stan­ding aga­inst the si­de wall, her bri­ef­ca­se held with both hands down in front, she’d al­re­ady pus­hed the first-flo­or but­ton.

    “Still,” she sa­id, glan­cing over at him, “I wo­uldn’t bla­me you if the­re we­re so­me hard fe­elings.”

    “Oh, the­re are de­fi­ni­tely tho­se,” he ad­mit­ted, thin­king of James. “Just not di­rec­ted at you.”

    The qu­ick tilt of her chin, mo­re even than the light in her eyes, ga­ve away her surp­ri­se. “Well, thank you.” She smi­led.

    And he knew he wasn’t do­ne yet.

    “How wo­uld you fe­el abo­ut get­ting a bi­te to eat?”

    The ele­va­tor stop­ped and she got out, frow­ning. “To­night?”

    “Doesn’t ha­ve to be.” He fol­lo­wed her over to a de­co­ra­ti­ve co­lumn off to the si­de of the bu­il­ding’s entry­way and le­aned aga­inst it.

    “I…”

    Blake co­uld sen­se a re­fu­sal co­ming. “Or just a drink so­me­ti­me,” he of­fe­red. “For old ti­mes’ sa­ke.”

    “You’ve be­en ho­me fi­ve ye­ars. Old ti­mes ha­ve ta­ken qu­ite a whi­le to co­me cal­ling.” The easy grin on her fa­ce to­ok any sting out of the words.

    She was right.

    “I…my ex-wi­fe di­ed last we­ek.” Bla­ke was un­com­for­tab­le with the per­so­nal ad­mis­si­on. “I hadn’t se­en her in ye­ars, but that, plus the who­le Eaton James thing, has bro­ught up a lot of old me­mo­ri­es. I fe­el li­ke I ha­ve so­me things to set stra­ight. Un­fi­nis­hed bu­si­ness, may­be.”

    “We fi­nis­hed our bu­si­ness.” Her he­ad til­ted up at him, tho­se gre­en eyes with the­ir myste­ri­o­us brown flecks, had him thin­king ot­her­wi­se.

    “I’m not ar­gu­ing with that,” he of­fe­red. “I gu­ess I’m just lo­oking for so­me clo­su­re on that who­le pha­se of my li­fe. Think you co­uld hu­mor me long eno­ugh for a con­ver­sa­ti­on?”

    “I gu­ess.”

    He won­de­red at her he­si­tancy. “You ha­ve a sig­ni­fi­cant ot­her out the­re who might not un­ders­tand?”

    “No.” She sho­ok her he­ad. “I’m not mar­ri­ed or ot­her­wi­se sig­ni­fi­cantly, uh, con­nec­ted.”

    “Because you’re still af­ra­id that a re­la­ti­ons­hip wo­uld ta­ke away yo­ur fre­edom?”

    When he’d mar­ri­ed Amu­net, he hadn’t tho­ught he’d rob­bed his wi­fe of her li­berty, but he co­uldn’t ha­ve be­en mo­re wrong. The­ir mar­ri­age had cer­ta­inly trap­ped her. Or chan­ged her, any­way. Eno­ugh so that she’d even­tu­al­ly be­en dri­ven to su­ici­de?

    “Not re­al­ly,” Juli­et sa­id, her ga­ze cle­ar. “Anyway, it wasn’t my fre­edom I was pro­tec­ting back then. I just ne­eded to know that I co­uld pro­vi­de for myself be­fo­re I re­li­ed on an­yo­ne el­se. I ne­eded to be­li­eve in me.”

    He nod­ded. That he un­ders­to­od. It had ta­ken fo­ur ye­ars away and mo­re ti­me back ho­me be­fo­re he’d dis­co­ve­red that.

    “Are you da­ting so­me­one?”

    She sho­ok her he­ad, lo­wer lip prot­ru­ding slightly. “No. You?”

    “No.” He co­uldn’t tell if his reply had any ef­fect on her. Not that it mat­te­red.

    “So what abo­ut that drink?”

    “If you can ma­ke it early, say, fo­ur o’clock or so, I can do Thurs­day this we­ek. Just on­ce. For old ti­mes’ sa­ke.”

    Right af­ter co­urt.

    Blake nod­ded. “Thurs­day it is.”

    

    HAVING BU­ILT a suc­ces­sful ca­re­er on fin­ding dif­fe­rent ways to pre­sent the truth, Juli­et fa­iled mi­se­rably, over the next two days, to co­me up with a truth that wo­uld suf­fi­ce as a pla­usib­le ex­cu­se to can­cel her drink da­te with Bla­ke Rams­den.

    She just co­uldn’t find a way to say, “I don’t want to see you ever aga­in be­ca­use you’re the fat­her of my da­ugh­ter and I don’t want you to know that.”

    “You’re we­aring red aga­in.” Mary Jane was sit­ting at the kitc­hen tab­le Thurs­day mor­ning, che­wing her fa­vo­ri­te marsh­mal­low-and-oat ce­re­al, her legs bo­un­cing be­ne­ath her.

    “It’s my third day on the hot se­at.”

    “That’s gre­en day.”

    The kid knew her too well. She was too pre­dic­tab­le. Had li­fe re­al­ly be­co­me so ob­ses­si­vely the sa­me that so­me­one co­uld pre­dict her day ba­sed on the co­lors she cho­se? Or was it just Mary Jane who’d al­ways be­en too per­cep­ti­ve?

    “I’m ha­ving a drink with Bla­ke Rams­den af­ter co­urt this af­ter­no­on.”

    “While I’m at Brow­ni­es,” Mary Jane sa­id, nod­ding, her at­ten­ti­on still on her ce­re­al. “Go­od thin­king.”

    Juliet drop­ped in­to the cha­ir clo­sest to her da­ugh­ter, re­ac­hing over to push curls back from the girl’s che­ek, kno­wing they we­re go­ing to spring right back.

    “Don’t you want to know why I’m me­eting him?”

    Wide eyes, such a stran­ge cont­rast of all-kno­wing adult and un­su­re lit­tle girl, sta­red up at her. “I don’t think so.”

    “Are you wor­ri­ed?”

    “How can I be? I just fo­und out abo­ut it.”

    “Are you mad?”

    “No.”

    “But?”

    “I don’t want a dad. I li­ke us just the way we are.”

    Life just ne­ver qu­it get­ting har­der. No mat­ter how many hurd­les she ma­ne­uve­red thro­ugh suc­ces­sful­ly. “I li­ke us just the way we are, too.”

    Frowning, Mary Jane pus­hed away her not-qu­ite-empty bowl. “You pro­mi­sed you wo­uldn’t tell him abo­ut me.”

    “I’m not go­ing to tell him.” She pa­used to as­sess the do­ubts that had be­en pla­gu­ing her for al­most a we­ek. Everyt­hing hap­pe­ned for a re­ason and the ti­ming of Bla­ke Rams­den’s re­turn to her li­fe had oc­cur­red just as she was strug­gling to help Mary Jane find her pla­ce in the world.

    Every day, when she drop­ped the child off at scho­ol, she wa­ited for a pho­ne call. And every af­ter­no­on, when she pic­ked her up, she bre­at­hed a sigh of re­li­ef.

    It wasn’t nor­mal.

    Picking up the bowl, she to­ok it to the sink, rin­sed it, put it in the dish­was­her. “He­re’s yo­ur lunch,” she sa­id, ta­king the brown bag out of the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor.

    Mary Jane re­ac­hed for the bag, lo­oking up, her exp­res­si­on not qu­ite as open as usu­al.

    “Hey, re­mem­ber our de­al,” Juli­et sa­id, hol­ding her da­ugh­ter’s free hand.

    “What?”

    “If ever the­re co­mes a ti­me that you want to me­et Bla­ke, you let me know.”

    “I won’t-”

    “And,” Juli­et in­ter­rup­ted, “if ever the­re is a ti­me when I think I ha­ve to tell him abo­ut you, I’ll dis­cuss it with you first. I pro­mi­sed, Mary Jane, and I’ve ne­ver bro­ken a pro­mi­se to you.”

    It to­ok a mo­ment for the clo­uds to di­sap­pe­ar, but af­ter a lit­tle bit of tho­ught the lit­tle girl smi­led up at her.

    “I know,” she sa­id.

    Juliet just ho­ped she didn’t li­ve to reg­ret ha­ving ma­de that pro­mi­se.

    

    WALKING IN­TO the ups­ca­le down­town bar on Thurs­day, Juli­et to­ok a cur­sory glan­ce aro­und, ho­ping Bla­ke wo­uld be la­te. She co­uld say she’d be­en the­re and le­ave be­fo­re he sho­wed up.

    It wo­uld be the truth-and the best ver­si­on of it she’d ma­na­ged to con­coct.

    Her se­cond best idea had be­en to lo­ok, but not very hard, only eno­ugh to say she’d be­en the­re and hadn’t se­en him, and then get the hell out be­fo­re he saw her.

    Her third and fi­nal ho­pe had be­en that he wo­uldn’t show.

    She saw him as so­on as her eyes adj­us­ted from the day’s bright suns­hi­ne to the bar’s in­te­ri­or. Sit­ting in a rat­her sec­lu­ded bo­oth for two, he sho­uld ha­ve be­en easy to miss. But no, her eyes we­re drawn right to him.

    “Hi.” Juli­et slid in ac­ross from him, trying not to no­ti­ce how bro­ad his sho­ul­ders lo­oked mi­nus the su­it co­at he’d be­en we­aring the ot­her day.

    “Red, aga­in,” he gre­eted her with a cu­ri­o­us smi­le. “A bra­ve mo­ve for a red­he­ad.”

    “My ha­ir’s not-”

    “I know, I was te­asing,” he ad­mit­ted. “Yo­ur ha­ir is auburn.”

    They’d had that con­ver­sa­ti­on ni­ne ye­ars be­fo­re. When she’d be­en we­aring not­hing at all and he’d be­en pla­ying with her ha­ir aga­inst her bre­asts, tel­ling her he’d ne­ver se­en anyt­hing qu­ite li­ke it.

    It had be­en right af­ter they’d ma­de lo­ve the se­cond ti­me with the first con­dom-the ti­me, she’d long ago de­ci­ded, that she had con­ce­ived Mary Jane.

    “And the su­it lo­oks gre­at,” he sa­id when she didn’t res­pond. “Be­a­uti­ful in fact.”

    She wis­hed he’d stop catc­hing her off gu­ard. “Thank you.” It had be­en a long ti­me sin­ce she’d felt de­si­rab­le, and li­fe was much mo­re un­der cont­rol that way.

    They or­de­red drinks, the bar’s spe­ci­alty, a mix­tu­re of rum, vod­ka and a co­up­le of exo­tic fru­its. Bla­ke ad­ded an or­der of chips and sal­sa.

    “We’re dri­ving,” he exp­la­ined as the wa­iter left. “It’s not go­od to drink on an empty sto­mach.”

    She ap­pre­ci­ated the fo­ret­ho­ught.

    “Fine by me,” she told him. “I mis­sed lunch to­day and I’m star­ving.” She’d be­en busy cal­ming Kelly James, who was be­gin­ning to pa­nic. That was the worst thing Eaton’s wi­fe co­uld do. This tri­al was all abo­ut cha­rac­ter-and pro­ving that ne­it­her James nor his fa­mily or as­so­ci­ates had any do­ubts abo­ut his.

    Blake as­ked abo­ut the tri­al whi­le they wa­ited for the­ir drinks. She felt li­ke a De­moc­rat tal­king to a Re­pub­li­can. Or a Re­pub­li­can tal­king to a De­moc­rat. They both wan­ted jus­ti­ce to be do­ne, wan­ted what was best for so­ci­ety at lar­ge and saw the way to get the­re on op­po­si­te ends of the spect­rum.

    “It’s ob­vi­o­us the man is gu­ilty,” Bla­ke told her fif­te­en mi­nu­tes in­to the con­ver­sa­ti­on. “If you re­al­ly want to ser­ve the Cons­ti­tu­ti­on, you’d see that and help him get the fa­irest pu­nish­ment.”

    “He’s not gu­ilty un­til pro­ven so be­yond a sha­dow of a do­ubt,” Juli­et re­min­ded him. “And un­til that hap­pens, he de­ser­ves to be tre­ated that way. As tho­ugh he’s not gu­ilty. Me­aning, I be­li­eve what he tells me and my job is to try to per­su­ade tho­se sit­ting in judg­ment to do the sa­me.”

    “Regardless of what you think per­so­nal­ly.”

    “Personally, I know it’s pos­sib­le that he’s a go­od man and a rot­ten bu­si­nes­sman who didn’t kno­wingly def­ra­ud an­yo­ne.”

    “Establishing bo­gus com­pa­ni­es is aga­inst the law. Ig­no­ran­ce is no ex­cu­se for cri­mi­nal ac­ti­on.”

    “He cla­ims they we­ren’t bo­gus but, rat­her, ven­tu­res that ne­ver got off the gro­und.”

    “So why are the­re in­vo­ices for go­ods purc­ha­sed from ven­dors that don’t exist?”

    “He was told the ven­dors did exist. He es­tab­lis­hed the com­pa­ni­es with the be­li­ef that his as­so­ci­ates we­re on the up-and-up and he was hel­ping them all get star­ted.”

    “With that the­ory, you co­uld free up just abo­ut an­yo­ne for a whi­te-col­lar cri­me.”

    “The jury has to be con­vin­ced,” Juli­et told him. “Ulti­ma­tely, the truth must spe­ak for it­self.”

    “The truth?” he as­ked, munc­hing on the chips that she had hardly no­ti­ced ap­pe­ar. “Or so­me twis­ted bits of fact and fic­ti­on that po­se as the truth?”

    A to­pic clo­se to her he­art. “How do you de­fi­ne fact and fic­ti­on?” she as­ked. “So­me pe­op­le be­li­eve in an­gels. They’d pass a lie de­tec­tor test cla­iming that an­gels exist. That they’ve ac­tu­al­ly se­en an an­gel. For ot­hers, re­ality is comp­le­tely de­vo­id of such pos­si­bi­li­ti­es. Who’s right?”

    “If so­me­one can pro­ve that an­gels exist, show a pic­tu­re of ones they’ve se­en-” He stop­ped, smi­led. “I’m dig­ging myself in de­eper than I ca­re to be at the mo­ment.”

    She didn’t know if it was the drink or if the­re re­al­ly was so­met­hing abo­ut this man’s pre­sen­ce that af­fec­ted her, but that stran­ge mix­tu­re of an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on and ap­pe­al she’d felt ni­ne ye­ars ago was set­tling over her aga­in.

    All the­se ye­ars she’d bla­med it on the drinks. She’d had se­ve­ral back then.

    Today she’d had three sips. So far.

    “Okay, well, think abo­ut this,” she sa­id. “You don’t ha­ve to buy in­to it, just try it on long eno­ugh to see how it fe­els.” She hel­ped her­self to a chip.

    “I’m ga­me.”

    “Truth is the me­ans by which hu­man be­ings try to de­fi­ne re­ality, wo­uldn’t you ag­ree?”

    “Yes.” His nod was ac­com­pa­ni­ed by a slow smi­le. “Most of us any­way.”

    “So the is­sue is de­fi­ning re­ality.”

    “Maybe.” He to­ok anot­her chip, his eyes nar­ro­wed.

    “But any psychi­at­rist will tell you that for every sing­le hu­man be­ing the­re is a dif­fe­rent ver­si­on of re­ality. Our re­ali­ti­es are sha­ped by the be­li­ef systems we we­re ra­ised with.” She to­ok anot­her sip. “Say, for ins­tan­ce, from the ti­me I’m a lit­tle girl, my mot­her pu­nis­hes me for sa­ying the word ain’t. So I end up thin­king it’s a bad word. Just li­ke damn. Or wor­se.”

    “Okay.” His enj­oy­ment of the con­ver­sa­ti­on was ob­vi­o­us. His eyes lit up, just as his da­ugh­ter’s did when Juli­et de­ba­ted with her. Much the way they had that long-ago night, when Juli­et and Bla­ke had tal­ked un­til the bar clo­sed and they had to go so­mew­he­re el­se.

    Juliet wasn’t su­re the­re’d be­en anot­her man in her li­fe who’d ri­sen to the chal­len­ge wit­ho­ut fe­eling chal­len­ged, wit­ho­ut fe­eling a ne­ed to as­sert ma­le su­pe­ri­ority or aut­ho­rity, wit­ho­ut ego be­ing in­vol­ved.

    “So then I me­et a fri­end who­se mot­her uses the word ain’t re­gu­larly. My fri­end uses the word. I’m ab­so­lu­tely con­vin­ced that she swe­ars.”

    “A lit­tle fe­eb­le, but I get whe­re you’re go­ing with that. I still don’t see the ap­pli­ca­ti­on to Eaton James. In his ca­se, re­ality is cle­arly de­fi­ned by ir­re­fu­tab­le do­cu­ments.”

    “The do­cu­ments aren’t on tri­al. A man’s in­ten­ti­ons are on tri­al. You lo­ok at tho­se do­cu­ments and at­tach yo­ur me­aning to them. But just be­ca­use it’s yo­ur ver­si­on do­esn’t me­an it’s the re­al ver­si­on. How can he be gu­ilty of def­ra­uding pe­op­le if he didn’t de­li­be­ra­tely mis­le­ad them?”

    “He in­vo­iced mock com­pa­ni­es for go­ods that we­re ne­ver pro­du­ced. Tho­se in­vo­ices we­re pa­id.”

    “And he was un­der the un­ders­tan­ding that the go­ods had be­en ship­ped.”

    “There was no pro­of of that. No con­fir­ma­ti­on of sa­les. No re­ce­ipts.”

    “So he was too trus­ting. That’s not a cri­me.”

    Blake sho­ok his he­ad. “I didn’t ask you he­re to de­ba­te Eaton James.”

    Neither had she ac­cep­ted for that re­ason, tho­ugh she was con­tent to do so if it kept her out of mo­re dan­ge­ro­us ter­ri­tory. “He­re’s the thing,” she sa­id, re­tur­ning to what she’d star­ted to say ear­li­er. “We all ha­ve dif­fe­rent vi­ews of re­ality-which, as long as we fol­low so­ci­ety’s ru­les, is just fi­ne. And when it’s per­ce­ived that so­me­one bre­aks one of tho­se ru­les, so­ci­ety’s re­ality is de­ter­mi­ned by a vo­te from the ma­j­ority. That’s jus­ti­ce. In this ca­se, the ma­j­ority comp­ri­ses the twel­ve pe­op­le sit­ting in that jury box. Schus­ter pre­sen­ted the sta­te’s re­ality, I pre­sent James’s, and it’s up to tho­se twel­ve in­di­vi­du­als to de­ter­mi­ne which ver­si­on is true.”

    “I’ll say this for you,” Bla­ke sa­id, sha­king his he­ad. “You su­re ha­ve a co­lor­ful way of lo­oking at it all.”

    “As op­po­sed to you, who se­es everyt­hing in black and whi­te?” She co­uldn’t stop her­self from is­su­ing the chal­len­ge, pro­bably be­ca­use she so­me­how knew it wo­uld be ta­ken in the man­ner in­ten­ded-wit­ho­ut de­fen­si­ve­ness.

    “I do li­ke things to be cle­arly de­fi­ned.”

    “I re­mem­ber that abo­ut you.” She to­ok a chip, dip­ped it in sal­sa, bro­ught it slowly to her mo­uth.

    “What?” The cor­ner of Bla­ke’s mo­uth twis­ted slightly.

    “That mor­ning, af­ter…you know.” What in the hell was she do­ing? She pa­used be­fo­re con­ti­nu­ing. “You we­re qu­ite se­ri­o­us abo­ut ma­king su­re that we both cle­arly ag­re­ed abo­ut what had and hadn’t hap­pe­ned. And abo­ut what co­uldn’t hap­pen aga­in. You wan­ted it all spel­led out. We wo­uldn’t exc­han­ge in­for­ma­ti­on be­ca­use we we­ren’t go­ing to con­tact each ot­her.”

    “I was le­aving the co­untry!”

    “And I wo­uld’ve shot myself be­fo­re I’d ha­ve be­co­me en­tang­led with a man.”

    With both hands aro­und his glass on the tab­le in front of him, he lo­oked over at her, a smi­le in his eyes, but his mo­uth was se­ri­o­us. “It was damn go­od for what it was, tho­ugh.”

    She flo­un­de­red. Wis­hed she’d dow­ned her drink the mo­ment it ca­me. Whe­re was a sa­fe ver­si­on of the truth when she ne­eded it?

    “Yeah.”

    

    “YOU MEN­TI­ONED yo­ur ex-wi­fe,” Juli­et ven­tu­red at the be­gin­ning of her se­cond drink. They’d or­de­red a plat­ter of ribs and chic­ken ap­pe­ti­zers with veg­gi­es.

    Mary Jane’s Brow­nie tro­op was go­ing to Sea World that af­ter­no­on, and she wo­uldn’t be drop­ped off un­til bed­ti­me. Juli­et had no re­ason to hurry ho­me. And it wasn’t as tho­ugh she’d ever ha­ve ca­use to see this man aga­in.

    “I didn’t re­ali­ze you we­re di­vor­ced.”

    The one ti­me she’d run in­to him, he’d just re­tur­ned to the Sta­tes fi­ve ye­ars be­fo­re-with a wi­fe. Mary Jane had be­en abo­ut three at the ti­me. Mar­cie had be­en vi­si­ting and Juli­et had just run out to pick up so­me wi­ne for the two of them to ha­ve with din­ner. Bla­ke had be­en over in her part of town lo­oking at a pros­pec­ti­ve bu­il­ding si­te and had stop­ped for a six-pack of be­er.

    He lo­ose­ned his tie. “She didn’t li­ke San Di­ego.”

    “How can an­yo­ne not li­ke San Di­ego?”

    He tri­ed to smi­le, but fa­iled rat­her mi­se­rably, in her opi­ni­on. “Gu­ess that pro­ves yo­ur po­int abo­ut in­di­vi­du­al re­ality, huh?”

    There was mo­re he wasn’t sa­ying. A lot mo­re.

    “So I gu­ess you we­re right back then when you sa­id it was a bles­sing you didn’t ha­ve kids.” So­me dor­mant form of ma­soc­hism had ma­de her ask him abo­ut child­ren that night.

    “Until that po­int Amu­net and I had li­ved a rat­her un­con­ven­ti­onal li­fe. And ne­it­her of us was comp­le­tely su­re we wan­ted that to chan­ge. We we­re both fa­irly di­so­ri­en­ted when we first set­tled in San Di­ego. Adj­us­ting to a li­fe of ro­uti­ne and sta­bi­lity is ro­ug­her than it so­unds.”

    “Especially af­ter li­ving wit­ho­ut it for so long.”

    There was gra­ti­tu­de in the blue eyes lo­oking back at her.

    “In the long run, I adj­us­ted. Amu­net did not.”

    There was mo­re to that story, too. But Bla­ke Rams­den’s he­ar­tac­he was not any of Juli­et McNe­il’s bu­si­ness or con­cern.

    It co­uldn’t be. It didn’t fit in­to her ver­si­on of the­ir re­ality.

    

    

    AT SIX, two ho­urs af­ter she’d ar­ri­ved at the bar, Bla­ke or­de­red a third drink. Juli­et didn’t ap­pe­ar to be in any hurry to le­ave, still nib­bling on the half-eaten ribs and chic­ken.

    And Lord knew he had not­hing to go ho­me to that night but mo­re of the sa­me men­tal bat­tles he’d be­en figh­ting for se­ve­ral days. Amu­net’s de­ath had not­hing to do with him. In his he­ad he knew that. Just as he wasn’t in any re­al way res­pon­sib­le for his fat­her’s he­art at­tack or the car ac­ci­dent that had rob­bed him of all his li­ving fa­mily, be­fo­re he’d grown up eno­ugh to re­ali­ze how much he’d lo­ved them. Ne­eded them.

    “I can’t say that I re­mem­ber parts of that night on the be­ach all that cle­arly,” he drop­ped in­to the si­len­ce that had fi­nal­ly fal­len bet­we­en them. Pic­king up a pi­ece of ce­lery, he bit in­to it. “But I se­em to re­mem­ber be­ing pretty down on my fat­her.”

    Juliet’s smi­le was soft. “Yo­ung pe­op­le ha­ve a way of do­ing that.”

    The ten­der­ness in her words re­min­ded him of a mo­ment that night ni­ne ye­ars ago, just be­fo­re they’d ma­de lo­ve. He’d be­en abo­ut to tell her he co­uldn’t, that he had not­hing to of­fer be­yond the mo­ment and that it wasn’t fa­ir to her. She’d si­len­ced him with a fin­ger to his lips, sa­id the words for him, and told him that even if he of­fe­red, she wo­uldn’t ac­cept anyt­hing. Co­uldn’t ac­cept anyt­hing. Rat­her than jud­ging him and fin­ding him wan­ting, she’d un­ders­to­od him.

    “It’s only when we’ve li­ved long eno­ugh that we be­gin to see that our pa­rents re­al­ly aren’t stu­pid at all,” she con­ti­nu­ed.

    “Unfortunately, I li­ved long eno­ugh. My pa­rents didn’t.”

    “You had no way of kno­wing yo­ur fat­her was ill.”

    Blake sip­ped, tur­ned in his se­at, lif­ting an ank­le ac­ross his knee. “Lo­gi­cal­ly, I re­ali­ze that,” he ad­mit­ted. In fi­ve ye­ars’ ti­me, he hadn’t be­en ab­le to say that to an­yo­ne el­se. It was only re­cently he’d ack­now­led­ged it to him­self. “And then I think abo­ut the fact that if I’d ma­de one dif­fe­rent cho­ice in my li­fe, co­me ho­me af­ter that ye­ar ins­te­ad of ma­king the pho­ne call that tur­ned out to be the last ti­me I ever spo­ke with the old man, li­ves might ha­ve be­en sa­ved.”

    It was a tho­ught that wo­uldn’t let go.

    “Lives?”

    A mid­dle-aged co­up­le was be­ing se­ated in the bo­oth be­hind them. They we­re the third party to ha­ve that tab­le sin­ce he and Juli­et had ar­ri­ved.

    “My fat­her’s, my mot­her’s, Amu­net’s.”

    “You think you’re that po­wer­ful?” Her words we­re soft, but her eyes ga­ve him no mercy.

    “I don’t fe­el po­wer­ful at all.”

    She to­ok a sip of a drink that must ha­ve be­en very wa­te­red down. She was still on her se­cond and it was mo­re than an ho­ur old. She pic­ked up a chic­ken wing, bit off a pi­ece, che­wed.

    “Your fat­her had a bad he­art,” she went on. “You didn’t ca­use that. Nor co­uld you ha­ve cu­red it.”

    He ap­pre­ci­ated he­aring the words. “I say that to myself every night, abo­ut two in the mor­ning or so.”

    “You think yo­ur le­aving him to de­al with the bu­si­ness all alo­ne shor­te­ned his li­fe?”

    He shrug­ged, stu­di­ed the con­den­sa­ti­on for­ming on the out­si­de of his glass. A co­up­le of men at the bar we­re fe­eling no pa­in, the­ir la­ugh­ter gro­wing lo­uder with each be­er they dow­ned.

    “It’s al­so pos­sib­le that his he­art was go­ing to go whet­her he was put­te­ring aro­und the yard at ho­me or sit­ting in a high-ri­se of­fi­ce.”

    “Likely not as so­on.”

    “Maybe not for a lot of men, but the man you desc­ri­bed yo­ur fat­her to be wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve be­en con­tent slo­wing down. The stress of ha­ving to sit back and watch so­me­one el­se run things wo­uld su­rely ha­ve kil­led him.”

    Blake ra­ised his he­ad and sta­red at her. “All the ho­urs I’ve spent go­ing aro­und and aro­und with myself abo­ut this, I ne­ver ca­me up with that one. Not that I’m go­ing to let myself off the ho­ok that easily, but at le­ast now I ha­ve a so­lid ar­gu­ment to ma­ke the men­tal war mo­re in­te­res­ting.”

    “You wo­uldn’t be the man you ob­vi­o­usly are if you let yo­ur­self off the ho­ok easily,” she sa­id. “Per­haps it to­ok so­me­one who didn’t know yo­ur fat­her per­so­nal­ly to see that less res­pon­si­bi­lity might not ha­ve be­en the ans­wer.”

    His smi­le was slow in co­ming, but sin­ce­re. “I was ac­tu­al­ly fe­eling bad abo­ut ha­ving spo­ken so po­orly of him to you. I ha­ted that the only vi­ew you had of him was as a tyrant. And that I was res­pon­sib­le for that.”

    “Being an only son-an only child-to a suc­ces­sful, de­man­ding pa­rent is dif­fi­cult, isn’t it?”

    He frow­ned. “What do you me­an?”

    “Not only did you ha­ve to de­al with all the ex­pec­ta­ti­ons that we­re strang­ling you ni­ne ye­ars ago, but you had-and ha­ve-the res­pon­si­bi­lity of be­ing the only one to carry on.”

    Shaking his he­ad, Bla­ke to­ok a long, cold sip. “You’re in the wrong pro­fes­si­on.”

    She ra­ised an eyeb­row in qu­es­ti­on, fi­nis­hing off the chic­ken wing and lic­king her fin­gers.

    “You sho­uld ha­ve be­en a damn psycho­lo­gist.”

    Juliet, bre­aking a chip in­to se­ve­ral pi­eces on her pla­te, lo­oked down. “It’s easy to see ot­her pe­op­le’s prob­lems,” she sa­id. “It’s yo­ur own that bog you down.”

    “Not you.” Bla­ke grin­ned. “The for­mi­dab­le Ms. McNe­il get­ting bog­ged down? It’ll ne­ver hap­pen.”

    He ex­pec­ted her to smi­le, to sho­ot off so­me sassy re­mark. She didn’t.

    “It’s hap­pe­ned.”

    “When?” He’d me­ant the word to be play­ful. It ca­me out ho­nestly in­te­res­ted ins­te­ad.

    She shrug­ged, and with one hand bro­ke anot­her chip, slowly, met­ho­di­cal­ly, in­to small tri­an­gu­lar pi­eces. “Va­ri­o­us ti­mes.”

    “Any examp­les?”

    “Not to­night.”

    Another ti­me then?

    “Does it ha­ve anyt­hing to do with yo­ur be­ing sing­le?”

    “Not re­al­ly.” She pa­used as the wa­iter stop­ped by and drop­ped off the­ir check, and Bla­ke half ex­pec­ted her to say she had to go. “Unless I’m so bog­ged down I don’t see it, the­re’s no par­ti­cu­lar is­sue that’s res­pon­sib­le for my sing­le sta­te.” He was surp­ri­sed when she con­ti­nu­ed. “I just ha­ven’t met a man I want to spend the rest of my li­fe lo­oking at.”

    “Oh.” He switc­hed to the glass of wa­ter in front of him. Sip­ping. “So it’s all in the lo­oks, huh?”

    “Damn right it is.” Juli­et grin­ned and then her eyes grew se­ri­o­us. “I ha­ven’t ever be­en with a man I tho­ught I wan­ted to lo­ok at first thing in the mor­ning, or ac­ross the din­ner tab­le at night, un­til the day I die.”

    He was a lit­tle surp­ri­sed at the ins­tant di­sap­po­int­ment her words aro­used.

    “So may­be you just aren’t the mar­rying kind.”

    “Maybe.” Her smi­le was sad. “I don’t think so, tho­ugh. Lo­oking at an empty pil­low, an empty cha­ir, ins­te­ad, is a pretty lo­nely pros­pect.”

    “You’re a be­a­uti­ful wo­man, Juli­et McNe­il. If you want to find so­me­one, you will.” A be­a­uti­ful wo­man. A pas­si­ona­te, smart, funny, strong wo­man. What man wo­uldn’t want her if he we­re in a po­si­ti­on to want any­body?

    “I’m opi­ni­ona­ted and wil­lful and far too outs­po­ken so­me­ti­mes. And I ex­pect a man to gi­ve as go­od as I hand out. I’m not su­re such a man exists.”

    Grinning, Bla­ke nod­ded. “I see what you me­an abo­ut get­ting bog­ged down un­til you can’t see stra­ight. Be­ca­use you su­re ha­ve that one wrong.”

    “You think so?” She pe­ered at him, he­ad coc­ked to one si­de.

    “I do.”

    “Well, I’ll ta­ke yo­ur word for it. And ho­pe that if I run in­to you aga­in in anot­her ni­ne ye­ars, I won’t ha­ve to call you a li­ar.”

    “A li­ar is one thing I’ll ne­ver be. At le­ast not cons­ci­o­usly.”

    

    SHE HAD TO GO. Mary Jane was go­ing to be ho­me in anot­her ho­ur or so. “You sa­id yo­ur ex-wi­fe di­ed. What hap­pe­ned? Can­cer?” She had no idea why she as­ked. She’d al­re­ady de­ci­ded his he­ar­tac­he wasn’t her con­cern.

    That didn’t me­an she co­uldn’t of­fer com­fort, es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce she had the idea he ne­eded so­me. And he didn’t se­em to be in any hurry to le­ave.

    He glan­ced down, then back up, fo­cu­sing just be­yond her. If at all. “Su­ici­de.”

    “Oh.” She hadn’t ex­pec­ted that at all. When was she ever go­ing to le­arn to ke­ep her big mo­uth shut?

    “Apparently she’d de­ci­ded that be­ca­use of the cho­ices she’d al­re­ady ma­de, her li­fe was ne­ver go­ing to be what she wan­ted. She’d blown her chan­ce and didn’t want to set­tle for anyt­hing less.”

    For Juli­et it was al­most an ins­tant rep­lay of anot­her ti­me in her li­fe. And the se­cond ti­me aro­und was no less sad. Or wrong. “You ne­ver know what might be wa­iting aro­und the cor­ner,” she mur­mu­red, mostly to her­self.

    She’d le­ar­ned that one first­hand.

    If she’d had any idea what di­men­si­ons Mary Jane wo­uld bring to her li­fe, she su­re as hell wo­uldn’t ha­ve spent the ni­ne months of her preg­nancy af­ra­id that li­fe, as she wan­ted it to be, was over.

    “For all her wild ide­as, her free spi­rit, Amu­net held a pretty strong be­li­ef that mar­ri­age was fo­re­ver. And that a wo­man sho­uld only marry on­ce.”

    “So on­ce you di­vor­ced she co­uldn’t marry aga­in?” Pretty out­da­ted, but Juli­et cer­ta­inly un­ders­to­od that dif­fe­rent things mat­te­red to dif­fe­rent pe­op­le. Lo­ok at her own twin.

    “She did marry aga­in. Qu­ickly. I think to try to es­ca­pe the sta­te of be­ing di­vor­ced.”

    “So she was mar­ri­ed when she di­ed?”

    He sho­ok his he­ad, still fo­cu­sed so­mep­la­ce el­se-so­mep­la­ce in­si­de. “It didn’t last. And then, to her way of thin­king, she had two stri­kes aga­inst her.”

    Juliet’s bre­ath ca­ught as he fi­nal­ly glan­ced at her.

    “You bla­me yo­ur­self for this, too.”

    “Not comp­le­tely.”

    “Yes, you do.”

    He fi­nis­hed his drink. Pus­hed the glass to the end of the tab­le for the­ir wa­iter to pick up on his way past. “I hadn’t se­en or spo­ken to her in a co­up­le of ye­ars. I cer­ta­inly had not­hing to do with the bot­tle of pills she got hold of. Or the fact that she to­ok them.”

    “Of co­ur­se you didn’t. But you bla­me yo­ur­self any­way.”

    His ga­ze was cer­ta­in. “I ma­de so­me cho­ices in my li­fe that we­re sel­fish, tho­ught­less. I mar­ri­ed a wo­man I ba­rely knew at a ti­me I didn’t even know myself. I pro­mi­sed her fo­re­ver when I had no idea whe­re I was go­ing to be, who I was go­ing to be, the next we­ek. So­me­ti­mes I think the only thing I did right back then was re­fu­se to ha­ve child­ren when she as­ked me. I’d ha­te to think what the kid’s li­fe wo­uld’ve be­en li­ke be­ing ra­ised by a mot­her who felt trap­ped by his or her pre­sen­ce.”

    “I gu­ess it wo­uld de­pend on the ro­le you pla­yed in the child’s li­fe.” Her sto­mach knot­ted. She had to go.

    His slow grin surp­ri­sed her. It wasn’t ef­fu­si­ve, or fil­led with hu­mor, but it was ge­nu­ine. “It’s be­en go­od se­e­ing you aga­in,” he sa­id.

    “Yeah, you, too.” She re­al­ly had to go.

    “You wo­uldn’t want to do it aga­in so­me­ti­me, wo­uld you?”

    Probably. And no, ne­ver.

    “How do you go from that night ni­ne ye­ars ago to set­tling for an oc­ca­si­onal drink?”

    They co­uldn’t. That night was the­re. Bet­we­en them. Inc­re­dib­le. Ti­me out of ti­me. They’d be dri­ven to do it aga­in. And then…

    “You pro­bably don’t,” he ad­mit­ted.

    “That’s what I tho­ught.”

    “Anything mo­re than an oc­ca­si­onal drink wo­uldn’t be right. We hardly know each ot­her.”

    “Too much too so­on.” Too much, pe­ri­od. She had a li­fe. One that didn’t-co­uldn’t-inclu­de him. A li­fe that, if he knew abo­ut it, co­uld ma­ke him ha­te her. And what kind of ef­fect wo­uld it ha­ve on him? He was al­re­ady be­aring an un­re­alis­tic res­pon­si­bi­lity for three de­aths due to his yo­uth­ful qu­est for self-dis­co­very. He’d told her that night on the be­ach that he didn’t want child­ren, didn’t want to be in a po­si­ti­on to ha­ve such cont­rol over anot­her in­di­vi­du­al that he might af­fect anot­her per­son as his fat­her had af­fec­ted him. If he knew that, in his ze­al to run, he’d run from his own da­ugh­ter, he might ne­ver fully re­co­ver. And al­ways, most im­por­tant, was Mary Jane. What if Bla­ke knew the truth and still didn’t want kids? His aban­don­ment wo­uld de­vas­ta­te Mary Jane.

    “It’s pro­bably best that we just le­ave it as a gre­at me­mory,” he sa­id.

    God, she ha­ted how that so­un­ded. So fi­nal. “I think so.”

    He was qu­i­et for a mo­ment, then pa­id the check that the wa­iter bro­ught. “For now, I think so, too.”

    Relief ca­used her sto­mach to go we­ak. The di­sap­po­int­ment she’d de­al with la­ter, when she was alo­ne that night.

    They sto­od. Wal­ked to the do­or. Juli­et was very ca­re­ful not to let any part of her to­uch any part of him.

    He held the do­or. She wal­ked by, fe­eling his he­at, but ab­so­lu­tely de­ter­mi­ned not to to­uch him.

    She tur­ned to the left. He sto­od by the do­or.

    “I’m par­ked over this way.”

    She nod­ded. “I’m back the­re.”

    “This is it, then.” He didn’t co­me clo­ser. If he’d co­me clo­ser, may­be…

    “Thanks for din­ner. And the drinks.” She wal­ked back­ward slowly as she tal­ked.

    Hands in his poc­kets, he sto­od the­re, watc­hing. “You’re wel­co­me.”

    “Be happy.”

    “You, too.”

    There was not­hing mo­re to say.

    “If you ever find yo­ur­self in ne­ed of a go­od at­tor­ney, don’t he­si­ta­te to call.”

    People on the stre­et we­re glan­cing oddly as they pas­sed. A te­ena­ge co­up­le stop­ped to watch.

    “And if you ever ne­ed a ho­me bu­ilt…”

    “I know whe­re to find you.” She was at the cor­ner. “See ya.”

    If he rep­li­ed she didn’t he­ar him. As so­on as she ro­un­ded the cor­ner, Juli­et ran.

    

    SHE HADN’T BE­EN HO­ME half an ho­ur when the front do­or slam­med. She wa­ited to he­ar her da­ugh­ter’s ro­bust vo­ice but was met with si­len­ce.

    “Mary Jane?” Pul­ling over her he­ad a T-shirt that matc­hed the black-and-whi­te drawst­ring bot­toms she’d chan­ged in­to, Juli­et ca­me out of her ro­om.

    There was no ans­wer. Ot­her than a cup­bo­ard slam­ming in the kitc­hen. The so­und of a glass on the co­un­ter. The ref­ri­ge­ra­tor be­ing swung open hard eno­ugh to rat­tle the bot­tles sto­red in­si­de the do­or.

    “What’s up?”

    The child, dres­sed in je­ans with a matc­hing jac­ket over a purp­le la­ce shirt, spil­led the milk she was po­uring. “I qu­it Brow­ni­es.”

    “You can’t qu­it Brow­ni­es. Only I can do that. I pa­id for it.”

    “Then I ha­ven’t qu­it, I’m just not go­ing back.” Le­aving a pud­dle of milk on the co­un­ter, Mary Jane bro­ught her glass to the tab­le and sat down, her chin at her chest. Her che­eks we­re puf­fed out with in­dig­na­ti­on, her lo­wer lip prot­ru­ding as tho­ugh she was abo­ut to cry.

    “Can we talk abo­ut it first?”

    “Yeah,” she sa­id with mo­re chal­len­ge than ac­qu­i­es­cen­ce in her vo­ice. “But I’m not go­ing back.”

    Juliet ig­no­red the milk on the co­un­ter. Pul­ling out the cha­ir clo­sest to Mary Jane’s, she sat. “Why don’t you tell me what hap­pe­ned.”

    “It’s not what hap­pe­ned, it’s what’s go­ing to hap­pen.”

    She was ha­ving tro­ub­le fol­lo­wing Mary Jane’s li­ne of tho­ught. “What’s that?”

    “Mrs. Byron sa­id we ha­ve to do a fat­her-da­ugh­ter ban­qu­et.” Mary Jane lo­oked over at her ac­cu­singly, as tho­ugh she’d plan­ned the who­le thing. Juli­et didn’t even know Mrs. Byron. The wo­man, who­se da­ugh­ter was brand new to the tro­op, had just be­en ma­de ac­ti­vi­ti­es di­rec­tor. “I don’t ha­ve a fat­her. I don’t want a fat­her.” The lit­tle girl sto­od with such for­ce her curls bo­un­ced aga­inst her che­eks. “And I don’t want to go to Brow­ni­es any­mo­re.”

    “No one’s go­ing to for­ce you to go to Brow­ni­es,” she sa­id to the ret­re­ating back.

    When it ra­ined, it po­ured.

    

    LATE AF­TER­NO­ON, a full two we­eks sin­ce he’d se­en Juli­et McNe­il, Bla­ke was in his of­fi­ce lo­oking over a lib­rary bid to be sub­mit­ted to city co­un­cil the next mor­ning, when his sec­re­tary buz­zed him.

    “Paul Schus­ter to see you, sir.”

    “I tho­ught you’d go­ne ho­me.”

    “Just le­aving.”

    “Drive ca­re­ful­ly and I’ll see you to­mor­row,” Bla­ke told Lee An­ne Bo­ul­der, the mot­her of three who’d lost her hus­band in a const­ruc­ti­on inj­ury two ye­ars be­fo­re. “And ple­ase, send Schus­ter in.”

    Slipping his arms back in­to the navy su­it co­at he’d drop­ped on the cha­ir in front of his desk when he’d co­me in from a lunch with the ma­yor se­ve­ral ho­urs be­fo­re, Bla­ke met the at­tor­ney at the do­or. Why hadn’t the ot­her man cal­led to let him know he was co­ming?

    Schuster got right to the po­int.

    “Eaton James was on the stand to­day.”

    “That must’ve be­en en­ter­ta­ining.” He mo­ti­oned to a le­at­her co­uch on the ot­her si­de of his of­fi­ce. “Can I get you so­met­hing to drink?”

    “Thanks, I co­uld use a stiff one.”

    “Whiskey?” Bla­ke wal­ked over to the wet bar along the far wall. It was the­re strictly for bu­si­ness me­etings. He’d ne­ver on­ce used it alo­ne.

    A ha­bit his fat­her had ta­ught him very early in li­fe. A man who drinks alo­ne at work has a prob­lem with drin­king.

    “Whatever you’ve got.”

    Pouring a co­up­le of shots of twel­ve-ye­ar-old scotch, Bla­ke han­ded one to the ol­der man and to­ok a he­althy sip of his own. If Schus­ter was he­re to tell him they we­re go­ing to lo­se, he was go­ing to ne­ed mo­re than one.

    “When you we­re in co­urt, ans­we­ring Juli­et McNe­il’s qu­es­ti­ons, you tes­ti­fi­ed that you we­re in the Cay­man Is­lands fi­ve ye­ars ago.”

    “I was. On and off. I was wor­king on a pro­j­ect in Hon­du­ras and used to fly over for a we­ek every now and then. Why?”

    “Did you ever do any bu­si­ness the­re?”

    Something in Schus­ter’s vo­ice, his low-key de­me­anor, set Bla­ke on ed­ge. Put­ting his glass on the cof­fee tab­le, he to­ok a se­at ac­ross from the pro­se­cu­tor.

    “Never.” Whe­re the hell was this go­ing?

    “What did you do the­re?”

    “Lay on the be­ach. Ka­ya­ked. Snor­ke­led. Ate. Ma­de lo­ve with my wi­fe.”

    Schuster’s ga­ze was gu­ar­ded as he lo­oked up. “Whe­re did you stay?”

    “Various pla­ces, ho­tels, a bed-and-bre­ak­fast. On­ce we even cam­ped on the be­ach. Why? What do­es any of this ha­ve to do with James’s tes­ti­mony?”

    Was the man trying to cla­im that Bla­ke had so­met­hing to do with the Eaton Es­ta­tes de­al, ot­her than chec­king to see if it was le­gi­ti­ma­te at the re­qu­est of his mot­her?

    “James la­unc­hed a bombs­hell in the co­urt­ro­om to­day. I’d bet my ca­re­er on the fact that no one was as surp­ri­sed as his co­un­sel.”

    Chills slid thro­ugh Bla­ke. Ig­no­ring the drink he’d left on the tab­le, he watc­hed as the ot­her man swir­led his whis­key. Dra­ined the glass. Set it down.

    “He cla­ims the­re’s a bank ac­co­unt in the Cay­man Is­lands that holds every di­me of all mo­ni­es unac­co­un­ted for in his bo­oks. Tho­se pa­id in­vo­ices for ship­ments that ne­ver se­emed to hap­pen? Well, that mo­ney was be­ing squ­ir­re­led away in so­me bank in the Cay­man Is­lands.”

    “He ad­mit­ted it,” Bla­ke sa­id, ela­ted and sic­ke­ned at the sa­me ti­me. “We won.” And then, ob­ser­ving the ot­her man’s bo­wed he­ad, he ad­ded, “You won.”

    “Not so fast.” Schus­ter sho­ok his he­ad, lo­oking old and ti­red in a jac­ket wrink­led from ho­urs of sit­ting in co­urt. The energy that se­emed to pul­se thro­ugh him twenty-fo­ur ho­urs a day was eerily ab­sent.

    “James didn’t ad­mit to anyt­hing but be­ing black­ma­iled.”

    Frowning, Bla­ke sat back, a cu­ri­o­us numb­ness spre­ading thro­ugh him. “What? By whom?”

    “Your fat­her.”

    

    

    SITTING BACK with his arms res­ting on the si­des of his cha­ir, Bla­ke ho­ped he lo­oked re­la­xed. He was wor­king hard to ma­in­ta­in the fa­ca­de.

    “My fat­her.” They we­re the only two words spin­ning aro­und in his mind. The­re sho­uld be mo­re. Wo­uld be mo­re. He knew that. For now, fo­cu­sing on re­ma­ining calm was ke­eping him de­tac­hed.

    Or a sen­se of sur­vi­val was.

    Schuster, fo­re­arms on his kne­es as he le­aned for­ward, nod­ded. His hands we­re clas­ped as tho­ugh he didn’t qu­ite know what to do with them.

    “My fat­her had no re­ason to black­ma­il Eaton James.”

    The man’s pock­mar­ked fa­ce thin­ned as he con­ti­nu­ed to watch Bla­ke. “Appa­rently he did.”

    No, he didn’t. James was a li­ar, on tri­al for fra­ud. “Why?” If Bla­ke was go­ing to cle­ar his fat­her’s na­me, he had to ha­ve the facts.

    “After James cla­imed that he lost the mo­ney yo­ur fat­her had in­ves­ted with him, yo­ur fat­her hi­red a pri­va­te audit firm to ins­pect James’s bo­oks. His right to do so was in the cont­ract he’d had his law­yers wri­te up at the ti­me of the in­vest­ment.”

    Blake re­cog­ni­zed his fat­her’s hand in that. Wal­ter Rams­den had be­en at ti­mes al­most ma­ni­acal in his ne­ed for cont­rol.

    He’d be­en equ­al­ly so in wal­king the stra­ight and nar­row.

    “The firm fo­und everyt­hing in or­der, ac­cor­ding to the do­cu­ment James re­ce­ived. Yo­ur fat­her, al­le­gedly, was not sa­tis­fi­ed with the re­cord.”

    None of which se­emed at all unu­su­al to Bla­ke.

    “According to James, yo­ur fat­her thre­ate­ned to call so­me­one he knew at the IRS un­less James tur­ned over his re­cords to him, so that he co­uld see for him­self what was and wasn’t the­re, with the un­ders­tan­ding that if he fo­und anyt­hing that even hin­ted at tam­pe­ring, he’d call the IRS any­way.”

    With a hand to his chin, Bla­ke nod­ded. Sit­ting still was exc­ru­ci­ating. Al­most as pa­in­ful as lis­te­ning to what sho­uld be a fan­tas­tic story, but was, in fact, qu­ite be­li­evab­le, abo­ut his de­ce­ased fat­her. He co­uld too easily see Wal­ter Rams­den gi­ving James a fa­ir chan­ce to pro­ve him­self be­fo­re tur­ning him in, and then con­si­de­ring him­self jud­ge and jury of that pro­of. Af­ter all, Wal­ter Rams­den firmly be­li­eved that he al­ways knew what was best.

    The dam­nab­le thing was, he pretty much al­ways had.

    Except, of co­ur­se, in his de­ci­si­on to in­vest with Eaton James.

    “Threatening to call the IRS on a firm who­se bad in­vest­ment has just lost you a hu­ge chunk of mo­ney is hardly a cri­me, and now­he­re ne­ar the vi­ci­nity of black­ma­il.”

    Unless so­me­one li­ke Juli­et McNe­il, who co­lo­red the truth to match any de­cor, was pa­in­ting the pic­tu­re?

    Running a hand thro­ugh his gra­ying ha­ir, Schus­ter pic­ked up his glass. “Mind if I ha­ve anot­her?”

    “Help yo­ur­self.” Bla­ke mo­ti­oned to the bar. He sho­uld get up and do it, and get one for him­self, as well. Ex­cept that he hadn’t fi­nis­hed the one he had.

    The back of the man’s slacks lo­oked as tho­ugh he’d slept in them mo­re than on­ce. Ap­pa­rently so­me­ti­me du­ring the af­ter­no­on, the pro­se­cu­tor-who­se at­ten­ti­on to his ap­pe­aran­ce was nor­mal­ly ob­ses­si­ve eno­ugh to be no­ti­ce­ab­le-had lost track of the cre­ase in his pants.

    With a glass that was twi­ce as full as the one Bla­ke had po­ured ori­gi­nal­ly, Schus­ter to­ok his se­at.

    “James tes­ti­fi­ed that af­ter yo­ur fat­her lo­oked over his bo­oks, Wal­ter cla­imed the le­gi­ti­ma­te start-up com­pa­ni­es un­der Ter­ra­cot­ta’s umb­rel­la we­re fra­udu­lent. Ap­pa­rently a co­up­le of the new ven­tu­res had well-known San Di­ego bu­si­nes­smen at the helm as the prin­ci­pal sig­ners. Be­ca­use the audi­tors knew the re­pu­ta­ti­ons of the bu­si­nes­smen in qu­es­ti­on, they didn’t audit the­ir bo­oks, but rat­her ac­cep­ted as fact the in­vo­ices and re­ce­ipts go­ing to and co­ming from them.”

    Just li­ke the well-known na­ti­onal firm that had be­en in the news at le­ast twi­ce in the past two ye­ars. Bla­ke frow­ned. “My fat­her tho­ught the com­pa­ni­es we­re no­ne­xis­tent fronts to hi­de Ter­ra­cot­ta Fo­un­da­ti­on los­ses or ga­ins.”

    “Apparently.”

    “And the­se prin­ci­pal sig­ners, how wo­uld James ha­ve con­vin­ced them to act as prin­ci­pals for bu­si­nes­ses that we­re not le­gi­ti­ma­te?”

    “McNeil as­ked James that very qu­es­ti­on,” Schus­ter sa­id, sha­king his he­ad. “I swe­ar, the wo­man had no idea what her cli­ent had up his sle­eve, but she su­re rol­led with the punc­hes.”

    Blake co­uldn’t tell if the ol­der man was re­pul­sed, or re­luc­tantly in awe. He sus­pec­ted a com­bi­na­ti­on of both.

    “And what was James’s reply?”

    “That yo­ur fat­her was ob­ses­sed and, he sus­pec­ted, not qu­ite as men­tal­ly alert as he’d on­ce be­en…”

    Blake bur­ned. His old man had had many fa­ults, but a lack of men­tal sharp­ness had not be­en one of them. That was so­met­hing his mot­her ab­so­lu­tely wo­uld ha­ve told him abo­ut.

    “He sa­id that yo­ur fat­her fo­und the fact that all of the prin­ci­pals held se­ats on the Se­map­hor bo­ard sus­pect. He ac­cu­sed James of pla­ying on the trust of his phi­lanth­ro­pic as­so­ci­ates-”

    “Something my fat­her had fal­len prey to.”

    “Exactly.”

    Sitting for­ward, Bla­ke pic­ked up his glass. Sip­ped slowly. This wasn’t so­un­ding so bad, af­ter all.

    “If my fat­her had be­en wrong, if the com­pa­ni­es we­ren’t fra­udu­lent, what did James ha­ve to be af­ra­id of? I think that the fact that the sta­te fo­und the sa­me evi­den­ce is pretty tel­ling, don’t you?”

    Schuster swir­led the li­qu­id in his glass, to­ok a drink, then frow­ned at Bla­ke. “Not so fast,” he sa­id, his eyes de­adly se­ri­o­us. “In the first pla­ce, if yo­ur fat­her didn’t ha­ve so­met­hing on James, the black­ma­il at­tempt wo­uld not ha­ve be­en suc­ces­sful.”

    He’d ac­tu­al­ly for­got­ten, for a mo­ment, that that was whe­re they we­re he­aded. James’s ri­di­cu­lo­us at­tempt to buy his fre­edom.

    “And se­condly, yo­ur fat­her is the one who tur­ned evi­den­ce over to the sta­te.”

    Goddammit. He hadn’t be­en told that.

    So Schus­ter’s en­ti­re ca­se was hin­ging on the va­li­dity of his fat­her’s cla­ims?

    “Obviously you fo­und amp­le evi­den­ce to cor­ro­bo­ra­te the char­ges.” The ca­se wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve grown to this mag­ni­tu­de, wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve at­trac­ted at­tor­neys li­ke Schus­ter and Juli­et McNe­il, if the­re wasn’t subs­tan­ti­al pro­of.

    Schuster sig­hed, drop­ped his he­ad. “Much of the pa­per tra­il I’ve spent the past fi­ve ye­ars un­win­ding was cre­ated at the di­rec­ti­on of yo­ur fat­her. In a pri­va­te me­eting, of which no one knows, he told me whe­re to lo­ok. And what I’d find.”

    “And he was right.”

    “Of co­ur­se he was right, or we wo­uldn’t be he­re,” Schus­ter sa­id im­pa­ti­ently, lo­oking up. “James ma­in­ta­ins that yo­ur fat­her plan­ted the evi­den­ce.”

    Glass in hand, Bla­ke sat back. Hard. The mo­ment had go­ne from inc­re­dib­le to ab­surd.

    “If my fat­her tur­ned everyt­hing over to you, what did he sup­po­sedly ha­ve to use to black­ma­il James?”

    “I met with yo­ur fat­her just days be­fo­re he di­ed. Twenty-fo­ur ho­urs af­ter James had met with him, gi­ving him a par­ti­cu­lar pi­ece of in­for­ma­ti­on that he be­li­eved wo­uld not only get him out from un­der­ne­ath yo­ur fat­her’s cont­rol, but wo­uld turn the tab­les on him. He had in­for­ma­ti­on with which he co­uld black­ma­il yo­ur fat­her, ins­te­ad.”

    “He ad­mit­ted to black­ma­iling my fat­her?”

    Schuster sho­ok his he­ad. “No, he cla­ims he only used the in­for­ma­ti­on to get yo­ur fat­her to le­ave him alo­ne. He had no in­ten­ti­on of do­ing anyt­hing il­le­gal.”

    Taking anot­her sip of whis­key, alt­ho­ugh he knew he ne­eded his mind comp­le­tely cle­ar, Bla­ke set the glass down.

    “But he cla­ims that, un­til he ca­me up with wha­te­ver hold he had on my fat­her, my fat­her used the evi­den­ce of fra­udu­lent com­pa­ni­es to black­ma­il him.”

    “Yes.”

    “So aga­in, I ask, if the­re was not­hing fra­udu­lent in tho­se bo­oks, why gi­ve in to black­ma­il?”

    Not that he be­li­eved, for one se­cond, the­re’d ever be­en any black­ma­il. Bla­ke might ha­ve go­ne three ye­ars wit­ho­ut spe­aking with his fat­her, but the­re we­re so­me things he just knew.

    “James had ma­de so­me very stu­pid mis­ta­kes. Na­mely so­me bad in­vest­ments-not un­li­ke the Eaton Es­ta­tes de­al-that, had they be­co­me known, wo­uld ha­ve lost the Ter­ra­cot­ta Fo­un­da­ti­on all of its in­ves­tors. Think of it, a nonp­ro­fit or­ga­ni­za­ti­on lo­sing mo­ney ins­te­ad of ga­ining it to be­ne­fit third world co­unt­ri­es. He’d ma­de ot­her in­vest­ments that we­re ke­eping him af­lo­at, but who’s go­ing to gi­ve mo­ney to a man they can’t trust? He’d ha­ve be­en bank­rupt with no pos­sib­le way of re­co­uping his los­ses, his re­pu­ta­ti­on ru­ined.”

    “So why didn’t the ori­gi­nal audit of Ter­ra­cot­ta show tho­se los­ses?”

    “Because James star­ted up a co­up­le of ot­her small com­pa­ni­es that he used to hi­de the los­ses.”

    “The com­pa­ni­es my fat­her qu­es­ti­oned.”

    “Correct.”

    “So we­re they le­gi­ti­ma­te, or we­ren’t they?”

    Shrugging, Schus­ter fi­nis­hed off his whis­key. “That’s the six-mil­li­on-dol­lar qu­es­ti­on that only the jury will be ab­le to de­ci­de at this po­int. The com­pa­ni­es them­sel­ves exist, such as they are. It’s a mat­ter of ha­ving a li­cen­se. It’s all pa­per. What James is gu­ilty of, which yo­ur fat­her dis­co­ve­red, is that he for­ged the na­mes of the prin­ci­pals for both of the com­pa­ni­es in qu­es­ti­on.”

    “Forged the na­mes of men on the Se­map­hor bo­ard?”

    Schuster nod­ded. “Re­pu­tab­le bu­si­nes­smen, both of them. He’d gamb­led on the fact that, we­re he to be audi­ted, the firm wo­uld ta­ke the na­mes at fa­ce va­lue and not lo­ok at tho­se bo­oks. A chan­ce that pa­id off.” The pro­se­cu­tor drop­ped his he­ad a se­cond ti­me.

    “Chances are I’m go­ing to lo­se this one be­ca­use I went for a char­ge of fra­udu­lent sche­mes and the man is gu­ilty of for­gery,” he sa­id. “I ha­ven’t do­ne a for­gery ca­se sin­ce my first ye­ar out of law scho­ol.”

    He might lo­se a ca­se. But what abo­ut jus­ti­ce?

    “If this is true-” which Bla­ke was cer­ta­in it was not “-why wo­uldn’t James ha­ve co­me cle­an with his at­tor­ney from the be­gin­ning?”

    “Who knows?” Schus­ter sa­id, stan­ding to po­ur him­self anot­her drink. Bla­ke was go­ing to ha­ve to call the man a cab. “McNe­il has one hell of a re­pu­ta­ti­on. May­be he was ho­ping she’d get him off al­to­get­her. Sa­ve his re­pu­ta­ti­on, his bu­si­ness, his li­festy­le. And when he got sca­red, he fi­gu­red fa­cing the much les­ser char­ge of for­gery was bet­ter than spen­ding the next fo­ur­te­en ye­ars in ja­il. Ego and fe­ar. Two of the three things that most of­ten get a man.”

    “And the third is?” Bla­ke didn’t gi­ve a damn. He was stal­ling. Avo­iding the rest of what Schus­ter had to tell him.

    “Sex,” the man sa­id, his lips pur­sed with dis­gust.

    “So what mo­ti­va­ti­on did James gi­ve for my fat­her black­ma­iling him? How did he exp­la­in the fact that Wal­ter Rams­den, a man ever­yo­ne in the bu­si­ness com­mu­nity knows to be ho­nest to the po­int of self-righ­te­o­us­ness, didn’t go im­me­di­ately to the aut­ho­ri­ti­es with the things he’d fo­und?”

    The pro­se­cu­tor’s eyes we­re surp­ri­singly cle­ar as he sta­red at Bla­ke. “You.”

    “What?” He hadn’t me­ant to ra­ise his vo­ice.

    “You hadn’t se­en yo­ur fat­her in fo­ur ye­ars, Bla­ke. That’s a long ti­me when a man is in his se­ven­ti­es. Es­pe­ci­al­ly a man who is suf­fe­ring from a bad he­art. A lack of physi­cal strength had ta­ken its toll. Ap­pa­rently Rams­den En­terp­ri­ses wasn’t do­ing as well as it on­ce had.”

    “Nothing that co­uldn’t easily be fi­xed.” Bla­ke tri­ed to ke­ep de­fen­si­ve­ness and emo­ti­ons out of his reply. He co­uldn’t af­ford clo­uded judg­ment at this mo­ment. “As with any com­pany in to­day’s mar­ket, we ne­eded to di­ver­sify. To ex­pand. The day of small fa­mily con­cerns had pas­sed.”

    “Expansion ta­kes ti­me. Plan­ning. And mo­re energy than yo­ur fat­her had. He ne­eded the mo­ney to stay af­lo­at un­til you ca­me ho­me.”

    Standing, Bla­ke grab­bed his glass from the tab­le and to­ok it to the small bu­ilt-in dish­was­her at the bar. “Well, the­re you go then,” he sa­id, his back to Schus­ter. “That will be easy eno­ugh to pro­ve. Just lo­ok at our bo­oks. I did, tho­ro­ughly, when I ca­me ho­me. True to form, my fat­her left not one di­me unac­co­un­ted for-eit­her in­co­ming or out­go­ing. The­re was ab­so­lu­tely no inf­lux of mo­ney ot­her than what was in­vo­iced and sig­ned off with do­ub­le sig­na­tu­res.”

    “You ac­tu­al­ly think yo­ur fat­her wo­uld ha­ve put the mo­ney so­mep­la­ce it co­uld be fo­und? Trac­ked?”

    “No.” Bla­ke tur­ned. “I don’t. Be­ca­use my fat­her wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve ta­ken the mo­ney to be­gin with.”

    “According to Eaton James, he put it in an ac­co­unt in the Cay­man Is­lands.”

    Blake’s eyes nar­ro­wed. “How con­ve­ni­ent. James men­ti­ons a pla­ce that’s well known in the bu­si­ness world for its abi­lity to hi­de mo­ney as tho­ugh it didn’t exist. Wit­ho­ut the Cay­man Is­lands’ co­ope­ra­ti­on, he knows the­re’s no re­al way to pro­ve his cla­im one way or the ot­her. And he’d al­so know that the go­vern­ment is known for its blind­ness to such mat­ters.”

    Schuster’s eyes we­re nar­ro­wed, too, alt­ho­ugh he re­ma­ined se­ated. “He has a bank ac­co­unt num­ber. That was the in­for­ma­ti­on he pre­sen­ted to yo­ur fat­her just be­fo­re Wal­ter ca­me to me.”

    There was mo­re. Bla­ke felt it co­ming. With both hands bra­cing his we­ight be­hind him, he le­aned back aga­inst the co­un­ter. “You’re go­ing to tell me the ac­co­unt has my fat­her’s na­me on it.”

    “No.” Schus­ter surp­ri­sed him. “Accor­ding to James, it has yo­urs.”

    

    “’NIGHT, MOM.”

    “Good night, imp. Sle­ep well.” Le­aning over, Juli­et kis­sed her da­ugh­ter’s che­ek, pul­ling the co­vers up to Mary Jane’s chin. No mat­ter how hot the we­at­her, she wo­uldn’t sle­ep wit­ho­ut be­ing comp­le­tely co­ve­red, at le­ast by a she­et.

    She for­ced her­self to stand in the do­or­way un­til the child ope­ned her eyes for one last blown kiss, a ri­tu­al they’d star­ted when Mary Jane was a tod­dler. Ne­ver had bed­ti­me ta­ken so long.

    More of­ten than not, she let Mary Jane talk her in­to sta­ying up past her bed­ti­me. Mary Jane didn’t se­em to re­qu­ire as much sle­ep as most child­ren. A cha­rac­te­ris­tic of pre­co­ci­o­us child­ren, her pe­di­at­ri­ci­an had sa­id when, at two, the lit­tle girl had pla­yed hap­pily in her crib all thro­ugh nap­ti­me.

    She ga­ve her da­ugh­ter anot­her fif­te­en mi­nu­tes to set­tle in­to sle­ep be­fo­re she co­uld no lon­ger stand the ten­si­on and cal­led her twin. From a cell pho­ne, sit­ting in her bed­ro­om with the do­or clo­sed, just in ca­se Mary Jane got up.

    “He’s a cri­mi­nal, Mar­ce!” she blur­ted as so­on as her sis­ter pic­ked up.

    “Who’s a cri­mi­nal?”

    She co­uld he­ar vo­ices in the backg­ro­und. The te­le­vi­si­on. Aga­in.

    “Blake Rams­den.” The fat­her of her child. “What kind of de­fen­se at­tor­ney am I that I didn’t even sus­pect?” The tho­ughts that had be­en tor­tu­ring her all eve­ning ca­me tumb­ling out in no ap­pa­rent or­der. “What kind of mot­her? I’ve be­en wor­king on this ca­se for months and not on­ce did I ha­ve even an ink­ling that the ro­ad to Eaton’s fre­edom was pa­ved by Rams­den En­terp­ri­ses. It’s li­ke I was blin­ded by a ni­ne-ye­ar-old me­mory that might ha­ve cost a man se­ve­ral ye­ars of his li­fe.”

    “So what bot­hers you mo­re, Jules?” Mar­cie’s vo­ice was soft yet to­ugh. “Yo­ur ego, be­ca­use you might not be as in­fal­lib­le on the job as you think? Or yo­ur he­art, be­ca­use you might ha­ve ma­de a bad cho­ice for the fat­her of yo­ur child?”

    “I didn’t cho­ose the fat­her of my child. The child cho­se me.”

    “You used the sa­me con­dom twi­ce!”

    “I was drunk!”

    Marcie didn’t say anot­her word. It was a si­len­ce that dro­ve Juli­et in­sa­ne every sing­le ti­me her sis­ter used it on her.

    “Why are you do­ing this?” Juli­et whis­pe­red a full thirty se­conds la­ter. “You’ve ne­ver sa­id anyt­hing li­ke this be­fo­re.”

    “It didn’t mat­ter be­fo­re. He had a li­fe in anot­her world.”

    A la­ugh track exp­lo­ded in the backg­ro­und.

    “You think I got preg­nant on pur­po­se?” Be­ca­use if Mar­cie tho­ught she’d ever con­si­der so­met­hing as cold-blo­oded as that-to go out lo­oking for a man for the exp­ress pur­po­se of ha­ving his kid-then her sis­ter didn’t know her at all.

    “I don’t think you cons­ci­o­usly cho­se the co­ur­se.” Mar­cie’s reply ca­me qu­ickly. “But I’ve al­ways sus­pec­ted that so­mew­he­re, in the back of yo­ur mind, the tho­ught was the­re.”

    Juliet le­aned her he­ad aga­inst the wall, legs stra­ight out, and stu­di­ed the subt­le tex­tu­re of her nylons. She re­al­ly sho­uldn’t be sit­ting on the flo­or in her su­it.

    “You ne­ed fa­mily, Jules,” Mar­cie sa­id slowly. “We both do. And the­re was no way you co­uld pos­sibly con­temp­la­te mar­ri­age-not un­til you’d pro­ven to yo­ur­self that you had a full li­fe on yo­ur own.”

    “I ma­de it thro­ugh law scho­ol by the ti­me I was twenty-fi­ve. I had a li­fe.” The car­pet was ma­king her legs itch.

    Marcie nod­ded. “You had the be­gin­ning of a li­fe. But not eno­ugh of one to ta­ke away yo­ur fe­ar. I’ve won­de­red if may­be part of you ne­eded to know that even if you we­re in Mot­her’s po­si­ti­on-preg­nant and alo­ne-you had what it to­ok to ma­ke it. You co­uldn’t li­ve with the fe­ar of thin­king you might not be ab­le to hand­le it,” Mar­cie was sa­ying. “You we­re af­ra­id of fin­ding out that if it ever hap­pe­ned to you, you’d do exactly what Mom did.” She was go­ing to hang up now. “I don’t think you got preg­nant on pur­po­se, no.” Mar­cie’s words went a lit­tle way to­ward cal­ming the pa­nic in Juli­et’s he­art. “But I don’t think it was comp­le­tely a mis­ta­ke that you didn’t in­sist on a new con­dom the se­cond ti­me aro­und. We ma­ke lit­tle sub­cons­ci­o­us cho­ices all the ti­me and then act on them wit­ho­ut even kno­wing that’s what we’re do­ing.”

    It was Juli­et’s turn to use the si­lent tre­at­ment. Mostly be­ca­use she was spe­ech­less.

    “You know,” Mar­cie con­ti­nu­ed, “li­ke when you pull in­to the par­king lot of an ice-cre­am shop wit­ho­ut even re­ali­zing that you we­re hungry for ice cre­am.”

    “I hardly think cra­ving a hot-fud­ge sun­dae can be in any way li­ke­ned to ha­ving a baby.” She pul­led off her pumps, one by one.

    “The bra­in’s abi­lity to see to the ne­eds of the sub­cons­ci­o­us can be the sa­me in both ca­ses.”

    None of this was ma­king sen­se. And it wasn’t anyt­hing she’d ne­eded, or ex­pec­ted, when she’d di­aled her twin’s num­ber. “Is Hank the­re?”

    “No.” Of co­ur­se not. It was Thurs­day and Hank wor­ked la­te at the hard­wa­re sto­re on Thurs­days do­ing in­ven­tory.

    With one hand, and le­aning from si­de to si­de whe­re she sat, Juli­et pul­led off her panty ho­se, wad­ded them and tos­sed them in the wi­re-fra­med de­sig­ner la­undry bas­ket in a cor­ner of the clo­set.

    “So you’re ac­cu­sing me of go­ing out that night with so­me tho­ught in the back of my mind that it was ti­me to get preg­nant?”

    “No! Of co­ur­se not, Jules.” Mar­cie’s vo­ice gent­led. “I know you bet­ter than that. I’m only sa­ying that when the pro­per cir­cums­tan­ces pre­sen­ted them­sel­ves, you ac­ted on them. You we­re with a man who at­trac­ted you. He was in­tel­li­gent and con­fi­dent eno­ugh to ar­gue with you, he was gor­ge­o­us, he was from a stab­le fa­mily well known for ho­nest de­alings, and-the crè­me­de la crè­me-he was le­aving the co­untry for an in­de­fi­ni­te pe­ri­od of ti­me! The­re’d be no one to get in to­uch with, to ans­wer qu­es­ti­ons from, to avo­id, or to call. No one to turn to in ca­se you got cold fe­et abo­ut go­ing it alo­ne.”

    “You ac­tu­al­ly think I tho­ught all that thro­ugh?”

    “No. But I think the sen­se of fre­edom spo­ke to you.” Juli­et’s he­art sank when it be­ca­me ob­vi­o­us that Mar­cie wasn’t go­ing to bud­ge on this one. Usu­al­ly when that hap­pe­ned she was at le­ast par­ti­al­ly cor­rect.

    The la­ugh track so­un­ded aga­in.

    Except for her in­sis­ten­ce on sta­ying in Map­le Gro­ve.

    Juliet star­ted un­fas­te­ning the but­tons on her blo­use. “Can I ha­ve so­me ti­me to think abo­ut this?”

    “In ot­her words, you want me to shut up and ne­ver men­ti­on it aga­in?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Only if you pro­mi­se to…no, for­get that. Ye­ah, I’ll let it go.”

    “Only if I pro­mi­se to what?”

    “Nothing.”

    “What?” Her blo­use hung half-open.

    “I was just go­ing to say that I pro­mi­se to le­ave this alo­ne if you’d qu­it wor­rying abo­ut Hank and Map­le Gro­ve.”

    That wasn’t fa­ir. Mar­cie’s hap­pi­ness was at sta­ke. “I-”

    “Don’t say it,” Mar­cie in­ter­rup­ted. “You don’t ne­ed to. I know you can’t stop.”

    “I just-”

    “I know, Jules,” she sa­id, her vo­ice low. “Truth is, I’m not even su­re I want you to stop.”

    Juliet fro­ze, af­ra­id to ho­pe. “You me­an it, Mar­ce? You’re ac­tu­al­ly thin­king abo­ut mo­ving he­re?” Her he­art ra­te sped up as she ran thro­ugh the pos­si­bi­li­ti­es.

    “Not re­al­ly,” Mar­cie’s reply wasn’t as di­sap­po­in­ting as it might ha­ve se­emed. It wasn’t the ada­mant no that was all she’d ever is­su­ed in the past. “I just don’t want you to qu­it as­king. It’s go­od to know I ha­ve a pla­ce to go.”

    “Always, sis.”

    “Yeah. Still, it’s go­od to he­ar, you know?”

    Juliet did know. Af­ter lo­sing everyt­hing they had to go li­ve in squ­alor in a tra­iler the si­ze of one of the­ir bed­ro­oms at ho­me, se­cu­rity had ga­ined a pretty high spot on the pri­ority list of both girls. Right be­ne­ath the ne­ed to pro­vi­de it for them­sel­ves.

    In the spa­ce of a we­ekend, she and Mar­ce had go­ne from li­ving in a San Fran­cis­co man­si­on with every pos­sib­le lu­xury and so­ci­al­ly pro­mi­nent pa­rents to a rusty, skinny, two-bed­ro­om tra­iler in Map­le Gro­ve with a bro­ken wo­man who had no tra­ining, no mar­ke­tab­le skills and not eno­ugh es­te­em to pull her­self up. They’d left be­hind the man who’d lost his for­tu­ne and fo­und him­self a rich wo­man who was happy to ke­ep him in the style to which he’d grown ac­cus­to­med in exc­han­ge for his com­pany. The man who’d co­me ho­me one Fri­day af­ter­no­on to bid a cold adi­eu to the wi­fe he’d grown to ha­te and to the child­ren he’d ne­ver wan­ted and didn’t in­tend to see aga­in.

    Juliet co­uld still re­mem­ber the mo­ment when, thin­king that she co­uld sol­ve everyt­hing by wrap­ping her skinny arms aro­und the man she’d ado­red and tel­ling him that she’d help him get his mo­ney back, her fat­her had sho­ved her away so hard she’d lan­ded on her butt on the gro­und.

    “You go­ing to tell me what kind of cri­mi­nal Mary Jane’s fat­her is?” Mar­cie as­ked when the li­ne hung si­lent.

    “He’s be­en har­bo­ring il­le­gal­ly ga­ined mo­ney in a bank ac­co­unt in the Cay­man Is­lands.”

    “No way.”

    “I know,” Juli­et sa­id, shrug­ging out of her blo­use and le­aving it on the flo­or be­si­de her. “I co­uldn’t be­li­eve it, eit­her. I’m still not su­re I do, but the evi­den­ce is pretty conc­lu­si­ve. Eaton James ga­ve me the ac­co­unt num­ber to­day just be­fo­re lunch along with pa­per­work sho­wing who ope­ned the ac­co­unt. It’s in Bla­ke’s na­me.”

    “Oh, God.”

    “Yeah, and it was ope­ned du­ring a pe­ri­od of ti­me he al­re­ady ad­mit­ted to be­ing in the is­lands.”

    “Damn.”

    That was exactly what Juli­et tho­ught.

    

    

    “HAVE YOU CAL­LED HIM?” Mar­cie’s qu­es­ti­on star­ted the but­terf­li­es flut­te­ring aro­und in­si­de her aga­in. She’d spent the past ho­ur tel­ling her twin abo­ut the day’s events, the shoc­king de­ve­lop­ments in a tri­al of which she’d tho­ught her­self in comp­le­te cont­rol.

    Juliet lay in her bed, pil­lows prop­ped up be­hind her, the com­for­ter pul­led to her hips. Dark­ness, bro­ken by a mo­on­lit glow from the open shut­ters, ga­ve the ro­om a sle­epy fe­el.

    “I ha­ve no re­ason to call him,” she sa­id alo­ud, so­met­hing she’d be­en re­pe­ating to her­self sin­ce Eaton James had de­li­ve­red his start­ling tes­ti­mony that af­ter­no­on. “I hardly know the man.”

    “You had din­ner with him two we­eks ago.”

    She wis­hed she’d ne­ver told her sis­ter that.

    “And very cle­arly sa­id a per­ma­nent go­odb­ye,” she mut­te­red.

    “But you we­re the­re in the co­urt­ro­om. You he­ard the who­le thing. And, even if you ha­ven’t spent many ho­urs with him, you did fill tho­se ho­urs with so­me…fa­irly in­ti­ma­te com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on.”

    “We had sex.” They’d al­so had a baby. But sin­ce he didn’t know that, it didn’t co­unt. Did it?

    “Do you want to call him?”

    “Dammit, Mar­ce, can’t you just le­ave me in blis­sful self-de­cep­ti­on for a whi­le?”

    “If that’s what you wan­ted, you wo­uldn’t ha­ve cal­led me.” Her sis­ter sa­id. And then ad­ded, “Wo­uld you?” with a lit­tle less con­fi­den­ce.

    “No, I wo­uldn’t ha­ve. I rely on the ab­so­lu­te ho­nesty bet­we­en us,” she ad­mit­ted. “I al­ways ha­ve.”

    “Okay. So…why do you want to call him?”

    Juliet sig­hed, ran a hand thro­ugh ha­ir that was lo­ose and fal­ling free aro­und her fa­ce. “I don’t know. I just fe­el une­asy, you know? I me­an, I’ve be­en wor­king with Eaton James for months and he ne­ver bre­at­hed a word abo­ut any of this.”

    “But I’ll bet you as­su­red him, when he first ca­me to you, that you co­uld get him off, didn’t you?”

    “I think I wo­uld ha­ve.”

    “And wo­uld you ha­ve be­en ab­le to do that if he’d told you abo­ut the for­gery?”

    The Mo­net lit­hog­raph on her wall was a squ­are sha­dow with lit­tle glo­wing pinp­ricks whe­re the light hit bright co­lor. “No.” It co­uld be sa­id that she pre­sen­ted dif­fe­rent forms of truth, and left out inc­ri­mi­na­ting evi­den­ce when it su­ited her cli­ent’s ca­se to do so, but Juli­et McNe­il ne­ver kno­wingly li­ed. “It’s his first of­fen­se. I’d ha­ve got­ten him off with not­hing mo­re se­ri­o­us than a light pro­ba­ti­on term.”

    “And a da­ma­ged re­pu­ta­ti­on that wo­uld’ve be­en hard to re­co­ver, at le­ast pro­fes­si­onal­ly. Not many pe­op­le trust the­ir cha­ri­tab­le cont­ri­bu­ti­ons to a cro­ok.”

    James had sa­id so­met­hing si­mi­lar when she’d co­me ung­lu­ed on him la­te that af­ter­no­on. Just what she wan­ted, a cli­ent who tri­ed to out­ma­ne­uver her. When wo­uld she ever fully grasp the fact that in her world, it was al­ways each man for him­self?

    “What hap­pens now?” Mar­cie as­ked a co­up­le of mi­nu­tes la­ter.

    “I ex­pect the D.A. to drop the char­ges. He’ll ne­ver get a class-two fe­lony out of this. James’ll be char­ged with nu­me­ro­us co­unts of for­gery and get his hands slap­ped.”

    “And what abo­ut Bla­ke Rams­den?”

    Glancing out the win­dow at an oce­an she co­uldn’t see in the dark, Juli­et held tight to the pho­ne with a swe­at-slick palm. “I sus­pect he’ll be char­ged with a class-two fe­lony.”

    “You think Schus­ter will do it?”

    “Yeah. That’s one thing you can co­unt on Pa­ul Schus­ter for-he’ll ta­ke up any ca­se he thinks he can win. Even mo­re so be­ca­use he’s go­ing to be dri­ven to get a win out of all the months he’s spent on this. Hell-” she chuck­led wit­ho­ut hu­mor “-kno­wing Schus­ter, he’ll pro­bably fi­gu­re out a way to ma­ke it lo­ok li­ke he knew that Bla­ke was gu­ilty all along.”

    “Except for the lit­tle mat­ter of ha­ving was­ted the sta­te’s mo­ney to press the char­ges aga­inst Eaton in the first pla­ce.”

    “Who knows.” Juli­et co­uldn’t re­mem­ber a ti­me when she’d be­en so ti­red. At le­ast not sin­ce she’d be­en eight and a half months preg­nant and ha­uling her­self out of bed be­fo­re dawn to get to work.

    “Is he gu­ilty?”

    “How do I know?”

    “You’re usu­al­ly pretty tu­ned in to the­se things.”

    “As I pro­ved with my adept hand­ling of the Eaton James de­fen­se,” she mumb­led.

    “No one’s right all the ti­me.”

    She sig­hed, fid­dling with the bot­tom hem of the al­most thre­ad­ba­re T-shirt she was we­aring. “I don’t know if he’s gu­ilty or not.” She fi­nal­ly ga­ve in and let her­self think abo­ut the si­tu­ati­on he­ad-on. “My he­art tells me he’s not, but lo­gic tells me he pro­bably is.”

    “I su­re wish I’d met this guy!”

    “Why?”

    “He’s the only man who’s even got clo­se eno­ugh for yo­ur he­art to he­ar.”

    Juliet to­ok the next three mi­nu­tes lis­ting se­ve­ral men in her li­fe who’d be­en clo­ser to her than Mary Jane’s fat­her had ever be­en.

    Marcie mostly let her get away with this small re­fu­sal to fa­ce the truth as she saw it. Juli­et ho­ped that me­ant her twin wasn’t re­al­ly su­re abo­ut the sta­te of Juli­et’s he­art. Be­ca­use she co­uldn’t af­ford, in any way, sha­pe or form, to ha­ve her sis­ter right on this one.

    “Do you think the­re’s a chan­ce Bla­ke Rams­den will call you?”

    Marcie’s qu­es­ti­on was anot­her one she’d be­en trying-wit­ho­ut suc­cess-to avo­id. “I don’t know,” she sa­id.

    “Do you want him to?”

    “I don’t know the ans­wer to that, eit­her.” Part of her did. If he was char­ged, as she knew he wo­uld be, he’d ne­ed her-if she co­uld con­vin­ce Eaton James to sign a wa­iver al­lo­wing her to rep­re­sent Bla­ke. Not only was she one of the most suc­ces­sful de­fen­se at­tor­neys in the sta­te, she had an in­ti­ma­te grasp of the de­ta­ils of this par­ti­cu­lar ca­se.

    And she wan­ted to be the­re for him.

    He’d gi­ven her the most pre­ci­o­us gift of her li­fe. Just be­ca­use he didn’t know that didn’t me­an she didn’t owe him so­met­hing in re­turn.

    Maybe even, be­ca­use of that sec­ret, she owed him.

    And anot­her part of her, the frigh­te­ned, lo­nely part, wan­ted him to stay as far away from her and her happy lit­tle li­fe as hu­manly pos­sib­le.

    

    MARY JANE DIDN’T GET sca­red that of­ten. Which was why when she did get sca­red, it re­al­ly sca­red her.

    Something was up that was wor­se than anyt­hing at scho­ol or stu­pid pe­op­le who didn’t li­ke her. All we­ekend her mot­her had do­ne nor­mal stuff with her. She hadn’t cri­ed, or as­ked for ti­me alo­ne, or for­got­ten that she’d pro­mi­sed to ta­ke Mary Jane for ice cre­am af­ter they cle­aned the bath­ro­oms this we­ek. She just hadn’t ar­gu­ed. Even when Mary Jane had bro­ught up so­me of the cra­zi­est things she co­uld think of, just to get her mot­her tal­king.

    What if Mom was sick? The tho­ught ma­de her fe­el as if she was go­ing to throw up. What wo­uld hap­pen to her if so­met­hing ever hap­pe­ned to Mom? She co­uld go li­ve with Aunt Mar­cie in Map­le Gro­ve, of co­ur­se, which wo­uldn’t be all that gre­at, but it wo­uldn’t be hor­rib­le li­ke go­ing to an orp­ha­na­ge. But no one wo­uld lo­ve her li­ke Mom did. No one.

    No one wo­uld think she was the most spe­ci­al thing on earth. Or tell her abo­ut im­por­tant things even tho­ugh she was just a kid. No one el­se, not even Aunt Mar­cie, wo­uld ar­gue with her abo­ut things that had no ans­wers li­ke whet­her or not a chic­ken ca­me first or an egg.

    They’d all say she was just a kid and wa­it for her to grow up.

    Turning over in her bed, Mary Jane bunc­hed up the pil­low and squ­e­ezed her eyes shut. To­mor­row was Mon­day, and scho­ol was even wor­se when she was sle­epy.

    She was be­ing dumb. Mom wasn’t sick. If she was, she’d tell Mary Jane for su­re. Be­si­des, she’d had lots of energy and ma­de Mary Jane cle­an the bath­ro­oms twi­ce whi­le she scrub­bed the kitc­hen flo­or, even tho­ugh they hadn’t spil­led anyt­hing.

    Feeling a lit­tle bet­ter, Mary Jane was al­most as­le­ep when she re­mem­be­red that still didn’t tell her what was wrong.

    It must be re­al­ly hor­rib­le.

    It had to be or they wo­uld’ve tal­ked abo­ut it. The only ot­her ti­me Mom hadn’t tal­ked to her at all was when her grand­ma had di­ed. Mary Jane had be­en re­al­ly lit­tle, only abo­ut three, but she co­uld still re­mem­ber. Mostly she re­mem­be­red that sum­mer when she was go­ing in­to first gra­de and had as­ked her mot­her what Grand­ma had di­ed of and her mot­her had tal­ked a lot but ne­ver re­al­ly told her. Only, Mary Jane hadn’t fi­gu­red that out un­til la­ter.

    Someday she was go­ing to ask aga­in. May­be. When she was big­ger.

    So who di­ed? It co­uldn’t be Aunt Mar­cie. They’d just tal­ked to her on the pho­ne that af­ter­no­on. And the­re wasn’t an­yo­ne el­se who mat­te­red that much. Was the­re?

    Her sto­mach hurt and Mary Jane tur­ned over, but that didn’t help. She tho­ught abo­ut the bo­ok she’d be­en re­ading, abo­ut the hor­se and the ra­ce and how Bon­nie was go­ing to win the ra­ce and get to ke­ep her very own hor­se. But then she re­mem­be­red that Bon­nie didn’t ha­ve a mom and that ma­de her sca­red all over aga­in.

    One ti­me, on a night be­fo­re the first day of scho­ol, Mom had told her to co­unt she­ep when she co­uldn’t sle­ep. Mary Jane hadn’t wan­ted to tell her she didn’t see any she­ep when she clo­sed her eyes.

    Maybe they we­re ha­ving tro­ub­le pa­ying the­ir bills and they’d ha­ve to le­ave the cot­ta­ge on the be­ach and Mom didn’t want to tell her be­ca­use she knew how much Mary Jane lo­ved li­ving on the be­ach. But at scho­ol on­ce, when she’d told a co­up­le of the kids whe­re she li­ved, the one girl, Co­rin­ne, who was mostly ni­ce to her, had sa­id that it cost a lot of mo­ney to li­ve on the be­ach.

    She wasn’t re­al­ly wor­ri­ed abo­ut sta­ying in this ho­use on the be­ach. As long as she and Mom we­re to­get­her, she didn’t ca­re if they we­re li­ke the ho­me­less pe­op­le she saw on the benc­hes along the ro­ad to the air­port. But did they let kids li­ve li­ke that? She didn’t think so.

    So did that me­an if they co­uldn’t pay the­ir bills so­me­one wo­uld say that Mom co­uldn’t ke­ep her? Su­rely then Mom wo­uld be wil­ling to go back to Map­le Gro­ve and stay with Aunt Mar­cie, even tho­ugh Mom ha­ted Map­le Gro­ve so much.

    Her he­ad hurt and Mary Jane rol­led on­to her back, sta­ring at the ce­iling tho­ugh mostly she co­uldn’t re­al­ly see it. Just sha­dows.

    She was be­ing dumb aga­in. They had lots of mo­ney. Mom was al­most fa­mo­us and got pa­id a lot for her job. But may­be she was lo­sing a big ca­se and then pe­op­le wo­uldn’t co­me to her any­mo­re.

    Mary Jane tri­ed hard to sle­ep. As hard as she co­uld. But it just didn’t co­me. The mo­re she co­uldn’t go to sle­ep, the mo­re sca­red she got.

    Finally, when she co­uldn’t stand sta­ying in her ro­om all alo­ne, she clim­bed out of bed, tip­to­ed down the hall to Mom’s ro­om, lif­ted the co­vers qu­i­etly and slid in so gently the mat­tress hardly mo­ved. She’d just lie the­re on the si­de of the bed, wit­ho­ut even a pil­low, so Mom wo­uldn’t know she was the­re.

    Even if her neck hurt, she fi­gu­red this was bet­ter than be­ing in her own ro­om. But then Mom’s arm ca­me aro­und her and pul­led her clo­se. Mom didn’t say anyt­hing. Just kis­sed her lightly by the eye and went back to sle­ep.

    And fi­nal­ly, snug and warm and right whe­re she wan­ted to be, so did Mary Jane.

    

    EVERY TI­ME BLA­KE’S PHO­NE buz­zed, he jum­ped. That wasn’t li­ke him at all. He’d li­ved thro­ugh a hur­ri­ca­ne and a ne­ar bom­bing, se­en po­verty wor­se than anyt­hing he co­uld ha­ve ima­gi­ned, slept in pla­ces whe­re bugs we­re mo­re abun­dant than pil­lows or she­ets, and even be­en thrown in ja­il on­ce in a god­for­sa­ken pla­ce he ne­ver had fo­und on a map. And the one thing he’d le­ar­ned abo­ut him­self du­ring tho­se ye­ars of chal­len­ges was that he fa­ced ad­ver­sity with calm.

    He’d just ne­ver be­en on the ver­ge of be­ing char­ged with a cri­me he hadn’t com­mit­ted. He’d tho­ught a hund­red ti­mes over the we­ekend abo­ut cal­ling Juli­et McNe­il. Had even go­ne so far as to spend se­ve­ral ho­urs on the In­ter­net fin­ding out what her le­gal stan­ding wo­uld ha­ve to be in ca­se he as­ked her to rep­re­sent him, gi­ven the fact that she was co­un­sel for anot­her man up for the sa­me char­ges in the sa­me ca­se.

    As far as he co­uld tell, the­re was no sta­tu­te that pre­ven­ted her from do­ing it, as long as she had a wa­iver from the pre­vi­o­us cli­ent.

    Blake had no idea what the chan­ces we­re of Eaton James ag­re­e­ing to that. But su­rely, on­ce Schus­ter drop­ped the char­ges-as he’d told Bla­ke he was go­ing to do-James wo­uld be fe­eling cha­ri­tab­le.

    Charity was, af­ter all, his bu­si­ness.

    His in­ter­com buz­zed. Bla­ke’s pen went flying. “Yes?” he as­ked af­ter in­ha­ling de­eply in an at­tempt to cont­rol his res­pon­se.

    “I’m go­ing to lunch, sir. Wo­uld you li­ke me to bring you back so­met­hing?”

    Thanking Lee An­ne for as­king, Bla­ke dec­li­ned. The only thing that so­un­ded go­od at the mo­ment was a vi­sit to the lit­tle bar ac­ross the ro­om. He ret­ri­eved his pen.

    And mo­ved over to sta­re out the wall of win­dows down at the bust­ling city he hadn’t re­ali­zed he lo­ved-or mis­sed-until he’d co­me ho­me.

    He’d do­ne a bit of re­se­arch on ot­her le­gal mat­ters that we­ekend. Na­mely, how a per­son was ac­tu­al­ly char­ged for a class-two fe­lony. Af­ter fin­ding out that fra­ud of the type in which he and his fat­her had al­le­gedly en­ga­ged was a class-two fe­lony.

    There we­re pe­op­le he co­uld ha­ve cal­led. Rams­den had a te­am of at­tor­neys. Const­ruc­ti­on at­tor­neys. But cer­ta­inly they co­uld re­com­mend a go­od cri­mi­nal at­tor­ney in the spa­ce of se­conds. He just hadn’t be­en ab­le to bring him­self to ad­mit to an­yo­ne that he was ac­tu­al­ly fa­cing the pos­si­bi­lity of be­ing in so much tro­ub­le. He didn’t want to gi­ve the idea any va­li­dity by dis­cus­sing it.

    Neither co­uld he re­ma­in comp­le­tely ig­no­rant. Ig­no­ran­ce had ne­ver be­en the Rams­den way.

    Most of the clo­se fri­ends he’d had be­fo­re le­aving the co­untry, fri­ends from col­le­ge, had mo­ved on, mar­ri­ed, set­tled in­to ca­re­ers all over the co­untry. He’d re­ac­qu­a­in­ted him­self with a few of them, but be­ing so wrap­ped up in ex­pan­ding Rams­den in­to com­mer­ci­al const­ruc­ti­on, he hadn’t de­ve­lo­ped any re­la­ti­ons­hips clo­se eno­ugh to call on in a ti­me li­ke this.

    As he un­ders­to­od his si­tu­ati­on, Schus­ter-who wo­uld be fi­ling char­ges on be­half of the sta­te-wo­uld ha­ve to ta­ke along an in­ves­ti­ga­tor who’d qu­es­ti­oned key wit­nes­ses to ap­pe­ar be­fo­re a grand jury.

    Once the in­ves­ti­ga­tor cor­ro­bo­ra­ted Schus­ter’s cla­im abo­ut how wit­nes­ses wo­uld pro­bably res­pond in co­urt, a char­ge wo­uld be en­te­red and eit­her a war­rant is­su­ed for his ar­rest or he’d be sub­po­ena­ed to ap­pe­ar in co­urt for ar­ra­ign­ment.

    The who­le pro­cess co­uld be do­ne in a day or two, which Schus­ter had al­re­ady had. They co­uld be co­ming for him at any mo­ment.

    A no­ise so­un­ded in the outer of­fi­ce. A do­or clo­sing? Glan­cing over his sho­ul­der so qu­ickly he pul­led a musc­le in his neck, Bla­ke wa­ited. Af­ter a co­up­le of mi­nu­tes had pas­sed with no ot­her ac­ti­vity, he stro­de over to yank open the do­or. He’d rat­her just fa­ce what was to co­me than-

    The of­fi­ce was empty. But he co­uld see whe­re a ca­len­dar had fal­len from its na­il on the wall. Lee An­ne had ta­ken the ca­len­dar down ear­li­er that mor­ning, lo­oking up a pro­po­sed comp­le­ti­on da­te and had ob­vi­o­usly not put it back se­cu­rely. Slowly, calmly, he wal­ked over and hung it up.

    In his of­fi­ce aga­in, Bla­ke didn’t he­si­ta­te. He pic­ked up the pho­ne, di­aled the num­ber he’d al­re­ady me­mo­ri­zed, and wa­ited. The chan­ces we­re pretty slim that a wo­man as busy as Juli­et McNe­il wo­uld just be sit­ting at her desk on a Mon­day. For all he knew, she spent most of her days in co­urt. Cer­ta­inly she’d ha­ve a staff to do most of the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­ve and re­se­arch work she ne­eded.

    Her skills we­re in the co­urt­ro­om.

    “Juliet McNe­il…”

    Traffic buz­zed be­ne­ath his win­dow. Pe­op­le who lo­oked mo­re li­ke lit­tle bugs than hu­man be­ings scur­ri­ed down the si­de­walk, col­lec­ting at stre­et cor­ners wa­iting for lights to chan­ge. A man sto­od, le­aning aga­inst the si­de of a brick bu­il­ding ac­ross the stre­et, smo­king a ci­ga­ret­te.

    The sky was a per­fect ce­ru­le­an blue. The sun bright.

    “Hello?”

    “Sorry.” Bla­ke fi­nal­ly de­ci­ded to spe­ak rat­her than qu­i­etly rep­la­ce the re­ce­iver. “It’s Bla­ke Rams­den.”

    “Blake! Oh my God. You’ve he­ard.”

    “Heard what?”

    “Oh, then I ta­ke it you ha­ven’t se­en the no­on news?”

    He’d be­en too busy dre­ading be­ing in the news him­self. “No, what’s up?”

    “Are you in yo­ur of­fi­ce?”

    “Yes.”

    “I’m ac­tu­al­ly not far from the­re,” she sa­id. “Mind if I co­me by?”

    What the hell was go­ing on? “Of co­ur­se not. I’m on the twelfth flo­or. What did I miss on the no­on news?”

    Could they an­no­un­ce to the press that he’d be­en char­ged be­fo­re they told him?

    “As con­vo­lu­ted as everyt­hing is, I don’t want to ha­ve this con­ver­sa­ti­on with you over the pho­ne. Do you mind?”

    Yes. He was a lit­tle short on pa­ti­en­ce. “No.”

    “I’ll be right the­re.”

    She’d clic­ked off be­fo­re he’d pul­led the pho­ne away from his ear.

    

    BLAKE WAS WA­ITING for her at the ele­va­tor out­si­de Lee An­ne’s of­fi­ce. He’d tri­ed to find so­me lo­cal news on his com­pu­ter but hadn’t had any luck.

    She lo­oked all bu­si­ness in her ma­ro­on li­nen su­it and matc­hing pumps. And still, in that first ins­tant her eyes met his, Bla­ke saw so­met­hing el­se the­re. So­me kind of kno­wing that had exis­ted bet­we­en them from the first mo­ment they’d met-two stran­gers drow­ning fe­ars and do­ubts and wor­ri­es abo­ut the­ir fu­tu­res in a bar on a Ca­li­for­nia be­ach.

    A co­up­le of his staff arc­hi­tects wal­ked by and nod­ded, the­ir in­te­rest in se­e­ing the­ir boss with a be­a­uti­ful wo­man a lit­tle too ob­vi­o­us.

    “Let’s go in­si­de,” he sa­id, in­di­ca­ting the brass pla­card that iden­ti­fi­ed his su­ite of of­fi­ces.

    “President and CEO,” Juli­et re­ad alo­ud. “Impres­si­ve.”

    “It wo­uld be if I hadn’t simply in­he­ri­ted the job.”

    She glan­ced back at him, her fo­re­he­ad cre­ased. “From what I he­ar, you’ve do­ne mi­ra­cu­lo­us things. In just fi­ve short ye­ars, you’ve tur­ned this com­pany in­to the le­ader in a very com­pe­ti­ti­ve in­dustry.”

    “You’ve do­ne yo­ur ho­me­work.” It ma­de him une­asy. She’d co­me ar­med.

    She nod­ded. But didn’t exp­la­in. Nor did she me­et his eyes, fo­cu­sing ins­te­ad on his in­ner sanc­tum.

    “Nice. I li­ke all the win­dows. The vi­ew is mag­ni­fi­cent.”

    He sto­od be­si­de her as she sta­red down at the city. “Not­hing qu­ite be­ats the oce­an, in my opi­ni­on, but this is ni­ce, too. I just ima­gi­ne that all tho­se bu­il­dings are go­ne and then the­re it is.”

    What kind of sappy idi­ot was he tur­ning in­to? So he might go to ja­il. He’d hand­le it just as he’d hand­led everyt­hing el­se that had co­me his way.

    “What did I miss on the no­on news?” It was ti­me to get on with it.

    “Oh, Bla­ke…” She tur­ned, her eyes wi­de as she lo­oked up at him. “Eaton James kil­led him­self this mor­ning.”

    “What?” His sto­mach drop­ped. Anot­her su­ici­de? The bright­ness in the ro­om di­mi­nis­hed, as tho­ugh the sun had go­ne be­hind a clo­ud. A clo­ud that was fol­lo­wing him, wo­uld con­ti­nue to fol­low him, for the rest of his li­fe?

    He had not­hing to do with this one. Not­hing.

    “What hap­pe­ned?”

    “Apparently he sa­id go­odb­ye to his wi­fe and kids as usu­al when she left to ta­ke them to scho­ol. This was her mor­ning to vo­lun­te­er at a fo­od bank. Then he went out to the ga­ra­ge, ran a va­cu­um cle­aner ho­se from the ex­ha­ust to the back win­dow of his an­ti­que Mo­del T, tur­ned on the car and clim­bed in­si­de. When his wi­fe ca­me ho­me a co­up­le of ho­urs la­ter, he was de­ad, slum­ped over the ste­ering whe­el.”

    “God.” What was it with pe­op­le ta­king the easy way out and le­aving the­ir lo­ved ones be­hind to de­al with the con­se­qu­en­ces?

    Not that he re­al­ly knew abo­ut that. It wasn’t as tho­ugh his fat­her had kil­led him­self. Or that he him­self had still be­en among Amu­net’s lo­ved ones. Still, the sting was so acu­tely felt, so re­al. “Did he le­ave a no­te?”

    Amunet had. And it had only bro­ught abo­ut mo­re qu­es­ti­ons with no ans­wers.

    “Just to tell his wi­fe that his li­fe in­su­ran­ce wo­uldn’t pay her anyt­hing be­ca­use of the cir­cums­tan­ces of his de­ath, but that the mo­ney in the Cay­man Is­lands wo­uld be hers when it was fre­ed up and sho­uld be eno­ugh to ca­re for her and the kids for the rest of her li­fe.”

    Blake’s skin was cold. “That was it?” No I lo­ve yo­us? Not­hing to tell her child­ren? His child­ren?

    “Except for the na­me of a man he re­com­men­ded to hand­le her fi­nan­ci­al af­fa­irs, sa­ying he was so­me­one she co­uld trust.”

    Blake sto­od the­re, sta­ring out at a day that lo­oked exactly the sa­me as it had me­re mo­ments be­fo­re. And felt as dark as night.

    Two we­eks ago, he’d be­en a busy, if so­mew­hat rec­lu­si­ve, bu­il­der with a mo­de­ra­tely qu­i­et li­fe. To­day, stan­ding in that sa­me of­fi­ce, he was li­ving in a world go­ne mad.

    

    

    NOW THAT SHE WAS THE­RE, Juli­et won­de­red if she sho­uld ha­ve co­me. She’d he­ard Bla­ke’s vo­ice on the pho­ne and thrown all tho­ughts to the wind but one. She wan­ted to tell him abo­ut James her­self and in per­son.

    As tho­ugh his calm pre­sen­ce co­uld so­me­how dis­si­pa­te the une­ase in­si­de her.

    They sto­od at the win­dow of his of­fi­ce, sta­ring out at all the pe­op­le be­low. They’d be­en the­re yes­ter­day. And wo­uld be to­mor­row. But how of­ten did an­yo­ne stop to think abo­ut what tho­se pe­op­le we­re fe­eling? Did an­yo­ne con­si­der the suf­fe­ring of tho­se they pas­sed on the stre­et? Or even ack­now­led­ge that every sing­le one of them had prob­lems and sor­rows and reg­rets?

    “Why didn’t you tell me this on the pho­ne?”

    Heat ro­se up Juli­et’s neck to her che­eks. “I’m not su­re,” she had to ad­mit. She had no ti­me to fi­gu­re out anot­her way to pre­sent the truth. “I over­re­ac­ted.”

    He tur­ned. She co­uld see him in her pe­rip­he­ral vi­si­on, lo­oking at her. “You’re su­re the­re’s not mo­re to it than that?”

    “Schuster’s me­eting with the grand jury this mor­ning. He’d sub­po­ena­ed Eaton James to tes­tify.” That was at le­ast part of it.

    Hands in the poc­kets of his ta­ilo­red slacks, he roc­ked back and forth in his ex­pen­si­ve le­at­her sho­es. “Is he go­ing to get the in­dict­ment?”

    “My pro­fes­si­onal opi­ni­on?” she as­ked, pe­ering up at him.

    He nod­ded, sta­ring out­si­de aga­in. She co­uld fe­el his ten­si­on, tho­ugh whet­her it was be­ca­use he stif­fe­ned be­si­de her, or be­ca­use her he­art was in so­me way con­nec­ted, she wasn’t su­re.

    Wasn’t su­re she wan­ted to know.

    “Yes.”

    He nod­ded then. That was all. Juli­et ne­eded mo­re.

    “What are you thin­king?”

    “I don’t know if I’d call it thin­king.” He glan­ced down at her. “Right now I’m pretty clo­se to a sta­te of pa­nic.”

    She wan­ted to help him. Ne­eded to help him. To re­as­su­re him. And knew that, with Bla­ke, only the cold hard facts wo­uld do.

    “You ha­ve no cri­mi­nal re­cord and pre­sent no dan­ger to the com­mu­nity. They aren’t go­ing to ar­rest you. You’ll re­ce­ive a sub­po­ena for ar­ra­ign­ment, ap­pe­ar be­fo­re a jud­ge and Schus­ter-they’ll ap­po­int an at­tor­ney to de­fend you if you don’t al­re­ady ha­ve yo­ur own-and you’ll en­ter a plea of gu­ilty or not gu­ilty. A tri­al da­te will be set, pro­bably abo­ut three months la­ter, and then it’s bu­si­ness as usu­al ex­cept that you’ll most li­kely be told not to le­ave the co­untry.”

    “What exactly sho­uld I ex­pect to be char­ged with?”

    She didn’t want to ans­wer that. “Sin­ce mo­re than a hund­red tho­usand dol­lars is in­vol­ved, I wo­uld co­unt on at le­ast one co­unt of theft, fra­ud due to mis­rep­re­sen­ta­ti­on, and be­ca­use anot­her in­di­vi­du­al was in­vol­ved-yo­ur fat­her-the­re’ll pro­bably al­so be a char­ge of cons­pi­racy.”

    He pa­led. “At le­ast one co­unt?”

    “If it’s pro­ven that James to­ok in­ves­tors’ mo­ney to pay yo­ur fat­her, the­re co­uld be as many co­unts of fra­ud as the­re we­re in­ves­tors.”

    His jaw tight, Bla­ke ga­zed out aga­in, but no lon­ger down at the pe­op­le be­low. From so­met­hing he’d sa­id ear­li­er, she sus­pec­ted he was lo­oking for the oce­an be­yond the bu­il­dings, hid­den from vi­ew. Wo­uld the­re co­me a ti­me when he wo­uldn’t be free to go to the be­ach, lis­ten to the wa­ves, fe­el the sand be­ne­ath his fe­et, and the wa­ter lap­ping at his to­es, see the gre­at whi­te­caps jump up the si­des of ships and crash aga­inst rocks that we­re slowly be­ing worn by the­ir for­ce?

    “So then what?”

    “You go to tri­al,” she sa­id. “If you’re char­ged as I desc­ri­bed, the­re will be a twel­ve-mem­ber jury, which will pro­bably ta­ke a co­up­le of days to se­lect. Co­uld be lon­ger. The tri­al it­self co­uld last se­ve­ral we­eks.”

    She pa­used, ha­ting to do this to him.

    Blake’s who­le body was ri­gid, his exp­res­si­on un­yi­el­ding, as tho­ugh he was bra­ced to he­ar it all at on­ce. For so­me pe­op­le, that was easi­est.

    “Remember, this will be a new jury and any evi­den­ce that’s al­re­ady be­en bro­ught forth on the Eaton Es­ta­tes de­al or anyt­hing el­se per­ti­nent to yo­ur fat­her’s as­so­ci­ati­on with Eaton James will ha­ve to be re­int­ro­du­ced.”

    “What kind of ef­fect is James’s su­ici­de go­ing to ha­ve on the jury?”

    She shrug­ged. “De­pen­ding on how it’s pre­sen­ted, it co­uld work in yo­ur fa­vor. The man’s fu­tu­re was lo­oking brigh­ter than it had in months. Whi­le he was go­ing to ha­ve to fa­ce for­gery char­ges, he was off the big ho­ok. So-why now?”

    “What do you think?”

    “Perhaps the­re’s mo­re to the story, and he re­ali­zed, af­ter ta­king the stand, that the things he re­ve­aled co­uld le­ad to ot­her things be­ing dis­co­ve­red that wo­uld po­int to so­me gu­ilt of his own. Anot­her be­ne­fit as far as yo­ur tri­al is con­cer­ned, James’s for­mer tes­ti­mony wo­uld only be he­ar­say and as such inad­mis­sib­le as evi­den­ce. In ot­her words, it do­esn’t exist.”

    Juliet wrap­ped her arms aro­und her­self, her light­we­ight su­it in­suf­fi­ci­ent in the warmth de­part­ment.

    “On the ot­her hand, he won’t be he­re for yo­ur at­tor­ney to qu­es­ti­on, eit­her. Which will ma­ke it mo­re of a chal­len­ge to find wha­te­ver James might ha­ve hid­den in his tel­ling of the facts.”

    He nod­ded. Roc­ked slowly and then stop­ped. She had a pretty go­od idea what he was wa­iting for. She wis­hed the­re was a way to mi­ni­mi­ze the truth.

    “And if I’m fo­und gu­ilty?”

    “Due to the amo­unt of mo­ney in qu­es­ti­on, you co­uld be fa­cing up to fo­ur­te­en ye­ars in pri­son, per co­unt, which the jud­ge co­uld ru­le to be ser­ved con­cur­rently or con­se­cu­ti­vely. Ho­we­ver, a ma­xi­mum sen­ten­ce on a first of­fen­se isn’t li­kely. It’ll de­pend a lot on the in­tent and mo­ti­va­ti­on the at­tor­neys le­ave with the jury.”

    His sho­ul­ders sag­ged. “I co­uld spend the rest of my li­fe in pri­son.”

    Damn fi­ne job she’d do­ne of ligh­te­ning that lo­ad.

    “However, sin­ce this is a first of­fen­se,” she ad­ded wit­ho­ut va­li­da­ting the cor­rect­ness of his math, “it’s wit­hin the jud­ge’s po­wer to sen­ten­ce you to pro­ba­ti­on. De­pen­ding aga­in on the facts that co­me out du­ring the tri­al, which will in­di­ca­te yo­ur po­ten­ti­al risk of a re­pe­at of­fen­se and con­se­qu­ent harm to the com­mu­nity.”

    “Repeat of­fen­se.” His vo­ice overf­lo­wed with dis­be­li­ef. She co­uldn’t tell whet­her that was be­ca­use the idea of fin­ding him­self in this po­si­ti­on was lu­dic­ro­us, or be­ca­use he was an in­no­cent man in shock.

    “I can’t be­li­eve that an­yo­ne, se­e­ing what you’ve do­ne with this com­pany in the last fi­ve ye­ars, will be­li­eve the­re’s much risk of that.”

    She was go­ing to re­ma­in ne­ut­ral. It was the only smart, lo­gi­cal, sa­fe cho­ice. He was not a fat­her to Mary Jane. He was only the bi­olo­gi­cal cont­ri­bu­tor. A swe­et me­mory from her yo­uth. Whet­her or not he was be­ing fal­sely ac­cu­sed was not her con­cern.

    And if she told her­self that of­ten eno­ugh, she might even­tu­al­ly get the mes­sa­ge.

    “Ironic, isn’t it?” He tur­ned to glan­ce down at her with a cro­oked, hu­mor­less smi­le. “Just we­eks ago, you we­re joking abo­ut my ever fin­ding myself in ne­ed of a go­od at­tor­ney.”

    She re­mem­be­red. And she’d sa­id it, at le­ast in part, be­ca­use he was the last per­son she’d ever ex­pec­ted to ne­ed a de­fen­se at­tor­ney.

    “I told you to call.”

    “You we­re James’s at­tor­ney. Do­es that prec­lu­de me from hi­ring you?”

    His ga­ze was fo­cu­sed on the si­de­walk aga­in.

    So was hers.

    “There’d be con­fi­den­ti­ality is­su­es, but as­su­ming his wi­fe sig­ned a wa­iver, they wo­uldn’t pre­vent me from ta­king yo­ur ca­se.”

    Her he­art was po­un­ding. He was go­ing to ask her to rep­re­sent him, and she felt she had to help him. And that she co­uld. She al­so knew she was as­king the im­pos­sib­le. Of her­self. Of fa­te. And of an eight-ye­ar-old girl who did not de­ser­ve to ha­ve her li­fe any mo­re cha­otic than it al­re­ady was.

    Whether or not she’d do­ne right by this man in ke­eping her sec­ret ni­ne ye­ars be­fo­re, the­re was so­me­one el­se, equ­al­ly im­por­tant, to con­si­der he­re. Mary Jane McNe­il. Juli­et’s ni­ne-ye­ar-old cho­ice had sha­ped Mary Jane’s li­fe-and she co­uldn’t ar­bit­ra­rily dis­rupt that li­fe be­ca­use of la­tent gu­ilt.

    But, God, she wis­hed she knew what she sho­uld do.

    “Would you be wil­ling to ta­ke this ca­se?”

    She le­aned for­ward, fol­lo­wing the tra­il of a girl wal­king fo­ur va­ri­o­us si­ze dogs, all with le­as­hes he­ading off in se­pa­ra­te di­rec­ti­ons, al­ter­na­tely pul­ling her and trip­ping her. Eit­her she was brand new to the job, or ne­eded to find her­self anot­her ca­re­er.

    “It de­pends.”

    “On what?” He so­un­ded mo­re cu­ri­o­us than con­cer­ned at that po­int. Juli­et sup­po­sed his sen­ses, his emo­ti­ons, we­re on over­lo­ad.

    She tur­ned to lo­ok at him. “Are you gu­ilty?”

    He sta­red right back with unb­lin­king eyes. “Do you ne­ed to ask?”

    “If I’m go­ing to be yo­ur at­tor­ney, I do.”

    “I’m not gu­ilty.”

    Blake of­fe­red to or­der them so­met­hing to eat. Tel­ling her­self she wasn’t ag­re­e­ing to anyt­hing but an in­for­mal lunch, Juli­et ac­cep­ted. And jo­ined him on the co­uch when the chic­ken-sa­lad-on-whe­at sand­wic­hes ar­ri­ved. Whet­her she to­ok his ca­se or not, whet­her she co­uld get the wa­iver or not, the­re we­re so­me things she co­uld ad­vi­se him abo­ut, just as a fri­end. Things he wo­uld ne­ed to know to pro­tect him­self, rights most pe­op­le ne­ver had re­ason to le­arn abo­ut.

    Like the fact that he had a right to ha­ve co­pi­es of all do­cu­ments the pro­se­cu­tor was go­ing to use aga­inst him, inc­lu­ding the sta­te­ments of all wit­nes­ses who wo­uld be cal­led to tes­tify.

    He lis­te­ned. Nod­ded. Ate slowly. As­ked a co­up­le of in­tel­li­gent qu­es­ti­ons. He didn’t ta­ke no­tes.

    And as so­on as the­re was a bre­ak in her exp­la­na­ti­on, he chan­ged the su­bj­ect.

    “You sa­id ear­li­er that Schus­ter’s me­eting with the grand jury this mor­ning was only part of the re­ason for yo­ur over­re­ac­ti­on abo­ut spe­aking on the te­lep­ho­ne. What was the rest?”

    Juliet set her pa­per-wrap­ped, half-eaten sand­wich on the tab­le in front of her. “Had eno­ugh tri­al talk for now, huh?” she as­ked. The­re was mo­re she co­uld tell him to arm him for the fight ahe­ad.

    “I ne­ed to ta­ke this one step at a ti­me,” he told her, his ga­ze open, ho­nest. “Let’s see what the grand jury de­ci­des. Un­til then, the­re’s no po­int in get­ting in any de­eper.”

    I can’t hand­le any mo­re right now, she trans­la­ted. And un­ders­to­od.

    Wadding up his empty pa­per, he to­ok a long swig from the co­la can he’d pro­du­ced-one for each of them-from the small ref­ri­ge­ra­tor. His thro­at was long, slen­der, as he til­ted back his he­ad. Slen­der yet strong. The musc­les in his thro­at mo­ved with each swal­low.

    Never, ever had Juli­et be­en so int­ri­gu­ed by a thro­at.

    “I ima­gi­ne that it’s not of­ten the ac­comp­lis­hed Ms. Juli­et McNe­il over­re­acts,” he sa­id, his exp­res­si­on less pinc­hed as he le­aned in­to the cor­ner of the co­uch, one arm res­ting along the back, and ra­ised an ank­le to his knee. “I’d li­ke to know what ca­used it.”

    It wasn’t so­met­hing she tal­ked abo­ut. Not even with Mar­cie. They had spo­ken of it, of co­ur­se. In the be­gin­ning, right af­ter it had hap­pe­ned. And then Juli­et had go­ne to co­un­se­ling se­pa­ra­te from the gri­ef co­un­se­ling they’d both had, and they’d ne­ver spo­ken of it aga­in.

    “The news abo­ut Eaton James re­al­ly threw me.”

    Putting her co­la on the tab­le, Juli­et tur­ned to fa­ce him.

    “You’ve spent a lot of ti­me with James la­tely. I ima­gi­ne you got to know him well.”

    Not that well. “He was a cli­ent. Not­hing mo­re.” She’d had so many she didn’t even re­mem­ber them all. Or at le­ast, not the spe­ci­fics of each ca­se. So­me of them she did, of co­ur­se. But if she didn’t stay de­tac­hed she’d ne­ver be ab­le to do her job.

    “I just can’t stop thin­king abo­ut his wi­fe. She’s left, not only with an un­cer­ta­in and per­haps in­se­cu­re fu­tu­re, but with a li­fe­ti­me of what-ifs and if-onlys.”

    And tho­se co­uld kill a per­son. If she let them.

    Blake’s eyes nar­ro­wed aga­in, but with com­pas­si­on rat­her than sus­pi­ci­on. “It so­unds as tho­ugh you know what you’re tal­king abo­ut.”

    A me­mory sur­fa­ced. Bri­efly. She and Mar­cie, stan­ding at the gra­ve out­si­de Map­le Gro­ve.

    And then, not­hing.

    “You we­re tal­king abo­ut it at din­ner last month,” she re­min­ded him with the sur­fa­ce con­fi­den­ce born of ye­ars of self-pro­tec­ti­on. Of the de­ter­mi­na­ti­on to sur­vi­ve. “Yo­ur ex-wi­fe-and all the qu­es­ti­ons her pas­sing ra­ised.”

    “The do­ubts, you me­an?” His fin­gers lay aga­inst the back of the so­fa. “I hadn’t se­en in her in ye­ars. I know no lo­gi­cal re­ason to sus­pect that I’m par­ti­al­ly to bla­me, that I might ha­ve do­ne so­met­hing dif­fe­rently, so­met­hing that wo­uld ha­ve re­sul­ted in her ma­king a dif­fe­rent cho­ice.”

    “But you won­der, any­way, don’t you?”

    He nod­ded. And he knew that she knew exactly what he was tal­king abo­ut. The lo­ok in his eyes told her he knew. And that he wasn’t go­ing to push furt­her if she wan­ted to let it go.

    “My mot­her…” she be­gan.

    She wan­ted to let it go.

    He con­ti­nu­ed to watch her, whi­le she at­temp­ted to for­ce long-bu­ri­ed me­mo­ri­es back in­to the dark­ness from which they’d co­me.

    “I ha­ve a twin sis­ter. Did I ever tell you that?” She knew she hadn’t. Very few pe­op­le in her San Di­ego li­fe knew abo­ut Mar­cie. Or Map­le Gro­ve. And Bla­ke had ne­ver be­en in her li­fe. Even du­ring that ti­me on the be­ach, con­ce­iving a child with her, he hadn’t be­en privy to her li­fe. They’d tal­ked abo­ut whe­re they we­re go­ing, not whe­re they’d be­en.

    His eyes wi­de­ned. “A twin? The­re are two of you?”

    Juliet chuck­led. “I’m not su­re if that to­ne in yo­ur vo­ice me­ans the idea of such a thing is go­od or bad.”

    “Completely start­ling!” he sa­id, smi­ling at her.

    “We’re not iden­ti­cal,” she told him. “We’re the sa­me si­ze and pretty much the sa­me sha­pe, but she’s got the most be­a­uti­ful na­tu­ral blond ha­ir and blue eyes.” Ca­li­for­nia’s dre­am.

    Blake chuck­led. “I can just ima­gi­ne what the two of you must ha­ve do­ne to all tho­se pu­bes­cent boys in high scho­ol. An in­ti­mi­da­ting red­he­ad and an in­no­cent blon­de. Si­de by si­de.”

    He tho­ught her in­ti­mi­da­ting? He su­re didn’t act li­ke it. “How do you know she was the in­no­cent one?”

    Blake’s eyes to­ok on a glint that da­red her to lie. “Am I wrong?”

    “No.” And then, when he sa­id not­hing mo­re, “Why are you sta­ring at me with that we­ird grin on yo­ur fa­ce?”

    “It’s not we­ird. I’m just get­ting over the shock of you as a twin. I al­ways pic­tu­red you so in­de­pen­dent.”

    Yeah, a lot of the world saw her that way. And that was her fa­ult. “No­pe, Mar­ce and I are jo­ined at the hip. Al­ways ha­ve be­en.”

    “Her na­me’s Mar­ce?”

    “Marcie.” She gri­ma­ced. “Mar­cel­la, ac­tu­al­ly. Our mot­her na­med us af­ter her two fa­vo­ri­te he­ro­ines.”

    “Don’t tell me, you’re Juli­et from Ro­meo and Juli­et?”

    Enjoying the la­ugh­ter in his vo­ice, Juli­et tur­ned a lit­tle mo­re, lif­ted her arm to the back of the co­uch, her fin­gers wit­hin inc­hes of his. “Don’t la­ugh, Rams­den.”

    “So who’s Mar­cel­la?”

    “She’s a ma­gi­cal lit­tle cha­rac­ter who pla­yed with Rag­gedy Ann and Andy. It’s an old bo­ok pub­lis­hed back in 1929, but Mar­cel­la was my mot­her’s fa­vo­ri­te child­ren’s bo­ok, full of ma­gic and whimsy and lo­ve. From what I can tell, the story em­bo­di­ed everyt­hing my mot­her was be­fo­re she met my fat­her. Blin­ded by that whimsy and lo­ve and her be­li­ef in ma­gic, she en­ded up preg­nant with Mar­ce and me, got mar­ri­ed and pretty much ru­ined the rest of her li­fe.”

    Head til­ted, he con­ti­nu­ed to study her in a way that left Juli­et fe­eling stran­gely sup­por­ted. “How so? She had two be­a­uti­ful da­ugh­ters.”

    “She had a self-cen­te­red phi­lan­de­rer for a hus­band. He’d only mar­ri­ed her to avo­id the scan­dal of le­aving a yo­ung girl preg­nant and alo­ne-and the­re­fo­re get­ting cut off from his fat­her’s for­tu­ne. Of co­ur­se, he ma­de her sign a pre­nup that de­ni­ed her any rights to his we­alth in the event of a di­vor­ce. Not that it mat­te­red. Af­ter he squ­an­de­red all the mo­ney, he ran off with a very we­althy ol­der wo­man who sup­por­ted him. As long as she was ali­ve, he didn’t ha­ve to work. So, sin­ce he had no ac­tu­al in­co­me, my mot­her co­uldn’t sue for child sup­port.” She tri­ed to tell it as tho­ugh it didn’t mat­ter be­ca­use, if she tri­ed hard eno­ugh, so­me­day it wo­uldn’t. “My mot­her’s mot­her had be­en born and ra­ised in Map­le Gro­ve, Ca­li­for­nia, a lit­tle out-of-the-way mig­rant town. She’d got­ten preg­nant wit­ho­ut be­ing mar­ri­ed, too, but hadn’t fa­red ne­arly so well. The mig­rant wor­ker she’d fal­len for had mo­ved on and she ne­ver he­ard from him aga­in. With no ot­her way to sup­port her­self and her da­ugh­ter, no way to get out of that town and get so­me edu­ca­ti­on, she spent her li­fe do­ing la­undry, cle­aning ho­uses, men­ding, pic­king fru­it, anyt­hing she co­uld do to af­ford a lit­tle tra­iler on a lot out­si­de town.”

    Juliet stop­ped, her thro­at dry and cho­ked as she he­ard what she was sa­ying. Things she didn’t tell an­yo­ne. Things she tri­ed ne­ver to think abo­ut. She had to le­ave now. Get back to her of­fi­ce. To re­al li­fe.

    Except Bla­ke had ta­ken hold of her fin­gers along the back of the co­uch. How co­uld she not ha­ve known he was hol­ding her hand?

    “Go on.”

    “When our grand­mot­her di­ed, at the ri­pe old age of forty, my sis­ter and I we­re still ba­bi­es. She left my mom that lit­tle tra­iler in Map­le Gro­ve. When we we­re thir­te­en, Mom sud­denly fo­und her­self an ex-rich so­ci­ali­te-hu­mi­li­ated, fri­end­less, with no tra­ining, ot­her than in how to dress ni­cely, spend mo­ney and sit on cha­rity bo­ards. So she ran ho­me to the only ot­her li­fe she knew.”

    “And to­ok you and Mar­cie with her.”

    “Yeah.” To a town, a world, they’d ne­ver even he­ard of.

    His fin­gers rub­bed gently aga­inst the top of her hand. “That must’ve be­en ro­ugh.”

    She tri­ed to smi­le. “It wasn’t so bad for Mar­cie and me. We had each ot­her.”

    “And yo­ur mom?” With eyeb­rows slightly ra­ised, his em­pat­he­tic exp­res­si­on imp­li­ed that he knew that part of the story wasn’t easy.

    “She cle­aned ho­uses, wor­ked in the scho­ol ca­fe­te­ria, to­ok in la­undry. And du­ring my last ye­ar of law scho­ol, she swal­lo­wed a bot­tle of sle­eping pills, ran a bub­ble bath, went to sle­ep and drow­ned.”

    Blake’s exc­la­ma­ti­on wasn’t anyt­hing she’d ever he­ard be­fo­re. Or wan­ted to he­ar aga­in. But she sha­red the sen­ti­ment. Mo­re than she wan­ted to.

    “I’m over it now,” she qu­ickly as­su­red him, sli­ding her hand from be­ne­ath his to wrap her arms aro­und her mid­dle. “It to­ok a whi­le, but on­ce you work thro­ugh all the gu­ilt and misp­la­ced res­pon­si­bi­lity, you mo­ve on.”

    “Do you?” The glan­ce that had be­en so warm se­conds be­fo­re was pi­er­cing.

    “Of co­ur­se,” she told him, nod­ding for emp­ha­sis. “What ot­her cho­ice do you ha­ve?”

    “I’m not su­re it’s a mat­ter of cho­ice.” He sat for­ward, he­ad bent, el­bows res­ting on his kne­es. “Do we cho­ose to for­get and mo­ve on? Or do we just push things away and re­fu­se to de­al with them?”

    He wasn’t just tal­king abo­ut her. She wis­hed he had be­en. She’d ha­ve be­en ab­le to de­fend her­self aga­inst such an at­tack. But when she put her­self in his sho­es-won­de­ring abo­ut his pa­rents’ de­aths, and his ex-wi­fe’s-put­ting her­self in Mrs. James’s sho­es, fe­elings aro­se that she wasn’t pre­pa­red to fa­ce.

    They’d be­en the­re, slowly at­tac­king from the in­si­de, sin­ce she’d first se­en the news ear­li­er that day, se­en the press pho­to of Eaton James that had be­en shown on air du­ring the tri­al, when the­re wasn’t any big­ger scan­dal to talk abo­ut.

    “Can we cho­ose to for­get?” “I think we can.” She was a wal­king tes­ti­mony to it. “Re­al­ly?” Tur­ning his he­ad, he glan­ced at her over his sho­ul­der. “You’ve for­got­ten, then?”

    Damn him.

    “What do you sug­gest we do, Bla­ke? Run aro­und bur­de­ned down with all the prob­lems and chal­len­ges li­fe hands us-until they pi­le on so high they’re too he­avy and we die? So­unds sus­pi­ci­o­usly li­ke what my mot­her did. And may­be yo­ur Amu­net. And Eaton, too. The­re’s got to be a bet­ter way.”

    He nod­ded. “Or may­be it’s a qu­es­ti­on of the dif­fe­ren­ces bet­we­en pe­op­le,” he sa­id. “May­be so­me of us ha­ve a bu­ilt-in de­fen­se mec­ha­nism that kicks in and pro­tects us when li­fe fe­els overw­hel­ming, so­me sort of self-pre­ser­va­ti­on. And the rest of us ha­ve ot­her gre­at cha­rac­te­ris­tics but lack that co­re of self-pre­ser­va­ti­on that will sus­ta­in us.”

    “Do you think so?”

    He sho­ok his he­ad. “I ho­nestly don’t ha­ve any idea. It’s just a the­ory I’ve co­me up with to try to un­ders­tand.”

    But if he was right, if tho­se types of pe­op­le didn’t ha­ve what it to­ok to help them­sel­ves, wasn’t it up to tho­se aro­und them to pro­vi­de that help?

    “In the end, we’re each res­pon­sib­le for our­sel­ves,” Bla­ke sa­id, as tho­ugh re­ading her tho­ughts.

    It was so­met­hing he’d do­ne mo­re than on­ce on the­ir long-ago night to­get­her.

    What was it abo­ut this man that ma­de him so­me­how…dif­fe­rent?

    They sat si­lently for se­ve­ral mi­nu­tes, tho­ughts wan­de­ring. She had to go, Juli­et knew that. She just wasn’t re­ady to le­ave the pe­cu­li­ar sen­se of pe­ace that had set­tled aro­und her.

    Thinking abo­ut trying to exp­la­in the mo­ment to Mar­cie, she co­uldn’t find a way. Bla­ke’s li­fe was in comp­le­te tur­mo­il. Hers wasn’t much bet­ter. And still, in this ro­om to­get­her, for the­se few mi­nu­tes out of ti­me, they’d cre­ated a mo­ment of calm.

    It was a pre­ci­o­us com­mo­dity.

    “So how so­on sho­uld I ex­pect them?”

    He hadn’t mo­ved, ot­her than to turn his he­ad on the co­uch. Hadn’t sa­id who he was ex­pec­ting, eit­her, but she knew. Them. The Law.

    “Could be la­te this af­ter­no­on. Or to­mor­row.”

    Licking his lips with the tip of his ton­gue, Bla­ke sa­id not­hing.

    “It’s al­ways pos­sib­le the grand jury will find that Schus­ter do­esn’t ha­ve eno­ugh evi­den­ce.” Pos­sib­le, but not li­kely. She just co­uldn’t le­ave him sit­ting the­re wit­ho­ut ho­pe.

    “Schuster’s as se­aso­ned as they co­me,” Bla­ke sa­id, his vo­ice a mo­no­to­ne. “How of­ten do you think he go­es to the grand jury wit­ho­ut suf­fi­ci­ent evi­den­ce?”

    “Never.”

    “That’s what I tho­ught.”

    “You’ll call me?”

    His ga­ze loc­ked with hers. “You’ll ta­ke the ca­se?”

    “If I can,” she told him, won­de­ring how the hell she was go­ing to get him off when the evi­den­ce so cle­arly po­in­ted to his gu­ilt. And how she was go­ing to sur­vi­ve ho­we­ver many we­eks it to­ok to do the job, be­co­ming in­ti­ma­tely ac­qu­a­in­ted with the fat­her of her child, torn to the ro­ots of her so­ul abo­ut one so­li­tary cho­ice that had se­emed so right at the ti­me and now just se­emed too hu­ge to hand­le.

    She co­uldn’t tell Bla­ke abo­ut Mary Jane now. That much was cle­ar. The ti­ming was all wrong. For ever­yo­ne.

    She co­uld only ho­pe that, by so­me mi­rac­le, she’d be ab­le to hold things to­get­her for all three of them.

    

    

    THERE WE­RE MANY RE­ASONS Bla­ke didn’t sle­ep that night. Wal­king aro­und the ho­me he’d bu­ilt upon his re­turn to the Sta­tes, he felt ha­un­ted.

    By Amu­net and the things he sho­uld ha­ve se­en but didn’t. The things he still didn’t see. By Juli­et and a night that had ta­ken on sur­re­al qu­ali­ti­es in its per­fec­ti­on and the­re­fo­re sto­od be­fo­re him as a me­asu­re by which to jud­ge every re­la­ti­ons­hip he’d ever ha­ve-a me­asu­re by which every re­la­ti­ons­hip co­uld only fa­il. A me­asu­re that was pu­re fan­tasy.

    Haunted. And hun­ted, too. By a judi­ci­al system he’d al­ways ta­ken for gran­ted wo­uld of­fer him se­cu­rity and pro­tec­ti­on. Wo­uld they co­me with the light of dawn? To his ho­me? His of­fi­ce? Wo­uld he so­on no lon­ger be free to wan­der his ho­use in the dark? To he­ar the oce­an as it cras­hed aga­inst the sho­re?

    Was this all he’d ever be, what he was in this mo­ment? Was the­re to be no chan­ce for a fa­mily? A chan­ce to ha­ve lo­ved ones in his li­fe aga­in? Pe­op­le he co­uld call his own?

    And God in he­aven-he knelt down at the win­dow of his li­ving ro­om, fists and hands res­ting aga­inst the glass as he fa­ced the oce­an-he knew what they did to guys in pri­son.

    When he co­uldn’t stand the pa­in of vi­ewing the mag­ni­fi­cent, mo­on­lit oce­an be­fo­re him, he squ­e­ezed his eyes shut. And let the te­ars es­ca­pe.

    How the hell was he go­ing to sur­vi­ve?

    

    THEY CA­ME TO HIS HO­ME. Be­fo­re Pru ar­ri­ved for work Tu­es­day mor­ning. Up and dres­sed in a blue su­it, whi­te pres­sed shirt and red tie, Bla­ke was glad they’d spa­red him the dis­com­fort of ha­ving his staff gat­he­ring aro­und him. This par­ti­cu­lar mo­ment he wan­ted to fa­ce alo­ne.

    “Mr. Bla­ke Rams­den?” the uni­for­med man at the do­or as­ked.

    “Yes.”

    The fifty-so­met­hing pe­ace of­fi­cer held out his bad­ge. “I’m De­puty Tho­mas from the she­riff’s de­part­ment, sir.”

    Blake re­ad the bad­ge be­ca­use it se­emed to be ex­pec­ted of him. He didn’t do­ubt the cre­den­ti­als of his mes­sen­ger.

    “I ne­ed to gi­ve you this.” The man held out a fol­ded pi­ece of pa­per, in­no­cu­o­us-lo­oking for all the con­se­qu­en­ces imp­li­cit in its con­tents. “You’ve be­en char­ged with a cri­me, sir, and are re­qu­ired to ap­pe­ar at 8:30 a.m. Fri­day mor­ning…” He na­med the branch of Ca­li­for­nia Su­pe­ri­or Co­urt not far from Bla­ke’s of­fi­ce. “If you fa­il to ap­pe­ar the­re will be a war­rant is­su­ed for yo­ur ar­rest.”

    Blake had a bre­ak­fast me­eting with the ma­yor Fri­day mor­ning. Not that he con­si­de­red men­ti­oning it. Gu­aran­te­ed, ne­it­her Schus­ter nor the Su­pe­ri­or Co­urt of Ca­li­for­nia ga­ve a damn abo­ut Bla­ke’s bre­ak­fast. No mat­ter whom it might be with.

    Already his fre­edom was be­ing cur­ta­iled. Wha­te­ver hap­pe­ned to in­no­cent un­til pro­ven gu­ilty?

    Blake to­ok the do­cu­ment. Sig­ned whe­re he was told to sign. Than­ked the man. And clo­sed the do­or.

    

    “I THAN­KED HIM!” we­re the first words out of his mo­uth ten mi­nu­tes la­ter when Juli­et McNe­il ans­we­red her pho­ne.

    “Thanked who?”

    Somewhere in the back of his mind was the re­ali­za­ti­on that she didn’t ask who he was.

    “It’s only se­ven-thirty in the mor­ning,” was his reply. “I ex­pec­ted to get an ans­we­ring mac­hi­ne. And you ans­we­red yes­ter­day, too. I wo­uldn’t ha­ve tho­ught you’d spend much ti­me in yo­ur of­fi­ce, ans­we­ring pho­nes. You hard up for ca­ses, Co­un­se­lor?”

    Forearm le­aning aga­inst the wall, Bla­ke ran his ot­her hand down his fa­ce. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know what I’m sa­ying,” he con­ti­nu­ed. He held the hand clutc­hing the fol­ded pa­per abo­ve him.

    “It’s okay.” Juli­et’s to­ne was soft, al­most a whis­per. “The num­ber on my card is my cell pho­ne. It ta­kes mes­sa­ges just as ef­fec­ti­vely as an ans­we­ring ser­vi­ce wo­uld and cuts out the mid­dle­man.”

    Blake he­ard abo­ut half of what she sa­id. He had her cell num­ber. That was go­od.

    “So you ans­wer it at ho­me?”

    “Not usu­al­ly,” she sa­id. “I saw yo­ur num­ber co­me up on the scre­en.”

    He’d gi­ven it to her the pre­vi­o­us day, just be­fo­re she’d left his of­fi­ce. He hadn’t ex­pec­ted her to me­mo­ri­ze it.

    “Who did you thank, Bla­ke?”

    “The de­puty who ser­ved me.”

    He was stan­ding in the kitc­hen, his back to the win­dows, avo­iding the oce­an. To­day it didn’t say anyt­hing to him but words he didn’t want to he­ar.

    “What’s the char­ge?” Juli­et as­ked.

    “I don’t know. I didn’t re­ad the do­cu­ment.”

    “Did you lo­ok at it?”

    “No.” He glan­ced up at the of­fen­ding pi­ece of pa­per. “It’s still fol­ded.” Not that he held out any ho­pe that not lo­oking wo­uld chan­ge the re­sult.

    Right now, he ne­eded mo­re than ho­pe. He ne­eded strength, wha­te­ver he co­uld mus­ter. He ne­eded this wo­man to rep­re­sent him in co­urt.

    “You want to me­et me at my of­fi­ce in an ho­ur and we’ll lo­ok at it to­get­her?”

    “Sure, but don’t you ne­ed to get that wa­iver?”

    “It’s do­ne.”

    The musc­les in Bla­ke’s sto­mach re­la­xed. She was re­li­ab­le and qu­ick and com­mit­ted. She’d be ab­le to ta­ke his ca­se. He had the best on his si­de.

    And he was go­ing to be spen­ding so­me of the dar­kest days he’d known with the best me­mory of his li­fe.

    

    “WAS THAT AUNT MAR­CIE? Why didn’t she call our num­ber?” Mary Jane as­ked as Juli­et ca­me in­to the kitc­hen Tu­es­day mor­ning.

    Mary Jane’s skinny long longs swung back and forth be­ne­ath the tab­le. In je­ans, her whi­te frilly blo­use tuc­ked in, the lit­tle girl was just fi­nis­hing up the ce­re­al Juli­et had po­ured for her ear­li­er.

    “It wasn’t Aunt Mar­cie.”

    “Who el­se calls us this early?”

    Juliet chec­ked the lunch she’d al­re­ady pac­ked for Mary Jane. Chips we­re the­re, on top, whe­re they wo­uldn’t be crus­hed. Ju­ice box in the bot­tom. “It was work.”

    “Uncle Du­ane?”

    Duane Wil­son was one of the ot­her part­ners in the cri­mi­nal di­vi­si­on at Tru­man and As­so­ci­ates, with whom Juli­et of­ten tal­ked thro­ugh her ca­ses. He and his wi­fe, Don­na, had ne­ver be­en ab­le to ha­ve child­ren and, now in the­ir mid-fif­ti­es, had “adop­ted” Mary Jane for the­ir grandc­hild “fi­xes.”

    “No.”

    Mary Jane slid down, car­ri­ed her bowl to the sink, tur­ned on the wa­ter.

    Juliet grab­bed an oran­ge for la­ter. Lo­oked in the fre­ezer for din­ner ide­as and de­ci­ded to just or­der piz­za.

    “Is it abo­ut that guy that di­ed?” The lit­tle girl sto­od be­si­de her at the fre­ezer, her eyes full of that ext­ra­or­di­nary mix­tu­re of em­pathy and child­li­ke in­no­cen­ce.

    God, how was she ever go­ing to ma­ke this work?

    Just as she didn’t ever want her da­ugh­ter to ke­ep sec­rets from her, she didn’t ke­ep sec­rets from Mary Jane. But the lit­tle girl hadn’t be­en her­self la­tely, re­fu­sing to go to Brow­ni­es un­til the fat­her-da­ugh­ter ban­qu­et was over and she didn’t ha­ve to he­ar abo­ut it any­mo­re. And she’d bro­ught ho­me only an ave­ra­ge gra­de on her math test the pre­vi­o­us we­ek.

    Fine for many kids. A first for Mary Jane McNe­il.

    Any men­ti­on of her fat­her-or any fat­her-upset her. She was be­co­ming ob­ses­sed with han­ging on to the part­ners­hip she and Juli­et had for­med over the ye­ars.

    She’d clim­bed in­to bed with Juli­et twi­ce in the past we­ek.

    “Yes,” she fi­nal­ly sa­id when her da­ugh­ter’s curlf­ra­med fa­ce star­ted to puc­ker with worry. “It ab­so­lu­tely do­es ha­ve to do with all of that.” Comp­le­tely true. If not comp­le­te.

    The va­li­da­ti­on didn’t se­em to re­as­su­re the lit­tle girl. At le­ast not im­me­di­ately. Mary Jane con­ti­nu­ed to study her for se­ve­ral mo­re se­conds. Juli­et’s he­art ac­hed with the things she co­uldn’t chan­ge, a world that was go­ing to hurt her lit­tle girl no mat­ter how di­li­gently she tri­ed to pre­vent it. The­re we­re just so­me things a mot­her co­uldn’t do.

    And she’d tho­ught she’d al­re­ady le­ar­ned all the to­ug­hest les­sons.

    

    THERE WE­RE FO­UR CO­UNTS of theft, fo­ur co­unts of fra­ud due to mis­rep­re­sen­ta­ti­on and one co­unt of cons­pi­racy-all class-two fe­lo­ni­es. Ma­xi­mum sen­ten­ce fo­ur­te­en ye­ars for each. And if the jud­ge ru­led that the sen­ten­ces we­re to be ser­ved con­se­cu­ti­vely, that co­uld me­an one hund­red and twenty-six ye­ars be­hind bars.

    “I’m go­ing to be­at this.” Bla­ke sat on the ed­ge of the up­hols­te­red cha­ir in front of Juli­et’s desk in her of­fi­ce at Tru­man and As­so­ci­ates. Fo­re­arms on his kne­es, he lo­oked down at his clas­ped hands. Lo­oking for strength. He co­uld do this. He just had to fi­gu­re out how.

    Juliet sat back op­po­si­te him, her oli­ve gre­en skirt and jac­ket a comp­le­ment to the not-qu­ite-pink cha­ir.

    Sliding the of­fi­ci­al no­ti­ce in­to the back of a pad­ded le­at­her bin­der, she glan­ced over at him, pen po­ised abo­ve an empty le­gal pad. If not for her lips­tick and skirt, she co­uld ha­ve pas­sed for the pre­si­dent of the Uni­ted Sta­tes, he tho­ught, with that re­gal and con­fi­dent be­aring.

    He was lucky to ha­ve her rep­re­sen­ting him.

    “First things first,” she told him, her vo­ice even, all bu­si­ness. “The ar­ra­ign­ment Fri­day mor­ning. How much do you know abo­ut the pro­cess?”

    Blake mis­sed the warmth, but cal­med in the wa­ke of her pro­fes­si­ona­lism.

    “Absolutely not­hing.”

    “Okay.” She nod­ded, fi­re-lit curls fal­ling over her sho­ul­ders. Bla­ke wo­uld gi­ve al­most anyt­hing to be back ni­ne ye­ars, lo­sing him­self in tho­se curls, ins­te­ad of sit­ting the­re fa­cing pos­sib­le imp­ri­son­ment. “It go­es li­ke this…”

    Blake fo­ught to re­ma­in calm and at­ten­ti­ve as she spent the next ten mi­nu­tes desc­ri­bing the ac­tu­al pro­ce­du­re of the up­co­ming he­aring. As each se­cond pas­sed, a sen­se of calm grew mo­re elu­si­ve. Mo­re than anyt­hing, he ne­eded to be out on the be­ach. Run­ning. As fast and as far as he co­uld.

    “I’m as­su­ming, from all you’ve sa­id, that you in­tend to en­ter a not-gu­ilty plea.”

    “Absolutely.” The­re was a me­asu­re of pe­ace in just sa­ying the word. Of ha­ving even this mi­nu­te bit of cont­rol-this one thing abo­ut which he was comp­le­tely cer­ta­in.

    “And anot­her thing.” He co­uld be cut­ting his own thro­at, but the­re was no ro­om for comp­ro­mi­se on this one. “We do this ho­nestly.”

    Juliet’s fa­ce har­de­ned. “I al­ways tell the truth.”

    Where we­re all the ye­ars’ worth of pe­op­le skills he’d ac­qu­ired when he ne­eded them most?

    “Listen,” he sa­id, rub­bing his hands to­get­her as he le­aned for­ward. “I don’t me­an to of­fend you at all. I just know one thing abo­ut my li­fe and par­ti­cu­larly now, it’s all I ha­ve to stand on. I am al­ways ho­nest. I don’t play with the truth, or tell parts of it. I can lo­se my bu­si­ness, my he­alth, my lo­ved ones. In the end, all I ha­ve is my in­teg­rity and if I wa­ver now when I’m fa­cing the big­gest chal­len­ge ever, then whet­her I be­at the char­ges or not, I’ve lost everyt­hing.”

    The words re­ne­wed his strength. At le­ast for the mo­ment.

    “I un­ders­tand.” Juli­et cros­sed one leg over the ot­her. “And I fe­el just as strongly abo­ut in­teg­rity as you do. I al­so hap­pen to know that the­re are many le­vels of truth and so­me­ti­mes you ha­ve to lo­ok be­yond the ob­vi­o­us to get to the part that co­unts.”

    A lo­gi­cal jus­ti­fi­ca­ti­on for li­ving li­fe in sha­des of gray? Or one of tho­se myste­ri­o­us un­ders­tan­dings that ma­de li­fe rich and full?

    He had no idea. And a lot to think abo­ut.

    Juliet spo­ke then abo­ut re­le­ase con­di­ti­ons.

    Blake’s skin grew cold. Clammy. Af­ter his me­eting with her in his of­fi­ce, he’d im­mer­sed him­self in work. He hadn’t gi­ven any mo­re tho­ught to what hap­pe­ned next. “What do­es that me­an?” He’d as­su­med when they hadn’t al­re­ady ar­res­ted him that he was free, at le­ast un­til af­ter the tri­al.

    “The jud­ge will de­ter­mi­ne at the ar­ra­ign­ment whet­her or not you sho­uld be held on bond and, if so, how much it will be. With the­se char­ges, it co­uld be as much as a mil­li­on dol­lars. You’ll be ta­ken in­to cus­tody un­til the amo­unt is pa­id.”

    God in he­aven, ta­ke me now. Even he co­uldn’t scra­pe up that amo­unt all at on­ce. He’d be ar­res­ted. Sent to ja­il.

    A pen tap­ping lightly on his knee bro­ught his mind back from the abyss he’d be­en re­pe­atedly fal­ling in­to sin­ce Schus­ter’s vi­sit fi­ve days be­fo­re. Juli­et le­aned down, brin­ging her fa­ce di­rectly in front of his. “We don’t want that,” she sa­id, her glossy lips gi­ving him so­met­hing to con­cent­ra­te on. “The ot­her op­ti­on is to re­le­ase you on yo­ur own re­cog­ni­zan­ce. That’s what we want.”

    His own re­cog­ni­zan­ce. Bla­ke li­ked the so­und of that. He co­uld hand­le that.

    Still bent over, he lo­oked up at her. “How do­es that hap­pen?”

    She sat back, her eyes ste­ady as she watc­hed him. “Ho­pe­ful­ly the pro­se­cu­tor will re­com­mend it.”

    “Schuster?”

    She nod­ded. “I sus­pect that’s what will hap­pen. Con­si­de­ring the facts, it sho­uld. If for so­me re­ason it do­esn’t, then it’s up to me to con­vin­ce the jud­ge that it wo­uld be ap­prop­ri­ate for you to be re­le­ased wit­ho­ut bond.”

    His ga­ze didn’t wa­ver. “Can you do it?”

    He’d fe­el a lot bet­ter if she’d smi­led right then. “I’ll do my best, but we co­uld be hurt by the fact that you left the co­untry for fo­ur ye­ars wit­ho­ut a sing­le vi­sit. To co­un­te­ract that, I ne­ed to know everyt­hing the­re is to know abo­ut every sing­le tie you ha­ve to this com­mu­nity. Yo­ur ad­dress, whet­her or not you own yo­ur ho­me, for how long, yo­ur exact job tit­le and whe­re you stand with Rams­den En­terp­ri­ses, any ot­her pro­perty you own, emp­lo­ye­es you ha­ve, lo­cal fa­mily, fri­ends.”

    Blake sat up. Fi­nal­ly so­met­hing to do. “I’ll tell you wha­te­ver you want to know.”

    And he did. He ow­ned his ho­me, had be­en in re­si­den­ce the­re-cam­ping at first-sin­ce const­ruc­ti­on be­gan fi­ve ye­ars be­fo­re. He was ow­ner and CEO of Rams­den, which was a nons­tock com­pany with an imp­res­si­ve ye­ar-end bot­tom li­ne. In ad­di­ti­on to his own ho­me, he ow­ned se­ve­ral pro­per­ti­es that we­re be­ing de­ve­lo­ped, he had mo­re than one hund­red emp­lo­ye­es, many mo­re sub­cont­rac­tors he knew well and trus­ted, many ac­qu­a­in­tan­ces, no li­ving re­la­ti­ves anyw­he­re, not many clo­se fri­ends. Ex­cept Don­kor and Jami­la Rah­man.

    “They’re he­re, lo­cal­ly?”

    Blake sho­ok his he­ad. “Egypt.”

    Sighing, Juli­et sa­id, “The idea is to con­vin­ce the jud­ge you’re go­ing to stay he­re, not flee to fri­ends on anot­her con­ti­nent,” she told him. And then, lo­oking up with the fa­mi­li­ar warmth in her eyes, as­ked, “When was the last ti­me you saw them?”

    “A lit­tle over three we­eks ago. At Amu­net’s fu­ne­ral.”

    “And be­fo­re that?”

    “A few ye­ars. But we’re in to­uch re­gu­larly.”

    “Once the tri­al gets go­ing, wo­uld they be wil­ling to tes­tify on yo­ur be­half?”

    Fly ac­ross the world to co­me to his aid?

    “Yes.” Anot­her cer­ta­inty.

    Blake hadn’t even tho­ught abo­ut Don­kor fin­ding out abo­ut all of this. His emp­lo­ye­es, cus­to­mers and bu­si­ness as­so­ci­ates didn’t even know yet. But they all wo­uld. So­on eno­ugh, too so­on, ever­yo­ne was go­ing to know that Bla­ke Rams­den was on tri­al for ni­ne co­unts of fe­lo­ni­o­us cri­mes. Even if he was ab­le to pro­ve his in­no­cen­ce, that stig­ma wo­uld ne­ver comp­le­tely go away. The­re wo­uld be so­me who wo­uldn’t for­get.

    Some who wo­uld al­ways ha­ve do­ubts abo­ut him.

    He’d do­ne not­hing but work hard, pay his bills and tell the truth. Yet, in the spa­ce of a few days, his ima­ge, his re­pu­ta­ti­on and his li­fe had be­en ir­re­vo­cably chan­ged.

    

    “MY MOM AL­WAYS tells the truth!”

    Pumping as hard as she co­uld, Mary Jane tri­ed to get high eno­ugh not to he­ar what that stu­pid Jeff Tur­ner was sa­ying. She sho­ul­da’ pic­ked the mon­key bars for re­cess ins­te­ad of the swings. No one was on the mon­key bars.

    “She do­es not.” Jeff’s fa­ce, al­most as high as hers, whiz­zed past. “She says stuff…” He pas­sed aga­in.

    “…in co­urt that gets cri­mi­nals…”

    “…out of ja­il.”

    She was too high to let go of the cha­ins to put her hands over her ears.

    “Shut up, Jeff!” She hol­le­red so lo­ud it ma­de her thro­at sting.

    “It’s the truth,” Jeff yel­led right back.

    Mary Jane lo­oked the ot­her way when he pas­sed. “I as­ked my dad,” he sa­id.

    She he­ard his words any­way. The girls she wis­hed we­re her fri­ends we­re pla­ying fo­ur squ­are on the black­top. She co­uld he­ar them cal­ling to each ot­her. And la­ug­hing.

    “Then yo­ur dad li­es,” Mary Jane scre­amed, just fed up with…everyt­hing. Hu­man be­ings we­re just too hard to know. Put­ting her fe­et down in the dirt, she to­ok the ini­ti­al bump from fast to slow with only a small jerk at the back of her neck.

    Jeff was slo­wing, too. Oh, no. If he was go­ing to fol­low her aro­und and say stuff that ma­de her mad then she was go­ing to go in­si­de even if she wasn’t al­lo­wed to at re­cess. May­be she co­uld go to the nur­se and get her tem­pe­ra­tu­re ta­ken.

    Mary Jane’s fe­et slid in the dirt, sen­ding up a clo­ud of dust on­to her fa­vo­ri­te whi­te je­ans with the lit­tle blue but­terf­li­es stitc­hed all over them. She wo­uldn’t tell the nur­se she was sick, be­ca­use she wasn’t. But she co­uld ask to ha­ve her tem­pe­ra­tu­re ta­ken.

    And if that didn’t work, may­be she’d ha­ve to skin her knee on the black­top. That had got­ten her out of re­cess on­ce at her ot­her scho­ol be­fo­re this one.

    “Mary Jane’s mot­her is a li­ar!” the me­an skinny freck­le-fa­ced boy sa­id as they both ca­me to a stop.

    Mary Jane sto­od up, her fa­ce hot. “My mot­her do­es not lie!” She scre­amed even tho­ugh she was stop­ped now.

    “Does too!”

    “Does not!”

    “Does too!”

    “You ta­ke that back, Jeff Tur­ner.”

    “She li­es and lets cri­mi­nals go free and then they hurt pe­op­le.”

    “Take that back!”

    “No way,” the boy sa­id, grin­ning in a re­al­ly me­an way that ma­de Mary Jane want to hit him in the fa­ce. “Yo­ur mot­her li­es!”

    Stamping her fo­ot, her ten­nis shoe kic­king up mo­re dust, Mary Jane grit­ted her te­eth. “She do­es not lie.” She had to get away from him. She was af­ra­id she was go­ing to cry.

    Because she knew her mot­her didn’t lie. Ever. But she was very sca­red the­re was so­met­hing her mot­her wasn’t tel­ling her. So­met­hing big and im­por­tant and bad. She’d be­en ac­ting we­ird for days and then got that call the mor­ning be­fo­re, du­ring bre­ak­fast, and then she was even we­ir­der last night.

    “She do­es, and so do you!” Jeff sa­id, put­ting his fa­ce so clo­se to hers, so­me of his spit lan­ded on her chin.

    “Gross! Get away from me,” she hol­le­red at him, pus­hing at his sho­ul­der.

    Jeff’s hand flew out, pus­hing back. Hard. Mary Jane lan­ded on her bot­tom, hands out be­hind her. Jeff wal­ked past just le­aving her the­re, and Mary Jane kic­ked him. She didn’t me­an to. But he was me­an, and too clo­se and he was just go­ing to get away with sa­ying all tho­se hor­rib­le things.

    When he tur­ned aro­und and kic­ked her back, she grab­bed his fo­ot and he fell.

    And that was when Mrs. Thac­ker ca­me out and saw them.

    Mary Jane fro­ze, her shin, whe­re Jeff had kic­ked her, stin­ging. Wa­iting in fe­ar, she watc­hed her te­ac­her ap­pro­ach. She was go­ing to be sent to Mrs. Cum­mings aga­in. May­be even get kic­ked out of scho­ol. And all she’d wan­ted to do was swing and ha­ve re­cess be over so she didn’t ha­ve to watch tho­se girls play fo­ur squ­are.

    All she ever wan­ted to do was be go­od. So why was she al­ways in so much tro­ub­le?

    

    DRESSED IN HER red po­wer su­it, as Mary Jane had cal­led it ever sin­ce he­aring her mot­her say it one ti­me on the pho­ne to Mar­cie, Juli­et sho­wed up at the Ca­li­for­nia Su­pe­ri­or Co­urt Bu­il­ding in San Di­ego at eight-twenty Fri­day mor­ning. She’d ho­ped to be the­re so­oner but had had anot­her me­eting with the in­ti­mi­da­ting Mrs. Cum­mings.

    Surprisingly eno­ugh, this vi­sit had not be­en so one-si­ded. Mr. Jef­frey Tur­ner had be­en ma­de to apo­lo­gi­ze not only to Mary Jane for pus­hing her down, but to Juli­et for the slur on her go­od na­me.

    And Juli­et felt sick. Her on­ce joy­ful, easy­go­ing da­ugh­ter had be­en in a fight at scho­ol with a boy. The fact that the boy had be­en slan­de­ring Juli­et was no exp­la­na­ti­on. Mary Jane had al­ways be­en gif­ted with an abi­lity to let things sli­de off her too-skin­ny sho­ul­ders.

    The child was hol­ding far too much ten­si­on in­si­de, if so­met­hing as unim­por­tant as an ob­vi­o­usly inac­cu­ra­te slur aga­inst her mot­her co­uld trig­ger such un­cont­rol­lab­le be­ha­vi­or.

    “Hi.” Surp­ri­sing how he co­uld exp­ress such re­li­ef with one word. Or may­be it was the lo­ok in Bla­ke’s eyes as he ap­pro­ac­hed her in the fo­yer out­si­de the­ir co­urt­ro­om that told the story.

    “Good. Brown su­it, be­ige shirt, se­da­te tie, just li­ke I as­ked,” she sa­id, lo­oking him over from a pu­rely pro­fes­si­onal stand­po­int. Brown was an earth co­lor, and ins­til­led fe­elings of de­pen­da­bi­lity and so­li­dity.

    “I shi­ned my sho­es, too,” he sa­id, his at­tempt at a grin fal­ling only a lit­tle short.

    “And a fi­ne job you did,” she sa­id, ta­king a bre­ath de­ep eno­ugh to dis­tan­ce her­self from the tro­ub­le with her da­ugh­ter, as she sta­red down at the brown le­at­her wing­tips.

    Blake sig­hed, sho­ved his hands in the poc­kets of his slacks. “I gu­ess we sho­uld go in.”

    She squ­e­ezed his el­bow. “Re­lax, we’ll be fi­ne. The most im­por­tant thing is to ap­pe­ar co­ope­ra­ti­ve whi­le ema­na­ting con­fi­den­ce in yo­ur in­no­cen­ce.”

    “Yes, ma’am,” he sa­id. And then, with a lo­ok of qu­i­et con­cern, “Is the­re a re­ason why, if you’re so cer­ta­in this will go well, you’re so ten­se yo­ur­self? This has to be all in a day’s work for you.”

    She was go­ing to ha­ve to do bet­ter than this. The first day and al­re­ady he was re­ading things she didn’t want him to see. “Just ca­me from ar­gu­ing anot­her ca­se with anot­her jud­ge-so to spe­ak.”

    He frow­ned. “You’ve al­re­ady be­en in co­urt this mor­ning?”

    “No,” Juli­et gu­ided them to­ward the he­avy wo­oden do­or of the co­urt­ro­om. “I was in her of­fi­ce.”

    Blake held the do­or for her, al­lo­wing Juli­et to en­ter be­fo­re him. She pas­sed be­ne­ath his arm, clo­se eno­ugh to fe­el the he­at from his body, and in that se­cond, the worry of the mor­ning set­tled in­to so­met­hing mo­re ma­na­ge­ab­le.

    Which wor­ri­ed Juli­et. A lot.

    

    

    BLAKE TO­OK IN the co­urt­ro­om with one glan­ce. It was smal­ler than he’d ex­pec­ted. Or per­haps just too clo­se for him.

    She’d told him the­re’d be anyw­he­re from thirty to ni­nety pe­op­le-de­fen­dants, pro­se­cu­tors and de­fen­se at­tor­neys. Ar­ra­ign­ments we­re do­ne all at on­ce on cer­ta­in mor­nings, ten to thirty at a ti­me, and the co­urt dist­ri­bu­ted a press re­le­ase so at le­ast the­re’d be no re­por­ters. Each ar­ra­ign­ment wo­uld ta­ke ap­pro­xi­ma­tely two mi­nu­tes. He was pre­pa­red.

    Juliet mo­ti­oned him to ta­ke a se­at in one of the back rows and he gladly ob­li­ged. He pre­fer­red to ha­ve everyt­hing in front of him, whe­re he co­uld see it. And he ap­pre­ci­ated that she’d so­me­how known that, or at le­ast stumb­led unk­no­wingly on his first cho­ice.

    The jud­ge’s bench was empty. Too bad it co­uldn’t re­ma­in that way. For a mo­ment, Bla­ke was back in fo­urth gra­de, may­be ni­ne or ten, sit­ting in a cha­ir in the wa­iting ro­om of the den­tist’s of­fi­ce, wa­iting for his na­me to be cal­led. He’d be­en the­re to ha­ve a ca­vity fil­led and the idea of ha­ving a ne­ed­le po­ked in­to his mo­uth had be­en tra­uma­ti­zing him for days. He’d tri­ed to spe­ak with his fat­her abo­ut his fe­ars, abo­ut the risks of le­aving the ca­vity un­fil­led. The old man had la­ug­hed at him. Told him it was me­rely a ca­se of mind over mat­ter and as a son of his, Bla­ke wo­uld mas­ter that in no ti­me.

    Just think abo­ut ba­se­ball, his fat­her had told him.

    Blake ha­ted ba­se­ball.

    “They’ll do any ‘in cus­todys’ first,” Juli­et le­aned over to whis­per. She smel­led he­avenly-an ar­tis­tic cross bet­we­en se­duc­ti­ve and in­no­cent. She’d ob­vi­o­usly switc­hed to a much mo­re ex­pen­si­ve per­fu­me than the simp­le musk she’d worn ni­ne ye­ars be­fo­re.

    Registering what she’d sa­id, Bla­ke lo­oked over the thirty or so he­ads in front of them. “In cus­todys?” he re­pe­ated.

    Paul Schus­ter wal­ked in, pre­ten­ded not to see them and to­ok a se­at on the op­po­si­te si­de of the ro­om, one row up.

    “The de­fen­dants who’re loc­ked up,” Juli­et sa­id, pul­ling his at­ten­ti­on back to her.

    He lo­oked aro­und but didn’t see any hand­cuf­fs. Or gu­ards, eit­her.

    “If the­re are any, they’ll be do­ne via con­fe­ren­ce call. We’ll just lis­ten,” she sa­id. He nod­ded and wis­hed she’d just ke­ep tal­king to him. As hor­rib­le as the mor­ning was, Bla­ke was glad to ha­ve her the­re be­si­de him. Her pre­sen­ce cal­med him.

    Some pe­op­le at the front of the ro­om sto­od. “All ri­se.”

    After be­ing an­no­un­ced, the jud­ge en­te­red and sat. So did Bla­ke. And he had the tho­ught that he’d li­ke to ke­ep right on sit­ting the­re, fe­eling Juli­et’s warmth, un­til it was ti­me to go ho­me.

    The oce­an bec­ko­ned.

    

    HIS LEGS STIFF, Bla­ke sat stra­ight as yet anot­her two­so­me-attor­ney and cli­ent-fi­led out of the ro­om. This ti­me the ac­cu­sed had be­en a wo­man in her mid-thir­ti­es, ac­cu­sed of drug and child abu­se. He wasn’t su­re he be­li­eved her not-gu­ilty plea. Jud­ging by the im­per­so­nal lo­ok on her at­tor­ney’s fa­ce, he wasn’t su­re that man did eit­her.

    He, Juli­et and Schus­ter we­re the only ones left in the ro­om. At le­ast he’d be­en spa­red an audi­en­ce to his hu­mi­li­ati­on.

    Blake’s ner­ves hum­med. He itc­hed to run. Ne­ver, in all the ye­ars li­ving un­der his fat­her’s ru­le, had he felt this trap­ped.

    “Blake Rams­den,” the brown-ha­ired jud­ge cal­led, lo­oking over a pa­ir of re­ading glas­ses to the al­most-empty ro­om.

    Juliet was slightly in front of him as Bla­ke ap­pro­ac­hed the bench and sto­od. Af­ter ob­ta­ining a do­cu­ment of se­ve­ral pa­ges from the co­urt clerk, Juli­et re­j­o­ined him. Schus­ter ca­me up last, stan­ding on the ot­her si­de of Juli­et.

    Just as he had for every ot­her de­fen­dant be­fo­re Bla­ke, Jud­ge Henry John­son re­ad Bla­ke his rights. The man lo­oked fri­endly eno­ugh, not mo­re than forty or forty-fi­ve, very few frown li­nes.

    Pulling off his glas­ses, Jud­ge John­son lo­oked stra­ight at Bla­ke, his exp­res­si­on se­ri­o­us. “How do you ple­ad?”

    Blake sto­od si­lently, as he’d be­en told to do.

    “My cli­ent ple­ads not gu­ilty, Yo­ur Ho­nor.”

    Judge John­son wro­te so­met­hing down, then lif­ted so­me pa­pers and lo­oked over at his clerk, who was glan­cing at the com­pu­ter scre­en in front of her. She jot­ted so­met­hing on a lit­tle pi­ece of pa­per and han­ded it to the jud­ge. Just as she had for every ot­her ca­se they’d watc­hed that mor­ning.

    “Trial is set for July twenty-third, 8:30 a.m.,” he sa­id. Al­most three months away, just as Juli­et had pre­dic­ted.

    The jud­ge glan­ced up aga­in, his ga­ze skim­ming over Bla­ke and Juli­et to land on Schus­ter. “Let’s talk abo­ut re­le­ase con­di­ti­ons.”

    “Due to the fact that the de­fen­dant spent fo­ur ye­ars out of the co­untry wit­ho­ut so much as a vi­sit to his el­derly pa­rents, ad­ded to the fact that he has no lo­cal fa­mily, the sta­te re­com­mends that the de­fen­dant be de­ta­ined, Yo­ur Ho­nor. And be­ca­use the­re is at le­ast one mil­li­on dol­lars sit­ting in an ac­co­unt in the de­fen­dant’s na­me in the Cay­man Is­lands, we are as­king that Bla­ke Rams­den be held on a mil­li­on-dol­lar bond.”

    A ra­zor-sharp pa­in shot thro­ugh Bla­ke’s chest. He’d be­en pre­pa­red, do­ne what he co­uld, but most of his mo­ney wasn’t li­qu­id. They we­re go­ing to ta­ke him away from that ro­om and lock him up. He’d be­en tel­ling him­self all mor­ning that he just had to get thro­ugh two mi­nu­tes and then he’d be on his way to the be­ach. And back in his of­fi­ce, wor­king, by no­on. Juli­et hadn’t ex­pec­ted them to hold him.

    Ignoring Bla­ke, the jud­ge tur­ned to Juli­et. “Ms. McNe­il?”

    She ig­no­red Bla­ke, too. Did that me­an she wasn’t go­ing to be ab­le to help him out of this one?

    His first ti­me up to bat and al­re­ady he was stri­king out. He’d al­ways struck out when his fat­her had drag­ged him off to Lit­tle Le­ague prac­ti­ce, too.

    Track had be­en his sport, not that his fat­her had ever no­ti­ced. It wasn’t ne­arly as much of a spec­ta­tor sport. Due to Bla­ke’s grand­fat­her’s re­qu­ire­ment that Wal­ter work af­ter scho­ol from the eighth gra­de on, spec­ta­ting was the only kind of ath­le­tics Wal­ter Rams­den had be­en ab­le to par­ti­ci­pa­te in.

    Dad, if you’re aro­und anyw­he­re, ke­eping that watch­ful eye on things, I co­uld su­re use so­me help, just this on­ce.

    “Your Ho­nor, with all due res­pect, I be­li­eve that Mr. Schus­ter grossly un­de­res­ti­ma­tes my cli­ent’s ti­es to this com­mu­nity,” Juli­et sa­id. She mo­ved one step clo­ser to Bla­ke and his bre­at­hing ca­me just a bit easi­er. She might not be ab­le to get him out of this, but she was he­re. Sup­por­ting him.

    “He owns a ho­me, sir, on a cliff over­lo­oking the oce­an in La Jol­la. He’s re­si­ded the­re for fi­ve ye­ars and it is his only re­si­den­ce.” Juli­et spo­ke as tho­ugh her cli­ent ow­ned a por­ti­on of he­aven and co­uld the­re­fo­re be trus­ted.

    The ac­tu­al facts didn’t so­und li­ke much to Bla­ke, but it was all he’d gi­ven her to work with. She’d do everyt­hing she co­uld. And she was the best.

    “He is al­so the so­le ow­ner of a very suc­ces­sful com­pany he­re in San Di­ego, with mo­re than one hund­red emp­lo­ye­es and sub­cont­rac­tors all over the sta­te. And whi­le he has no lo­cal fa­mily, sir, he has no fa­mily anyw­he­re el­se, eit­her, to whom he might be temp­ted to re­turn.” Her vo­ice didn’t ri­se or get dra­ma­tic, yet ma­in­ta­ined a no­te of con­vic­ti­on.

    “Mr. Rams­den has many, many ac­qu­a­in­tan­ces and fri­ends in this city, sir, inc­lu­ding the ma­yor, with whom he was sche­du­led to ha­ve bre­ak­fast this mor­ning. San Di­ego is whe­re he was born and ra­ised. Ot­her than an edu­ca­ti­onal stint ab­ro­ad, en­co­ura­ged and, in part, fun­ded by his fat­her, he has ne­ver left this city for mo­re than the du­ra­ti­on of a fa­mily va­ca­ti­on. His li­fe is he­re, sir. I be­li­eve that, in light of the­se ti­es to his com­mu­nity, Mr. Rams­den sho­uld be re­le­ased on his own re­cog­ni­zan­ce, sir. I can per­so­nal­ly gu­aran­tee that he will be pre­sent and re­ady to fa­ce char­ges at eight-thirty in the mor­ning on the twenty-third of July.”

    Blake sta­red.

    She was a wo­man. Be­a­uti­ful. Soft. Com­pas­si­ona­te. And she was a bar­ra­cu­da, da­ring an­yo­ne to di­sag­ree with the ob­vi­o­us. Bla­ke ima­gi­ned she’d in­ti­mi­da­ted many pe­op­le over the ye­ars.

    He didn’t fi­gu­re Tho­mas for one of them.

    The jud­ge lo­oked him over. Put on his glas­ses aga­in. Re­ad so­met­hing in front of him.

    “Very well, Co­un­se­lor, I will ta­ke yo­ur word that Mr. Rams­den will ap­pe­ar as or­de­red. Ple­ase ad­vi­se yo­ur cli­ent that he is not to le­ave the sta­te. And Ms. McNe­il, if he do­es not ap­pe­ar back in this co­urt on the da­te and at the ti­me de­sig­na­ted, you’d bet­ter not ask this co­urt to ta­ke yo­ur word for anyt­hing-ever aga­in.”

    “Thank you, Yo­ur Ho­nor.” Juli­et didn’t crack a smi­le.

    Blake did.

    

    JULIET SET ASI­DE the en­ti­re we­ekend to spend with her da­ugh­ter. From the ti­me she pic­ked her up from scho­ol on Fri­day-as she did most af­ter­no­ons un­less she had a la­te day in co­urt, when Du­ane Wil­son’s wi­fe, Don­na, did the ho­nors-until she drop­ped the child back at scho­ol on Mon­day mor­ning, she was go­ing to la­vish every bit of at­ten­ti­on she had on Mary Jane McNe­il.

    And so­me­ti­me du­ring that sixty-fi­ve-ho­ur pe­ri­od, she was go­ing to tell her da­ugh­ter abo­ut her ne­west cli­ent.

    She wasn’t su­re it was the right, the best or the fa­irest thing to do. She just knew she co­uldn’t ke­ep the ap­po­int­ment she had with Bla­ke Rams­den on Mon­day mor­ning to dis­cuss his ca­se and co­me up with a plan un­less she’d co­me cle­an. Mary Jane had be­en wil­ling to fight to pro­tect her mot­her’s ho­nesty.

    Juliet had no cho­ice but to do the sa­me.

    She’d in­ten­ded to tell her lit­tle girl on Fri­day night, but af­ter din­ner out at a lo­cal ham­bur­ger jo­int-Mary Jane’s cho­ice-the child had be­en ta­ken with a fit of the gig­gles that had set the to­ne for the rest of the eve­ning. They’d ren­ted a silly mo­vie, spil­led pop­corn in Juli­et’s bed whi­le watc­hing it and do­ne each ot­her’s ha­ir, and Juli­et had pa­in­ted Mary Jane’s fa­ce.

    It had be­en just what the doc­tor wo­uld’ve or­de­red, had he be­en as­ked, Juli­et de­ci­ded early Sa­tur­day mor­ning, sta­ring at the smo­oth and be­a­uti­ful fe­atu­res of the child sle­eping so pe­ace­ful­ly be­si­de her. Mary Jane’s curls spi­ra­led aro­und her he­ad li­ke a dark ha­lo. The lit­tle girl’s ro­un­ded no­se and full swe­et lips al­most bro­ught te­ars to her eyes.

    God, gi­ve me the words to tell her abo­ut Bla­ke in a way that ma­kes it okay for her.

    She’d sa­id this sa­me pra­yer se­ve­ral ti­mes du­ring the pre­vi­o­us night, hol­ding the child aga­inst her whi­le she slept. She’d do anyt­hing for Mary Jane. It was just damn to­ugh, so­me­ti­mes, to know the best thing to do.

    Give her a co­urt of a law, an in­ti­mi­da­ting jud­ge, a dis­ho­nest pro­se­cu­tor, a wrong­ful­ly ac­cu­sed mur­de­rer, and she was fi­ne. Gi­ve her a fifty-po­und child with springy curls and eyes just li­ke her own, and she had no idea what to do. The­re’d be­en no deg­ree to get in mot­her­ho­od. No Mary Jane ma­nu­al.

    And Juli­et had ne­ver be­en com­for­tab­le with just win­ging it.

    The pho­ne rang and she pa­nic­ked un­til she re­ali­zed it was her ho­me pho­ne, not her cell. Bla­ke Rams­den didn’t ha­ve ac­cess to the un­lis­ted num­ber.

    She re­ac­hed over her still-sle­eping da­ugh­ter for the re­ce­iver on the nights­tand.

    “Hello?”

    “Jules? Did I wa­ke you?”

    Juliet stretc­hed. Grin­ned. “No, but I’m still in bed,” she told her twin. “Mary Jane’s he­re, too.” The three McNe­il wo­men, to­get­her, at le­ast in a sen­se. Her day was comp­le­te and it had only be­gun.

    The lit­tle girl mo­aned, tur­ned over.

    “I ne­ed to talk to you.”

    Juliet’s smi­le fa­ded. With one last lo­ok to ma­ke su­re that Mary Jane hadn’t awa­ke­ned, she slid out of bed.

    “What’s up?” she as­ked softly, tip­to­e­ing out of the bed­ro­om with the cord­less pho­ne and down the hall to the kitc­hen. Nor­mal­ly Mary Jane co­uld sle­ep thro­ugh an earth­qu­ake-except, of co­ur­se, for tho­se few ti­mes when Juli­et ne­eded the child to stay as­le­ep. She se­emed to ha­ve so­me kind of sen­sor that aler­ted her to tho­se.

    “I…I…” Mar­cie hic­cu­ped.

    “Marce? Talk to me.” Juli­et’s vo­ice was firm, but it hid a he­art full of fe­ar. If Hank had hurt her…

    “You aren’t sick, are you?” She held her bre­ath un­til she knew. Anyt­hing el­se they co­uld hand­le.

    “No.”

    “You’re su­re?”

    “Positive.”

    Okay. Her sis­ter was tal­king. One-answer qu­es­ti­ons se­emed to be the trick. “Is it Hank?”

    “No.” The word bro­ke on anot­her hic­cup.

    “If he did anyt­hing…”

    “He didn’t.” Mar­cie’s words we­re qu­ick. Too qu­ick?

    “He do­esn’t know…”

    “Know what?”

    “Jules?” Mar­cie’s ge­ne­ral­ly cont­rol­led to­ne ro­se in a wa­il.

    Juliet sank to a cha­ir at the kitc­hen tab­le, sta­ring out at the oce­an. The­re had be­en ti­mes in her li­fe when that vi­ew had be­en the only thing that sa­ved her. Its vast­ness and strength, its vi­ta­lity, and its un­wa­ve­ring exis­ten­ce al­ways hel­ped put li­fe in pers­pec­ti­ve. “Ye­ah, Mar­ce, I’m right he­re.”

    “Are you busy?” At se­ven o’clock on a Sa­tur­day mor­ning?

    “No.”

    “Can I fly down?”

    Juliet’s sto­mach knot­ted. “Of co­ur­se. You got a flight or you ne­ed me to call for one?”

    “I’ve got one.” She na­med a flight that left San Fran­cis­co in a lit­tle un­der three ho­urs.

    That was go­od then. If her sis­ter was ca­pab­le of ma­king flight plans, things co­uldn’t be all that bad. Co­uld they?

    “You go­ing to ma­ke me wa­it un­til you get he­re to tell me what’s go­ing on?”

    “Nooo…” Mar­cie’s hic­cup stra­yed to a sob. “Oh, God, Jules, I can’t be­li­eve, af­ter everyt­hing…”

    “What?”

    “I can’t be­li­eve I’ve be­en so stu­pid.”

    What co­uld be so dif­fi­cult to talk abo­ut? Juli­et twis­ted a fin­ger in her ha­ir, so­met­hing she hadn’t do­ne sin­ce she’d be­en a first-ye­ar law­yer and le­ar­ned that the ges­tu­re was a sign of in­ner we­ak­ness.

    “You’ve do­ne so­met­hing?”

    “I…I…I can’t se­em to tell you, Jules. You’re ne­ver go­ing to be­li­eve I was this stu­pid.”

    “Just say it.” Juli­et fo­ught the ten­si­on grip­ping her, so that she co­uld gi­ve her sis­ter the em­pathy she so cle­arly ne­eded.

    Something she’d be a lot bet­ter equ­ip­ped to do if she knew what she was trying to be em­pat­he­tic abo­ut.

    “Is it abo­ut mo­ney?” She cros­sed her fin­gers. That wo­uld be an easy fix.

    “No.”

    And then so­met­hing a lit­tle mo­re hor­ri­fic oc­cur­red to her. “You aren’t in tro­ub­le with the law, are you?”

    “No.” Mar­cie al­most chuck­led, but hic­cu­ped ins­te­ad. “Of co­ur­se not.”

    Juliet la­id her che­ek on her hand. Her vo­ice lo­we­red, sof­te­ned. “Tell me.”

    “I’m…pregnant.”

    Juliet’s en­ti­re body stif­fe­ned. Her skin felt hot. And then cold. The pho­ne star­ted to slip from her hand.

    “Say so­met­hing.”

    She wo­uld. As so­on as she co­uld think.

    “I lo­ve you.”

    Inane, may­be, but it was all she co­uld co­me up with.

    “I lo­ve you, too,” Mar­cie sa­id, and snif­fled.

    “Hey, Mar­ce, don’t cry.” Her sis­ter’s te­ars bro­ught Juli­et’s mind at le­ast par­ti­al­ly back to ac­ti­on. “We’ll get thro­ugh this. You know we will. We al­ways do. To­get­her.”

    The as­su­ran­ce was as much for her­self as for her sis­ter. “You’re co­ming he­re. That’s the right cho­ice.”

    She had to get Mar­cie out of Map­le Gro­ve. Away from set­tling for li­fe in a tra­iler, ra­ising a child alo­ne only to ha­ve the child go off and find a bet­ter li­fe, a ful­ler li­fe, le­aving Mar­cie with not­hing but a bot­tle of sle­eping pills and a bath­tub fil­led with bub­bles…

    “It’s only for the we­ekend,” Mar­cie sa­id. “I ha­ve to open the shop on Mon­day.”

    “Who ca­res abo­ut the shop?” Juli­et sa­id, half-cra­zed with pa­nic and half-de­ter­mi­ned to ta­ke cont­rol and ma­ke su­re that they all li­ved hap­pily ever af­ter.

    “I do.”

    Yes. She knew that. “I’m sorry, Mar­ce. It’s just a bit of a shock, you know?”

    “Tell me abo­ut it.” The droll to­ne didn’t era­se the te­ars in Mar­cie’s vo­ice, but it hel­ped calm Juli­et any­way.

    “Okay, did I he­ar you say Hank do­esn’t know?”

    “Yeah.”

    Good. That ga­ve them ti­me to fi­gu­re things out be­fo­re Mar­ce was pul­led in ways she might not want to go. As the­ir mot­her had be­en.

    “And you aren’t plan­ning to tell him? At le­ast not this mor­ning, be­fo­re you fly out?”

    “No. I don’t know what I’m go­ing to do.”

    What did that me­an?

    “You’re ha­ving the baby, right?” She co­uldn’t be­li­eve she was as­king.

    “Of co­ur­se.”

    “And ke­eping it?” Ne­it­her of them wo­uld ever con­si­der anyt­hing el­se. They’d be­en aban­do­ned by a pa­rent. Twi­ce.

    “Of co­ur­se.”

    “Good, so go pack, get down he­re, and we’ll fi­gu­re out the rest.”

    “Okay.” A lo­ud snif­fle so­un­ded aga­in.

    Juliet watc­hed wa­ves roll on­to the be­ach in the dis­tan­ce, won­de­ring how many ge­ne­ra­ti­ons of ba­bi­es had be­en born, how many ge­ne­ra­ti­ons of pe­op­le had di­ed, whi­le that wa­ter just kept right on rol­ling in and out.

    “How long ha­ve you known?”

    “The ti­me it to­ok for you to ans­wer yo­ur pho­ne,” Mar­cie sa­id, spe­aking the en­ti­re sen­ten­ce wit­ho­ut a sob. “I knew I’d be in tro­ub­le if what I sus­pec­ted was true, so I ma­de the pla­ne re­ser­va­ti­on, di­aled yo­ur num­ber on my cell pho­ne and wa­ited un­til I got the re­sults be­fo­re I hit send.”

    That so­un­ded mo­re li­ke the Mar­cie she knew.

    “I’m only abo­ut a month along. I bo­ught the test fo­ur days ago,” her twin con­ti­nu­ed, ap­pa­rently ne­eding to get things out now that she co­uld spe­ak. “Every night I told myself I’d do it, but I just kept thin­king that ig­no­ran­ce was bet­ter than the truth. I gu­ess I was pro­bably just wa­iting un­til I was free to fly down.”

    The fact that Mar­cie had ne­eded to co­me to San Di­ego du­ring her ti­me of cri­sis was not lost on Juli­et. Her sis­ter might be mo­re awa­re, less li­ke the­ir mot­her, than Juli­et had be­gun to fe­ar the­se last co­up­le of ye­ars. She just ne­eded a lo­ving bo­ost to gi­ve her the co­ura­ge to ta­ke tho­se first frigh­te­ning steps out of Map­le Gro­ve and the fal­se sen­se of se­cu­rity she had fo­und the­re.

    “Does Hank know you’re co­ming he­re?”

    “Not yet. I plan­ned to call him from the air­port.”

    “You’re dri­ving yo­ur­self in?”

    “Yeah.” Mar­cie sig­hed, so­un­ding ex­ha­us­ted, which she pro­bably was. Re­mem­be­ring back to her own trip in­to this sa­me hell, Juli­et do­ub­ted that her sis­ter had slept mo­re than a few rest­less ho­urs all we­ek. “I know it’s mo­re ex­pen­si­ve to park the car, but I want the ti­me alo­ne.”

    “I un­ders­tand.”

    “I got­ta go if I’m go­ing to ma­ke my flight,” Mar­cie sa­id, her vo­ice we­ake­ning aga­in.

    “Okay. Be sa­fe, Mar­ce. I’ll be right he­re wa­iting for you. You aren’t alo­ne, you know? You aren’t ever alo­ne.”

    “I know.”

    “And whi­le you’re on that pla­ne?”

    “Yeah?”

    “Think abo­ut not­hing but what an inc­re­dib­le joy Mary Jane has be­en all the­se ye­ars.”

    “You’d do it all aga­in, wo­uldn’t you?”

    “Absolutely,” Juli­et sa­id.

    It was abo­ut the only thing she knew for su­re.

    

    

    THE PA­PERS ON THE DESK in front of him we­re just as he’d left them. Sa­me is­su­es. Sa­me unans­we­red qu­es­ti­ons. Sa­me re­qu­ests.

    There was se­cu­rity in that.

    Filled with what felt li­ke a he­althy do­se of de­ter­mi­na­ti­on, Bla­ke sat be­hind his desk Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on, fe­eling bet­ter equ­ip­ped to fa­ce what was to co­me. It was the first ti­me he’d be­en to the of­fi­ce sin­ce the ar­ra­ign­ment. He’d in­ten­ded to co­me the day be­fo­re, to carry on as tho­ugh it we­re bu­si­ness as usu­al-par­ti­al­ly to con­vin­ce him­self it was. But in the end, he hadn’t be­en ab­le to ma­ke him­self do it.

    He’d cal­led Lee An­ne to let her know he’d be in on Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on and to ask her to le­ave anyt­hing that ne­eded his im­me­di­ate at­ten­ti­on on his desk. He’d spent Fri­day at the oce­an ins­te­ad. Run­ning on the be­ach, strol­ling along the wa­ter’s ed­ge with the se­agul­ls, let­ting the wa­ves wash over his ba­re fe­et, sit­ting in the sand watc­hing the ti­de roll in, skip­ping rocks. He’d even bo­ught a tic­ket for one of the to­urist cru­ises and had din­ner with a bo­at­ful of stran­gers out on the wa­ter.

    Mourning the fa­mily he’d ne­ver had, he’d ne­ver felt lo­ne­li­er in his li­fe.

    Today, Bla­ke was back, in je­ans and a po­lo shirt ins­te­ad of a su­it. Wor­king on a we­ekend when most of his emp­lo­ye­es we­re off. It was a start.

    There had be­en se­ve­ral mes­sa­ges for him at ho­me the night be­fo­re, from pe­op­le who knew him well eno­ugh to ha­ve the un­lis­ted num­ber. They’d he­ard abo­ut the ar­ra­ign­ment on the news and, he was cer­ta­in, had qu­es­ti­ons.

    He’d ans­wer all of them. He owed them that. But he owed him­self this ti­me to to­ug­hen up first. Ha­ving tho­se he trus­ted do­ub­ting his trust­wort­hi­ness was one of the worst things he co­uld ima­gi­ne-other than go­ing to pri­son.

    There we­re mo­re calls on his of­fi­ce li­ne. He lis­te­ned to them, but didn’t re­turn any. Just li­ke the ot­hers, he’d de­al with them la­ter.

    He went thro­ugh the ma­il. Pretty much stan­dard fa­re, as the pos­tal ser­vi­ce didn’t mo­ve as qu­ickly as te­lep­ho­ne tech­no­logy. The­re was a thank-you no­te from Amu­net’s adop­ti­ve pa­rents for his help with her ser­vi­ce. Ap­pa­rently Amu­net had spo­ken highly of him when she’d fi­nal­ly co­me ho­me to New York.

    Had that be­en be­fo­re or af­ter she’d de­ci­ded to ta­ke her li­fe?

    There was an in­vi­ta­ti­on to gi­ve an ad­dress at the 61st An­nu­al In­ter­na­ti­onal Bu­il­ders’ Con­ven­ti­on and Ex­po­si­ti­on in Or­lan­do the fol­lo­wing Janu­ary. It was easily the world’s lar­gest an­nu­al const­ruc­ti­on tra­de show, for ho­me as well as com­mer­ci­al bu­il­ders-and un­der nor­mal cir­cums­tan­ces, Bla­ke wo­uld ha­ve ac­cep­ted the ho­nor pro­udly.

    But co­uld he? They ne­eded a res­pon­se by early next month.

    He drop­ped the in­vi­ta­ti­on in the te­ak­wo­od box on a cor­ner of his desk to lo­ok at aga­in in anot­her we­ek or two. Not that he’d ha­ve any bet­ter idea than he did now whet­her he’d be a free man in Janu­ary of next ye­ar.

    Blake’s com­pu­ter bec­ko­ned. Whi­le he had a staff of ta­len­ted arc­hi­tects, the­re we­re so­me de­sign jobs he still to­ok him­self. It was the part of the bu­si­ness he lo­ved best.

    And that lib­rary pro­j­ect had be­en cal­ling to him all we­ek. This af­ter­no­on, all dist­rac­ti­ons asi­de, he in­ten­ded to lo­se him­self in trus­ses and struc­tu­re and yet-to-be de­ve­lo­ped aest­he­tics. If he co­uld sus­ta­in the dri­ve, if the work co­uld ke­ep the de­mons at bay, he’d work all night.

    But first, the­re wo­uld be e-ma­il. Sin­ce he did far mo­re com­mu­ni­ca­ting elect­ro­ni­cal­ly than by pho­ne or post the­se days, he ex­pec­ted the­re’d be a lot.

    He pus­hed the po­wer but­ton and wa­ited whi­le the mac­hi­ne bo­oted up. It ne­ver ce­ased to ama­ze him that no mat­ter how much he in­ves­ted in com­pu­ters, how much fas­ter each new ver­si­on wor­ked, it ne­ver se­emed fast eno­ugh for long.

    That, he sup­po­sed, was why the le­aders in the com­pu­ter in­dustry we­re so rich.

    A no­ise so­un­ded in the outer of­fi­ce. Bla­ke glan­ced over, on ed­ge. Ex­pec­ting to be the­re alo­ne, he hadn’t shut his do­or.

    If it was a re­por­ter, co­me to ho­und him…

    “Sir?” He re­cog­ni­zed Lee An­ne’s vo­ice just out­si­de his do­or.

    “Yeah, Lee, co­me on in,” he cal­led, re­li­eved and yet not. Lee An­ne had a fa­mily to fe­ed sing­le-han­dedly. Co­uld she af­ford to wa­it aro­und to see whet­her or not she still had a job af­ter July?

    “I’m sorry to dis­turb you, Mr. Rams­den,” she sa­id, co­ming in a lit­tle he­si­tantly. He’d ne­ver se­en her in je­ans be­fo­re. A sund­ress on­ce, at a com­pany pic­nic the pre­vi­o­us sum­mer. But ne­ver je­ans. They ma­de her lo­ok yo­un­ger.

    “I just wan­ted to bring you this.”

    She pla­ced a de­co­ra­ted gift bag on his desk. “See you Mon­day, sir.”

    “Thank you,” Bla­ke cal­led to her ret­re­ating back. And then he re­ali­zed that he had no idea if the­re was anyt­hing to be than­king her for.

    Still, in all his tra­vels and stu­di­es and ex­pe­ri­en­ce, he’d ne­ver he­ard of an­yo­ne qu­it­ting with a gift bag.

    Curious, he pul­led it clo­ser, surp­ri­sed by its we­ight. Un­der­ne­ath a we­alth of whi­te tis­sue pa­per, he fo­und a tri­an­gu­lar fros­ted glass pa­per­we­ight. Insc­ri­bed in the cen­ter of it was his fa­vo­ri­te qu­ote from ni­ne­te­enth-cen­tury aut­hor, songw­ri­ter and mo­ti­va­tor M. H. McKee: In­teg­rity is one of se­ve­ral paths. It dis­tin­gu­is­hes it­self from the ot­hers be­ca­use it is the right path, and the only one upon which you will ne­ver get lost.

    Blake sta­red for a long ti­me and then pla­ced the pa­per­we­ight in the cen­ter of his desk, whe­re he wo­uld see it every ti­me he lo­oked up.

    The oce­an-sce­ne scre­en sa­ver he’d cho­sen was scrol­ling thro­ugh sce­nes. Tap­ping an ar­row key to stop it, Bla­ke set­tled in to work. He ope­ned his e-ma­il soft­wa­re but be­fo­re it co­uld down­lo­ad his mes­sa­ges, the­re was anot­her so­und from out­si­de his do­or.

    Stu Wal­ters, his chi­ef ac­co­un­tant, sto­od on the thres­hold. “Just had to le­ave this,” he sa­id. Wal­king in, he set a small wo­oden box on Bla­ke’s desk, and left. Bla­ke glan­ced down and insc­ri­bed on the lid he re­ad, The man who fe­ars no truths has not­hing to fe­ar from li­es. Sir Fran­ces Ba­con.

    Bailey War­ren, a ta­len­ted yo­ung arc­hi­tect who’d be­en with Bla­ke sin­ce col­le­ge, was next. He bro­ught a glass let­ter ope­ner insc­ri­bed with words from so­me­one na­med Jim Sto­vall. In­teg­rity is do­ing the right thing, even if no­body is wat­c­hing.

    Melinda Nel­son ar­ri­ved just as Ba­iley was le­aving. She was from Cont­racts. She left a wa­ter glo­be of a bo­at on the oce­an with an insc­rip­ti­on on a gold pla­que at­tac­hed to the block of wo­od that held it. From Sa­mu­el Tay­lor Co­le­rid­ge. Our own he­art and not ot­her men’s opi­ni­ons form our true ho­nor.

    His full-ti­me const­ruc­ti­on at­tor­ney, Fred Man­ning, ga­ve him a pro­mi­se of full sup­port and a pla­que that re­ad: Vir­tue, mo­ra­lity, and re­li­gi­on. This is the ar­mor, my fri­end, and this alo­ne that ren­ders us in­vin­cib­le. Pat­rick Henry.

    An ho­ur la­ter, Bla­ke was sit­ting the­re comp­le­tely be­mu­sed, spe­ech­less and dan­ge­ro­usly clo­se to blub­be­ring li­ke an idi­ot. He’d se­en mo­re than twenty of his hund­red emp­lo­ye­es, many brin­ging gifts from gro­ups of ot­hers. On the desk in front of him was se­emingly every si­ze, sha­pe and de­sign of pla­que, wall han­ging, pa­per­we­ight, let­ter ope­ner, caddy or ot­her of­fi­ce gift, every sing­le one of them insc­ri­bed with mes­sa­ges abo­ut in­teg­rity.

    Character is the ac­cu­mu­la­ted con­fi­den­ce that in­di­vi­du­al men and wo­men ac­qu­ire from ye­ars of do­ing the right thing, over and over aga­in, even when they don’t fe­el li­ke it. Alan Ke­yes.

    Blake had ne­ver he­ard of Alan Ke­yes, but he felt a gre­at fond­ness for him.

    As he sat the­re, ta­king it all in, a qu­ote from Mo­li­ère ca­ught his eye. If ever­yo­ne we­re clot­hed with in­teg­rity, if every he­art we­re just, frank, kindly, the ot­her vir­tu­es wo­uld be well-nigh use­less, sin­ce the­ir chi­ef pur­po­se is to ma­ke us be­ar with pa­ti­en­ce the inj­us­ti­ce of our fel­lows.

    And the­re was the one he ca­me to aga­in and aga­in, gi­ven to him by the gro­up in the ma­il­ro­om. A Chi­ne­se pro­verb. If you stand stra­ight, do not fe­ar a cro­oked sha­dow.

    They for­got just one.

    I am a very lucky man. Bla­ke Rams­den.

    

    SUNDAY AF­TER­NO­ON, when Juli­et and Mary Jane wo­uld or­di­na­rily ha­ve be­en ta­king Mar­cie to the air­port for her flight back to San Fran­cis­co and the dri­ve to Map­le Gro­ve, Mar­cie and Juli­et to­ok Mary Jane, a blan­ket and a pic­nic out­si­de to the be­ach, ins­te­ad.

    The day was de­cep­ti­vely per­fect, a balmy se­venty deg­re­es, sun shi­ning brightly.

    “How co­me you don’t ha­ve to go back to­day, Aunt Mar­cie?” the girl half cal­led over her sho­ul­der, skip­ping along in the sand in front of them. It was a pri­va­te stretch of be­ach, open only to the ho­me ow­ners in the area. This af­ter­no­on, no one el­se was out­si­de. Se­ve­ral of the cot­ta­ges ne­ar them we­re sum­mer and va­ca­ti­on ge­ta­ways and fre­qu­ently va­cant.

    “I cal­led Tammy and as­ked her to ta­ke my cli­ents to­mor­row,” Mar­cie sa­id softly, sha­ring a wor­ri­ed glan­ce with Juli­et, a worry the pu­re blue sky over­he­ad co­uldn’t as­su­age.

    Juliet wan­ted to tell her sis­ter that everyt­hing wo­uld be just fi­ne. She tri­ed to con­vey that with her eyes and her smi­le. But she co­uldn’t re­al­ly. Be­ca­use she was wor­ri­ed, too, abo­ut the­ir fu­tu­res-and, at the mo­ment, abo­ut Mary Jane’s re­ac­ti­on to the up­co­ming con­ver­sa­ti­on.

    At le­ast one of the things they had to tell the lit­tle girl wasn’t go­ing to go well. Juli­et was cer­ta­in of that. Just as cer­ta­in as she was that she had to tell her.

    Wearing de­nim shorts with a long-sle­eved pink T-shirt, Mary Jane bo­un­ced on ahe­ad of them, the­ir self-appo­in­ted spot pic­ker.

    Juliet was happy to let her go. She and Mar­cie had tal­ked long in­to the night and both we­re pretty su­re abo­ut what had to be do­ne. For all of them. It just wasn’t go­ing to be easy.

    “Right he­re,” Mary Jane sa­id, cho­osing a spot in the cen­ter of the pri­va­te be­ach, so­me dis­tan­ce from the­ir cot­ta­ge. It was just li­ke her, al­ways wan­ting to be in the mid­dle of things.

    Seagulls hop­ped down by the wa­ter. The wa­ves we­re calm, a ste­ady flow back and forth, brin­ging in lit­tle tre­asu­res-and ta­king so­me with them.

    “I’m go­ing to lo­ok for shells,” Mary Jane an­no­un­ced, kic­king off her flip-flops.

    “No, you’re not,” Juli­et told her. She used Mary Jane’s sho­es to we­igh down two cor­ners of the blan­ket, kic­king off her own san­dals to get the ot­her two cor­ners. “Ha­ve a se­at.”

    Marcie pul­led bot­tles of wa­ter out of the can­vas bag they’d pac­ked. The­re was fru­it, bre­ad, che­ese and co­oki­es as well, but it was still too early to eat.

    With a pinc­hed fa­ce, Mary Jane sat on top of one of her san­dals. “What’s wrong?” she as­ked, pas­sing a frigh­te­ned lo­ok bet­we­en her mot­her and her aunt. “Is this abo­ut me?”

    “No,” Mar­cie sa­id with a sur­fa­ce grin as she kic­ked off her back­less ten­nis sho­es, pul­led up the legs of her navy run­ning su­it and jo­ined her ni­ece. “Not everyt­hing in the world is abo­ut you, Squ­irt.”

    “I know that.”

    Moving the bag to one ed­ge of the blan­ket, Juli­et fi­nal­ly had not­hing left to do but jo­in the ot­her two. Sit­ting cross-leg­ged, she for­med the third po­int of the McNe­il fa­mily tri­ang­le.

    “Sweetie, yo­ur aunt Mar­cie and I ha­ve a co­up­le of things to tell you.”

    Mary Jane’s gre­en eyes wi­de­ned. “Two of them?” Tho­ugh she was pic­king at a yarn tie on the qu­ilt, her ga­ze met Juli­et’s.

    “Yep.”

    “Big things?”

    “Uh-huh.” Juli­et nod­ded. She was still we­aring the black Lycra pants and whi­te Hol­lywo­od T-shirt she’d put on to in-li­ne ska­te that mor­ning. She and Mar­cie had co­me down to the be­ach with cof­fee, ins­te­ad, to ke­ep tal­king.

    “Am I in tro­ub­le?” Mary Jane’s ti­mid vo­ice pul­led at Juli­et.

    “No, you’re not.”

    The eight-ye­ar-old’s sho­ul­ders re­la­xed slightly as so­me of the ten­si­on eased out of her small fra­me. Be­fo­re she’d had Mary Jane, Juli­et had ne­ver gu­es­sed how much anot­her per­son’s hap­pi­ness and pe­ace co­uld me­an to her. How much she’d gi­ve to ha­ve every sing­le pa­in Mary Jane wo­uld ever fe­el co­me to her ins­te­ad.

    “Should I go first?” Mar­cie as­ked, lo­oking from one to the ot­her.

    Juliet nod­ded. It might be bet­ter if she told Mary Jane abo­ut Bla­ke first, and then fol­lo­wed up with Mar­cie’s less thre­ate­ning news, but if Mar­cie was go­ing to of­fer even this small rep­ri­eve, she was wil­ling to ta­ke it. May­be so­me ma­gi­cal way to pre­sent things wo­uld oc­cur to her in the me­an­ti­me. Be­ca­use as it was, she had no idea what she was go­ing to say to her da­ugh­ter.

    “What’s wrong, Aunt Mar­cie?” Mary Jane as­ked, frow­ning at her aunt with con­cern. “Are you go­ing to marry Hank?”

    “Nooo!” Mar­cie half chuck­led, half cho­ked. “You know ne­it­her one of us wants to get mar­ri­ed. But if I was, I’d hardly call that so­met­hing be­ing wrong!”

    “Wellll.” The child drew out the word. “It wo­uld me­an that you’re sta­ying in Map­le Gro­ve fo­re­ver and you al­ways say you don’t want to do that.”

    Marcie and Juli­et exc­han­ged anot­her glan­ce. Out of the mo­uths of ba­bes.

    “No, I’m not mar­rying Hank,” Mar­cie sa­id, kne­es up to her chin, hol­ding her to­es. “Actu­al­ly, things are go­ing to chan­ge a lot. I’d li­ke to mo­ve in with you and yo­ur mom,” she sa­id, and then, be­fo­re the girl co­uld res­pond, con­ti­nu­ed. “Yo­ur mom al­re­ady sa­id it was fi­ne with her, when I as­ked her, but it has to be okay with you, too, sin­ce it me­ans you’d ha­ve to gi­ve up yo­ur play­ro­om for go­od ins­te­ad of just the ti­mes I vi­sit.”

    “I don’t play in the­re any­way.” Mary Jane’s fa­ce was stra­ight.

    “But?”

    The lit­tle girl shrug­ged. “Just…so­me­ti­mes…Mom and me…but when you’re he­re…”

    “You lo­ve ha­ving Aunt Mar­cie he­re,” Juli­et sa­id, con­fu­sed and fe­eling slightly pro­tec­ti­ve of her twin, who lo­oked as if she might cry aga­in. Juli­et hadn’t ex­pec­ted any re­sis­tan­ce at all from Mary Jane on this is­sue, which didn’t bo­de well for what was to co­me. “You can’t wa­it for her to vi­sit.”

    “I know,” Mary Jane sa­id. “But…”

    “What?” Juli­et felt lost.

    Mary Jane lo­oked at her aunt, and then back at Juli­et. “It’s just that, when you guys are to­get­her, you’re the pa­ir. And then I’m…”

    Understanding hit. “Oh, Mary Jane, co­me he­re,” she sa­id, drag­ging her da­ugh­ter ac­ross the blan­ket and on­to her lap. “You and I will al­ways be a pa­ir. No mat­ter who el­se is aro­und or in our li­ves.”

    Mary Jane sta­red up at her, the brown flecks in her eyes glis­te­ning.

    “You’re go­ing to grow up so­me­day and may­be get mar­ri­ed, and ha­ve kids, and the spe­ci­al lo­ve you and I sha­re will still be right the­re. Unc­han­ging. Do you un­ders­tand?”

    The lit­tle girl nod­ded, her swe­et dark curls jost­ling aga­inst her che­eks.

    “You are my da­ugh­ter, flesh of my flesh, he­art of my he­art. And not­hing, not even de­ath, will chan­ge that. Ever. Got it?”

    “Yes.” Mary Jane was still sub­du­ed.

    “And we’ll al­ways ha­ve our ti­me, just you and me,” Juli­et con­ti­nu­ed, fin­ding words from so­mep­la­ce. “Whi­le Aunt Mar­cie li­ves with us, you can pick a night of the we­ek, or a we­ekend day, or both, and it’ll be just the two of us.”

    Looking over the child’s he­ad, Juli­et ca­ught an exp­res­si­on of lon­ging-and fe­ar-on her twin’s fa­ce. Was Mar­cie ima­gi­ning a si­mi­lar mo­ment, with her child in her lap ne­eding as­su­ran­ce and lo­ve?

    “And you and Aunt Mar­cie can ha­ve a day, too, if you’d li­ke,” she sa­id, still watc­hing her sis­ter. Mar­cie smi­led, nod­ded, and still ap­pe­ared on the ver­ge of te­ars.

    “Okay,” Mary Jane sa­id. “Be­ca­use, you know, Mom, Aunt Mar­cie li­kes to lo­ok for sand crabs and go to mu­se­ums and you don’t.”

    Juliet tur­ned the child so she co­uld lo­ok her stra­ight in the fa­ce. “So, you’re okay with her mo­ving in with us?”

    Mary Jane’s nod was ent­hu­si­as­tic. “When are you co­ming?” she as­ked her aunt, sli­ding back down to the qu­ilt. “To­day? Do­es Hank know? And what abo­ut yo­ur shop and pe­op­le?”

    “I don’t know how so­on,” Mar­cie sa­id, her blond ha­ir sha­do­wing her fa­ce as she smi­led down at the child. “May­be next we­ek if I can get the ar­ran­ge­ments ma­de. And no, Hank do­esn’t know yet and I’m go­ing to ask Tammy if she wants to buy out my half of the bu­si­ness. She’ll ha­ve to hi­re so­me­one to ta­ke over my cli­ents, or I can try to find so­me­one for her.”

    Mary Jane nod­ded. “Hank’ll su­re be surp­ri­sed.”

    “Yeah.” Mar­cie frow­ned. “But if we re­al­ly lo­ved each ot­her, we wo­uld ha­ve wan­ted to get mar­ri­ed a long ti­me ago,” she sa­id. “And sin­ce ne­it­her of us has ever wan­ted that, I think we pro­bably don’t.”

    “So if he do­esn’t lo­ve you that much, Hank pro’bly’ll get over it pretty qu­ick,” Mary Jane sa­id, her fo­re­he­ad cre­ased in a frown.

    “Probably.”

    “Man, he’s dumb!” the child sa­id.

    Marcie’s ans­we­ring smi­le fa­ded qu­ickly. And then the con­ver­sa­ti­on fal­te­red. Re­mem­be­ring back ni­ne ye­ars, to her own fe­elings of pa­nic and un­cer­ta­inty, Juli­et tap­ped her da­ugh­ter on the knee.

    “There’s a re­ason Aunt Mar­cie is mo­ving in with us, swe­etie,” Juli­et sa­id.

    “Because she’s go­ing to work at a stu­dio?”

    “No. Be­ca­use she’s go­ing to ha­ve a baby.”

    The lit­tle girl’s mo­uth drop­ped, her eyes wi­de. “You are?” She sta­red at her aunt.

    With a tre­mu­lo­us smi­le, Mar­cie nod­ded.

    The so­und of wa­ves lap­ping aga­inst the sand was com­for­ting in its unc­han­ging ro­uti­ne. Juli­et con­cent­ra­ted on it.

    Mary Jane glan­ced at Mar­cie’s slim belly, and then back up. “A boy or a girl?”

    “I don’t know yet,” Mar­cie sa­id. “It’s too so­on to tell stuff li­ke that.”

    Looking down aga­in, Mary Jane as­ked, “But you’re su­re it’s in the­re, right?”

    “Positive.”

    “Well, then, we’re go­ing to ha­ve to get the crib out of the at­tic.”

    And that was that.

    Juliet ho­ped the se­cond to­pic of con­ver­sa­ti­on wo­uld go even a qu­ar­ter that well.

    

    MARY JANE IN­SIS­TED the baby was go­ing to be a girl-to ma­ke them two pa­irs. She spent the next twenty mi­nu­tes, as they unw­rap­ped the che­ese and bre­ad and fru­it, trying out dif­fe­rent na­mes. So far she’d set­tled on six of them. She ate eno­ugh, ste­adily, so the fo­od was di­sap­pe­aring, alt­ho­ugh her mot­her and aunt had do­ne no mo­re than eat a gra­pe or two.

    Juliet shif­ted her we­ight, the sand hard be­ne­ath her.

    “So what was the se­cond thing to talk abo­ut?” Mary Jane as­ked, cho­co­la­te-chip co­okie crumbs on her lips as she che­wed. Cle­arly, she tho­ught she’d he­ard the worst of it.

    “I…” Juli­et star­ted. Stop­ped. Lo­oked out at the oce­an. “I…”

    “Your mot­her has a new cli­ent,” Mar­cie sa­id. “And you’re not go­ing to li­ke who it is and you’re pro­bably go­ing to think the­re’s mo­re to it than the­re is, but the­re isn’t, and you’re just go­ing to ha­ve to trust us on that one.”

    “Huh?”

    “Blake Rams­den’s be­en char­ged with fra­ud and he’s as­ked me to rep­re­sent him.” It wasn’t how she’d wan­ted to bre­ak the news, but ot­her words fa­iled her.

    Mary Jane’s mo­uth fro­ze. The co­okie in her hand crumb­led. And her eyes cre­ased, the­ir depth lit with she­er pa­nic in the bright sun­light.

    “And you told him no, right?” the child as­ked as tho­ugh war­ding off a blow.

    Juliet was awa­re of Mar­cie next to her, watc­hing them, but she kept her ga­ze fo­cu­sed strictly on her da­ugh­ter. “Is that what you’d want me to do, Mary Jane?”

    “Yes.”

    On one hand, Juli­et comp­le­tely un­ders­to­od-had ex­pec­ted this, even-but anot­her part of her was di­sap­po­in­ted.

    “She’s only eight ye­ars old,” Mar­cie’s vo­ice ca­me softly be­si­de her. Juli­et lis­te­ned for the wa­ves-for re­as­su­ran­ce-and for wha­te­ver vo­ice in­si­de was go­ing to tell her what to do next.

    “He’s a man I on­ce knew, Mary Jane. So­me­one who was kind to me, ma­de me la­ugh, ga­ve me the gre­atest gift I will ever re­ce­ive…”

    The lit­tle girl sta­red, the exp­res­si­on in her eyes a mix­tu­re of bel­li­ge­ren­ce, fe­ar and a small hint of that pe­cu­li­arly ma­tu­re blend of to­le­ran­ce and in­no­cen­ce with which she nor­mal­ly ap­pro­ac­hed li­fe.

    “And I think so­me­one might be fra­ming him for a cri­me he didn’t com­mit,” Juli­et con­ti­nu­ed. She’d al­ways told Mary Jane the truth. In the end, it was the one thing the child co­uld co­unt on and Juli­et wasn’t go­ing to let her down. The­ir en­ti­re re­la­ti­ons­hip was bu­ilt on that trust. “If he do­esn’t find a way to pro­ve that, he co­uld spend the rest of his li­fe in ja­il.”

    Juliet wa­ited. Con­ti­nu­ed to watch her da­ugh­ter’s bent he­ad. The child was hug­ging one up­ra­ised knee, the re­ma­ins of her cho­co­la­te-chip co­okie still clutc­hed in one hand. Lit­tle bits of mel­ted cho­co­la­te oozed thro­ugh her fin­gers.

    “Why do­es it ha­ve to be you?”

    She co­uld hardly ma­ke out the mumb­led words.

    “Because I’m fa­mi­li­ar with the ca­se. Be­ca­use he trusts me. And be­ca­use I’m one of the best de­fen­se at­tor­neys in the sta­te.”

    “I don’t want you to.”

    “I know, swe­etie, and I tho­ught abo­ut that,” Juli­et sa­id, hur­ting, as she watc­hed her da­ugh­ter strug­gle. “But the­re’s no re­ason this can’t work out just fi­ne for all three of us.” She’d wor­ri­ed abo­ut fin­ding the right words, but in the end, they just star­ted to flow.

    “How many ti­mes, in the past eight ye­ars, ha­ve you met any of my cli­ents?”

    Mary Jane glan­ced up. “No­ne.”

    “Okay, so per­cen­ta­ges say you don’t ha­ve a who­le lot to worry abo­ut the­re. If you’ve ne­ver met one of my cli­ents, and they’ve ne­ver met you, why sho­uld this ti­me be any dif­fe­rent?”

    “I gu­ess…”

    “Now,” she hur­ri­ed on when Mary Jane to­ok a bre­ath as tho­ugh pre­pa­ring to ar­gue. “Se­cond, the­re’s me.” The lit­tle girl lo­oked sca­red aga­in. “For eight ye­ars, my li­fe has be­en very, very bles­sed be­ca­use of you. So­me­ti­mes I start to fe­el a lit­tle gu­ilty abo­ut that.” The ad­mis­si­on wasn’t easy. “Be­ca­use Bla­ke Rams­den do­esn’t even know abo­ut you and has ne­ver had a chan­ce to be happy kno­wing you.”

    The girl’s fa­ce pa­led. “You sa­id you we­ren’t go­ing to tell him abo­ut me un­less I-”

    “I’m not plan­ning to tell him abo­ut you,” Juli­et in­ter­rup­ted. “But right now, his li­fe isn’t happy or bles­sed at all, and if I can help him, if I can win him his fre­edom, then I’ve sort of pa­id him back. Do you see that?”

    Mary Jane’s no­se crink­led. She gro­und her chin aga­inst her knee. Mar­cie re­ac­hed over, ran her fin­gers thro­ugh Mary Jane’s curls. “You don’t ha­ve anyt­hing to be af­ra­id of, swe­etie.”

    Mary Jane ra­ised her he­ad. “Kind of li­ke a li­fe for a li­fe?” she as­ked Juli­et, her to­ne a lit­tle less de­fen­si­ve.

    “Kind of.”

    “I still don’t li­ke it.”

    “I know.”

    “You pro­mi­se you won’t tell him abo­ut me?”

    “Not wit­ho­ut tel­ling you first.”

    Mary Jane didn’t lo­ok sa­tis­fi­ed, but af­ter sta­ring in­tently for a long mo­ment, she didn’t ar­gue the po­int any furt­her.

    

    

    MARCIE STAR­TED lo­ading empty sand­wich wrap­pers in­to the can­vas bag they’d bro­ught with them. Mary Jane con­ti­nu­ed to sit, now hug­ging both kne­es.

    Thinking abo­ut the man who was her fat­her?

    “Is the­re anyt­hing you’d li­ke to know abo­ut him?” Juli­et as­ked, just in ca­se.

    Did the child ever won­der what kind of per­son Bla­ke was? Whet­her he was smart? Or li­ked dogs?

    “So you’re su­re he didn’t do it?”

    Leave it up to Mary Jane to find the most dif­fi­cult qu­es­ti­on. “I don’t know, swe­etie, but I don’t think so.”

    The lit­tle girl nod­ded. “I don’t think so, eit­her.”

    She le­aned over to the ed­ge of the blan­ket, ope­ned her hand and drop­ped the co­okie she’d be­en hol­ding. With a qu­ick brush of her hand, she jum­ped up.

    “Can I go lo­ok for shells now?”

    Feeling the­re was mo­re she sho­uld say, Juli­et just nod­ded. And Mary Jane ran off.

    “That went surp­ri­singly well,” Mar­cie sa­id, lying back on the blan­ket and clo­sing her eyes.

    Outwardly, Juli­et ag­re­ed with her sis­ter. But as she watc­hed her da­ugh­ter strol­ling list­les­sly by the wa­ter, her he­art told her dif­fe­rently. This wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

    

    ON MON­DAY, Bla­ke went to the po­und and pic­ked out a puppy. A Lab­ra­dor-grey­ho­und mix-pitch-black with a long no­se, po­in­ted ears that sto­od up­right and lo­oked too lar­ge for its small he­ad and a skinny ta­il that hung down al­most to the flo­or. He’d to­yed with the idea all we­ekend. It was a po­si­ti­ve mo­ve, ma­ni­fes­ting his be­li­ef that he’d be free to ra­ise the pup. He’d ac­cep­ted the Janu­ary spe­aking en­ga­ge­ment, too.

    Buying a puppy was so­met­hing he’d of­ten tho­ught abo­ut sin­ce re­tur­ning to San Di­ego-he li­ked the idea of ha­ving so­met­hing to co­me ho­me to at the end of a long day. Or to spend ti­me with on we­ekends that so­me­ti­mes stretc­hed too long.

    But he co­uldn’t qu­ite es­ca­pe a twin­ge of gu­ilt at the tho­ught of ta­king the pup ho­me, ma­king them a fa­mily, only to ha­ve to aban­don the lit­tle guy to so­me­one el­se three months la­ter-three months ol­der, three months less adap­tab­le-as his mas­ter went to pri­son.

    Still, get­ting up Tu­es­day mor­ning af­ter an al­most sle­ep­less night, Bla­ke felt bet­ter than he had in we­eks.

    “Freedom, my boy, you win,” he told the whi­ning pup as he let him out of the cra­te he’d purc­ha­sed the day be­fo­re. “To­night you sle­ep on the bed, so we can both sle­ep.”

    Freedom yaw­ned, sho­ok him­self, wag­ged his ta­il and pe­ed all over Bla­ke’s shoe.

    

    JULIET CAL­LED early Tu­es­day af­ter­no­on. He tho­ught abo­ut tel­ling her abo­ut the pup, or the se­ri­es of gifts ta­king up every bit of ava­ilab­le spa­ce in his of­fi­ce, but she was all bu­si­ness.

    “I’ve he­ard from Pa­ul Schus­ter,” she told him, her to­ne wit­ho­ut inf­lec­ti­on-not wel­co­me, do­om or even bo­re­dom. “When wo­uld be a con­ve­ni­ent ti­me for us to me­et?”

    He of­fe­red to co­me to her of­fi­ce im­me­di­ately. She pre­fer­red to co­me to his. Bla­ke didn’t ar­gue.

    

    “SCHUSTER’S OF­FE­RED a plea ag­re­ement.”

    She’d only just ar­ri­ved, ba­rely ta­ken ti­me to gi­ve him a so­mew­hat un­fo­cu­sed smi­le of hel­lo, be­fo­re she’d ta­ken the se­at he’d in­di­ca­ted on the co­uch and ope­ned her satc­hel.

    Blake had be­en abo­ut to of­fer her so­met­hing to drink. Ins­te­ad he sat down. Hard.

    “Meaning?”

    She met his ga­ze for the first ti­me sin­ce she’d ar­ri­ved. “He’s of­fe­red to les­sen the char­ge to two co­unts of fra­ud.”

    Her su­it was navy to­day, with a slim knee-length skirt, whi­te blo­use and short ta­ilo­red jac­ket.

    “If I ple­ad gu­ilty?” he as­ked. Bla­ke had be­en do­ing a lot of re­ading on a su­bj­ect of which he’d be­en comp­le­tely ig­no­rant. The de­ta­ils of cri­mi­nal pro­ce­edings had just ne­ver in­te­res­ted him.

    Juliet nod­ded.

    Slow down, he ad­mo­nis­hed him­self when he might ha­ve bit­ten out an ins­tant re­fu­sal. He had to ta­ke this calmly. One step at a ti­me. De­tac­hing from emo­ti­on so that he co­uld think.

    “Why wo­uld he be wil­ling to do that?” Be­ca­use he wasn’t so su­re he co­uld ma­ke the ori­gi­nal char­ges stick? Then why press them in the first pla­ce? Un­less so­met­hing had hap­pe­ned bet­we­en last we­ek and this.

    “Two re­asons,” Juli­et sa­id, le­aning for­ward as she exp­la­ined, her vo­ice sof­te­ning to the to­ne he’d grown to ex­pect from her. “First, it’s pa­la­tab­le to the pro­se­cu­tor be­ca­use it puts the onus on the jud­ge. Se­cond, it’s easi­er-and less ti­me-con­su­ming-than go­ing to tri­al.”

    “I hadn’t re­ad Pa­ul Schus­ter as a man who ta­kes the easy way out.” Bla­ke still wan­ted to be­li­eve that so­met­hing had hap­pe­ned to ma­ke the pro­se­cu­tor less con­fi­dent that he co­uld win.

    Juliet smi­led, al­most as tho­ugh she knew what he was thin­king. “It’s not the easy way out. He’s spent a lot of ti­me on this ca­se, he thinks he’s got his man, and now he’s re­ady to mo­ve on to get the next one.”

    “He’s bo­red,” Bla­ke trans­la­ted.

    “I wo­uldn’t put it that way, but you’re a first of­fen­der, Bla­ke, and to Schus­ter, this isn’t ne­arly as big as Eaton’s al­le­ged fa­ke com­pa­ni­es. He knows, no mat­ter how go­od a ca­se he bu­ilds, you aren’t go­ing to get a ma­xi­mum sen­ten­ce any­way.”

    If you stand stra­ight, do not fe­ar a cro­oked sha­dow.

    Blake re­ad the Chi­ne­se pro­verb. He’d hung the pla­que by the do­or to his of­fi­ce so he saw it every ti­me he glan­ced up from his desk-and aga­in every ti­me he left his do­ma­in.

    “What hap­pens if we ac­cept the ag­re­ement?” He wasn’t go­ing to. He co­uldn’t. Be­ca­use to do that wo­uld be a lie. He wasn’t gu­ilty.

    “You get a ma­xi­mum of fif­te­en ye­ars.”

    “And re­alis­ti­cal­ly?”

    “Seven to se­ven and a half.”

    Seven and a half ye­ars in pri­son didn’t so­und any dif­fe­rent to Bla­ke than a li­fe­ti­me.

    “Tell Schus­ter no thank you.” As so­on as he got ho­me to­night he was go­ing to te­ach Fre­edom how to run on the be­ach.

    “You’re su­re?” Juli­et as­ked, tho­ugh her exp­res­si­on was comp­le­tely calm, as tho­ugh she’d ex­pec­ted as much. “You don’t want to think abo­ut it?”

    “There’s not­hing to think abo­ut,” Bla­ke told her. “I didn’t do it.”

    She didn’t reply. At le­ast not with words. Her ga­ze, as it held his for se­conds lon­ger than might ha­ve hap­pe­ned had they not be­en alo­ne, se­emed to gle­am with sup­port.

    

    MARCIE CAL­LED on Wed­nes­day night, just as Juli­et was abo­ut to grab a can of Ma­ce and a wal­kie-tal­kie that al­lo­wed her to he­ar if Mary Jane wo­ke up, and he­ad out to the be­ach.

    “I told Hank I was le­aving.”

    Her twin sis­ter had be­en crying.

    “Did you tell him why?” They’d dis­cus­sed both si­des of that par­ti­cu­lar is­sue. Juli­et tho­ught Mar­cie sho­uld tell him. Mar­cie had be­en af­ra­id that if she did, and he pres­su­red her to marry him, she’d gi­ve in.

    “Yes.”

    “And?”

    “He wants me to marry him.”

    Portable pho­ne in hand, she step­ped just out­si­de the back do­or, to fe­el the sand be­ne­ath her ba­re fe­et and be clo­ser to the wa­ves that had a way of pro­mi­sing her that li­fe wo­uld go on.

    “We sus­pec­ted that.” In so­me ways, Hank was an old-fas­hi­oned guy.

    “Yeah.” Mar­cie so­un­ded ti­red. Be­aten.

    Juliet held her bre­ath, cros­sed her fin­gers and pra­yed that Mar­cie hadn’t tra­ded her so­ul for the fal­se lu­re of sa­fety and se­cu­rity the­ir mot­her had. If Mar­cie was he­ad over he­els in lo­ve, that wo­uld be one thing, but…“And?”

    “I sa­id no.”

    Whew. Juli­et’s bre­at­hed his­sed out on a long sigh. “How’d he ta­ke that?”

    Marcie chuck­led. As much as she co­uld whi­le cho­king back te­ars that had ob­vi­o­usly be­en fal­ling a lot al­re­ady that eve­ning. “He sa­id he’d li­ke to help me mo­ve, that he was go­ing to be fi­nan­ci­al­ly res­pon­sib­le star­ting im­me­di­ately, and that he wasn’t ever go­ing to qu­it as­king.”

    “In that or­der?”

    “Yeah.”

    “That was de­cent of him.”

    “He’s a de­cent man.”

    But not what Mar­cie had ever sa­id she wan­ted. And not whe­re her sis­ter wan­ted, eit­her. Mar­cie wan­ted to tra­vel. And to me­et new pe­op­le. She wan­ted a busy li­fe, so­ci­al and in­vol­ved in the world aro­und her.

    She didn’t want to sit at ho­me every night in Map­le Gro­ve and watch li­fe go by on the te­le­vi­si­on scre­en.

    And that was all Hank had ever wan­ted.

    Marcie wan­ted ma­gic when she lo­oked ac­ross the din­ner tab­le every night and wo­ke up every mor­ning.

    Juliet un­ders­to­od. It was what she’d al­ways wan­ted, too.

    That was a part of the­ir mot­her they’d both in­he­ri­ted. The part that, if they we­ren’t ca­re­ful, co­uld kill them. Just as it had her.

    

    ON FRI­DAY NIGHT, one we­ek af­ter Bla­ke’s ar­ra­ign­ment and two days be­fo­re her sis­ter ren­ted a truck and dro­ve from Map­le Gro­ve to San Di­ego, Juli­et cal­led Mar­cie.

    “Hey, Jules, only two mo­re days,” Mar­cie sa­id, out of bre­ath from pac­king as she ans­we­red the pho­ne.

    She so­un­ded ener­gi­zed, as tho­ugh now that her de­ci­si­ons had be­en ma­de, she was re­ady and ho­pe­ful abo­ut what the chan­ges wo­uld bring.

    “Mary Jane and I are spen­ding all day to­mor­row cle­aning out the play­ro­om,” Juli­et sa­id from the be­ach out­si­de her do­or. The child had tal­ked of not­hing el­se over din­ner at the spag­het­ti wa­re­ho­use that night. As­su­red that the key re­la­ti­ons­hips in her li­fe we­ren’t go­ing to chan­ge, she tho­ught Mar­cie’s mo­ving in with them was the gre­atest thing that had ever hap­pe­ned. She had al­re­ady plan­ned which of her toys she co­uld part with to ma­ke ro­om in the small cot­ta­ge for anot­her adult.

    “Hank still dri­ving you down?” The man had ta­ken a day off from the hard­wa­re sto­re to help Mar­cie mo­ve.

    “Yes.”

    Juliet didn’t li­ke that un­cer­ta­in no­te in her sis­ter’s vo­ice. “Don’t get cold fe­et now, Mar­ce. You’ve sa­id a tho­usand ti­mes this is what you want.”

    “I know.”

    “The baby is just a ca­talyst ma­king it hap­pen.”

    “I know.”

    “And if you want to get mar­ri­ed so­me­day, San Di­ego has lots of men to cho­ose from.”

    “For a wo­man with a new­born child?”

    “For an­yo­ne.”

    They chat­ted for anot­her co­up­le of mi­nu­tes abo­ut the lo­gis­tics of the mo­ve. Juli­et co­uld see only go­od in Mar­cie’s de­ci­si­on. They’d ne­ver had any dif­fi­culty li­ving to­get­her. Mar­cie wo­uld fi­nal­ly be­gin the li­fe she’d al­ways wan­ted and Juli­et co­uld qu­it wor­rying that her sis­ter was go­ing to end up li­ke her mot­her so­me­day. And she’d ha­ve help with Mary Jane.

    She’d ne­ver felt mo­re in ne­ed of the lat­ter than she did right then.

    “How are things go­ing with Bla­ke Rams­den?” Mar­cie as­ked just as Juli­et was star­ting to fe­el re­la­xed eno­ugh to sle­ep.

    She kic­ked at the sand. Watc­hed the mo­on’s glow bob out on the oce­an. Wis­hed the wa­ves wo­uld kick up eno­ugh of a bre­eze to co­ol her he­ated skin.

    “As well as can be ex­pec­ted,” she sa­id, tel­ling her sis­ter abo­ut the plea ag­re­ement Bla­ke had re­j­ec­ted. And that she tho­ught he’d do­ne the right thing.

    “So,” Mar­cie pres­sed, “you’re do­ing okay?”

    “I don’t know.” Juli­et ad­mit­ted to her twin what she wo­uldn’t ha­ve told an­yo­ne el­se. “I think so, and then he’ll say so­met­hing and I get this hor­rib­le gu­ilty fe­eling.” She dug a lit­tle tun­nel in the sand with her to­es. “I think he’s lo­nely, Mar­ce. He bo­ught this puppy…”

    If she hadn’t known all the re­asons it wo­uld be a mis­ta­ke for her to fall for Bla­ke Rams­den, she might ha­ve be­en temp­ted when he’d be­en sit­ting the­re chuck­ling over the dog’s ha­ving che­wed a cor­ner off the cup­bo­ard when Bla­ke had loc­ked him in the kitc­hen whi­le he’d sho­we­red on Mon­day night.

    “He got the dog from the po­und. Na­med it Fre­edom be­ca­use that was what they both ne­eded. The puppy ne­eded fre­edom from its ca­ge and im­mi­nent de­ath, and so do­es he…”

    She had to stop be­fo­re she did so­met­hing stu­pid. Li­ke start to cry.

    “Sometimes I think it’s cru­el of me not to tell him abo­ut Mary Jane,” she ad­ded when she co­uld.

    “How many days has it be­en sin­ce Mrs. Cum­mings cal­led?” Mar­cie as­ked.

    “Two. Mary Jane has fa­iled three math tests in a row.” It wo­uld be a ca­use for con­cern with any child. And with a child who co­uld blurt out the ans­wers to math prob­lems in class be­fo­re her te­ac­her even had ti­me to wri­te them out on the bo­ard, it was es­pe­ci­al­ly wor­ri­so­me.

    “Is she do­ing it on pur­po­se?” Mar­cie as­ked.

    Juliet tri­ed to con­cent­ra­te on lo­ose­ning the knot in her sto­mach. “Obvi­o­usly,” she sa­id. “The qu­es­ti­on is why, and what to do abo­ut it.”

    “What do­es Mary Jane say?”

    “That she’s not do­ing it on pur­po­se.”

    “She’s ne­ver li­ed to you be­fo­re.”

    The sky was black, with sha­des of navy and gray whe­re the mo­on sho­ne thro­ugh. So much out the­re-unse­en.

    “I don’t think she’s lying now. She’s so­me­how con­vin­ced her­self she can’t do the math,” Mar­cie ad­ded.

    “We had her talk to the scho­ol co­un­se­lor and Mary Jane ans­we­red all her qu­es­ti­ons li­ke a happy, nor­mal, well-adj­us­ted kid.”

    “What do­es Mrs. Cum­mings say?”

    “That Mary Jane is tro­ub­led abo­ut so­met­hing.” Juli­et had be­en trying des­pe­ra­tely not to think of her most re­cent pho­ne con­ver­sa­ti­on with the ele­men­tary-scho­ol prin­ci­pal. She’d sug­ges­ted that Juli­et lo­ok in­to so­me kind of spe­ci­al-edu­ca­ti­on class that wor­ked with child­ren one-on-one to de­ter­mi­ne the ex­tent of Mary Jane’s ne­eds.

    As if her da­ugh­ter wasn’t al­re­ady seg­re­ga­ted eno­ugh by her dif­fe­ren­ces from the ot­her child­ren.

    “And you think she’s tro­ub­led abo­ut her fat­her?”

    Juliet didn’t know what el­se to think. “Scho­ol’s al­ways be­en a bit of a strug­gle, you know that,” Juli­et sa­id. “She’s too smart for her gra­de, too outs­po­ken for her age, and she bo­res easily. But she’s al­ways ta­ken that in stri­de. It ne­ver re­al­ly se­emed to bot­her her, un­til the past few months-ever sin­ce the first con­ver­sa­ti­on abo­ut her fat­her ca­me up aga­in. She se­ems to ha­ve lost, at le­ast to so­me deg­ree, her sen­se of se­cu­rity.”

    “Which is why you can’t tell Bla­ke anyt­hing abo­ut her,” Mar­cie sa­id. “Obvi­o­usly Mary Jane co­mes first. And int­ro­du­cing a hu­ge chan­ge in­to her li­fe cer­ta­inly isn’t go­ing to en­han­ce her se­cu­rity. Be­si­des, for now, Bla­ke ne­eds so­met­hing el­se from you far mo­re than he ne­eds to know that you had his baby eight ye­ars ago. He’s a cli­ent and sho­uld re­ma­in that way if you’re go­ing to do yo­ur job and set him free. You tell him abo­ut Mary Jane now, and the­re’s no way you’d still be ab­le to ke­ep him on as a cli­ent. Things wo­uld be too per­so­nal.

    “Think of it this way, Jules,” Mar­cie con­ti­nu­ed. “It’s not go­ing to do him a hell of a lot of go­od to know he has a da­ugh­ter if he’s loc­ked up and can’t see her any­way.”

    “Yeah.” She’d al­re­ady told her­self all the things that Mar­cie sa­id. Still, the va­li­da­ti­on hel­ped.

    “Maybe af­ter the ca­se is over, and third gra­de is over, and I’ve be­en li­ving the­re for a whi­le, Mary Jane will be fe­eling se­cu­re eno­ugh for you to tell Bla­ke abo­ut her.”

    Maybe. But that tho­ught struck as much ter­ror in her he­art as anyt­hing el­se.

    

    ON FRI­DAY, two we­eks af­ter his ar­ra­ign­ment, Juli­et was back in Bla­ke’s of­fi­ce.

    “I met Fred Man­ning co­ming up in the ele­va­tor,” she told him, hol­ding the back of her black silk skirt down as she to­ok her usu­al se­at on his co­uch. It was be­gin­ning to se­em ro­uti­ne, all in a day’s work, ha­ving her the­re.

    She had a “usu­al” se­at.

    Careful, buddy, Bla­ke war­ned him­self. If the­re was one thing he knew, it was that it wo­uld be su­ici­de to get too com­for­tab­le with Juli­et McNe­il. She was his at­tor­ney. Not­hing mo­re. They’d both de­ci­ded to le­ave it that way be­fo­re he even knew he ne­eded an at­tor­ney.

    “Fred’s a go­od guy,” he sa­id now. “He’s be­en with us for ye­ars. My fat­her hi­red him stra­ight out of law scho­ol.”

    “I know.” Juli­et smi­led. “He told me. He thinks the world of you.”

    Blake shrug­ged, glan­ced aro­und him at the me­men­tos that we­re hel­ping him mo­re than his staff wo­uld ever know.

    “Lee An­ne do­es, too,” Juli­et ad­ded. “I get the fe­eling pretty much ever­yo­ne aro­und he­re do­es.”

    He to­ok the cha­ir adj­acent to her, un­com­for­tab­le with the turn of the con­ver­sa­ti­on. “They’re a go­od gro­up.”

    “It’s im­por­tant, Bla­ke.” Her ga­ze was de­ad se­ri­o­us as she lo­oked him in the eye. “We’re go­ing to ne­ed every sing­le one of them as cha­rac­ter wit­nes­ses. I don’t ca­re if it ta­kes six months to pa­ra­de them all thro­ugh co­urt, we’re go­ing to pa­int a pic­tu­re of you the jury will ne­ver for­get.”

    Okay. He’d hand­le the em­bar­ras­sment. It was a small pri­ce to pay.

    “I ha­ve a list of all the things I’m go­ing to ne­ed,” she con­ti­nu­ed, pul­ling a typed do­cu­ment from her satc­hel. “This and anyt­hing el­se you can think of that might show any con­nec­ti­on at all bet­we­en yo­ur fat­her and the ot­her Se­map­hor bo­ard mem­bers, James, or any of James’s ot­her in­ves­tors. The na­mes are all the­re for you-you can do com­pu­ter se­arc­hes. I’m go­ing to ne­ed bank ac­co­unts, with every sing­le sta­te­ment from the past six ye­ars…”

    The list of do­cu­ments was overw­hel­ming. And he’d ha­ve every one of them in her hands be­fo­re mor­ning. Bla­ke kept im­ma­cu­la­te re­cords, as had his fat­her be­fo­re him.

    Unfortunately, the­re was very lit­tle he knew that might help her. To the best of his know­led­ge, Wal­ter had ne­ver had any de­alings with Eaton James, ot­her than the­ir ti­me to­get­her on the bo­ard of Se­map­hor and the Eaton Es­ta­tes in­vest­ment.

    “You know, it’s odd that James wa­ited un­til the end of his tri­al to ex­po­se all of this,” he told her. Mo­re than anyt­hing, he kept co­ming back to this fact du­ring the long night­ti­me ho­urs.

    “If what he says can stand up in co­urt, then why didn’t he co­me cle­an from the be­gin­ning? I know you sa­id he was ho­ping for comp­le­te ab­so­lu­ti­on, but for­gery is a far les­ser char­ge.” So­met­hing el­se Bla­ke had le­ar­ned on the In­ter­net. “From what I re­ad, sin­ce he’d ne­ver be­en char­ged be­fo­re, he wo­uld’ve got­ten off with pro­ba­ti­on.”

    “I’m imp­res­sed,” Juli­et sa­id. “You’ve do­ne yo­ur ho­me­work.” And then she til­ted her he­ad. “Of co­ur­se, you’re pa­ying me to know that stuff. All you had to do was ask.” Her smi­le to­ok any sting out of the words.

    “I wasn’t su­re you’d ans­wer yo­ur cell at fo­ur in the mor­ning.”

    He hadn’t re­ali­zed qu­ite how tel­ling that sta­te­ment had be­en un­til her eyes sof­te­ned with a com­pas­si­on he wasn’t su­re he wan­ted.

    Juliet McNe­il was his at­tor­ney, he re­min­ded him­self. He co­uldn’t af­ford to ne­ed anyt­hing from her, ot­her than le­gal ser­vi­ces. Pe­ri­od. Too much was at sta­ke.

    “In ans­wer to yo­ur qu­es­ti­on, it’s very pos­sib­le that the­re’s so­met­hing mo­re in what James was sa­ying, and it’s my job to find out what that is.” She pa­used, and then, her eyes nar­ro­wing, sa­id, “It’s al­so pos­sib­le that he was just so cer­ta­in that he co­uld fend off the fra­ud char­ges, he wasn’t go­ing to risk mud­dying his re­pu­ta­ti­on if he didn’t ha­ve to.”

    So how in the hell did they find wha­te­ver James was hi­ding-espe­ci­al­ly when it might not even exist?

    “I’ve got ot­her qu­es­ti­ons for you, things to go over,” Juli­et sa­id next, “but first, we ne­ed to dis­cuss yo­ur pret­ri­al he­aring.”

    The man­da­tory he­aring, thirty days af­ter ar­ra­ign­ment, was to dis­cuss any is­su­es that might ham­per the tri­al-chal­len­ges of ad­mis­sib­le evi­den­ce, for ins­tan­ce-to ve­rify the tri­al start da­te, and to set pro­bab­le length of tri­al. He’d re­ad that the night af­ter his ar­ra­ign­ment. Af­ter a co­up­le of whis­keys and a mid­dle-of-the-night run with Fre­edom on the be­ach.

    Juliet glan­ced up from a le­gal pad she’d be­en pe­ru­sing, and when he nod­ded, she con­ti­nu­ed.

    “This mor­ning I re­ce­ived disc­lo­su­re of the sta­te’s evi­den­ce, all of which we ne­ed to dis­cuss, but at the mo­ment, I’m con­cent­ra­ting on anyt­hing we’ll want to bring up at yo­ur pret­ri­al.”

    A part of Bla­ke sat out­si­de the dis­cus­si­on, watc­hing. It had be­en we­eks, and he still co­uldn’t be­li­eve that this guy lis­te­ning to the de­ta­ils of a po­ten­ti­al­ly li­fe-ending cri­mi­nal tri­al was him. At the sa­me ti­me, his pa­nic had sub­si­ded so­mew­hat.

    He had an at­tor­ney who was in comp­le­te cont­rol.

    “First, the­re’s men­ti­on of the Cay­man Is­lands bank ac­co­unt,” she sa­id al­most ca­su­al­ly. “Schus­ter is sub­mit­ting that do­cu­ment sho­wing the ope­ning of an ac­co­unt with yo­ur na­me at­tac­hed.”

    Blake told him­self it didn’t mat­ter. He didn’t open the ac­co­unt.

    “We won’t ha­ve a prob­lem get­ting that thrown out,” Juli­et sa­id, slo­wing his he­art ra­te on­ce aga­in. “The­re has to be re­al pa­per evi­den­ce-bank sta­te­ments, let­ters ad­dres­sed to you, anyt­hing of­fi­ci­al that pro­ves the ac­co­unt was ac­ti­ve in yo­ur na­me-and the­re is no­ne.”

    And be­ca­use the ac­co­unt was in the Cay­man Is­lands, whe­re an ac­co­unt num­ber co­uld not be tra­ced, the­re was no way to get that evi­den­ce. One hurd­le down.

    Sunlight from the win­dow ca­ught the gol­den flecks in her auburn ha­ir. Bla­ke re­mem­be­red be­ing fas­ci­na­ted by strands of that ha­ir co­ve­ring silky whi­te bre­asts…

    “Second, Schus­ter’s plan­ning to use the tes­ti­mony Eaton James ga­ve at his own tri­al as evi­den­ce aga­inst you.”

    Blake slam­med back down to re­ality with a pa­in­ful thud. How co­uld any hu­man be­ing fight a de­ad man?

    “Can he do that?”

    Juliet’s eyes we­re warm, per­so­nal, as she glan­ced over at him. “It’s pos­sib­le, but that’s whe­re we’re go­ing to put our pret­ri­al ener­gi­es.”

    Watching her, lis­te­ning, Bla­ke’s ner­ves cal­med a bit. God she was be­a­uti­ful. And smart. And de­ter­mi­ned. And on his si­de.

    He’d known, that night ni­ne ye­ars be­fo­re, that he’d met so­me­one spe­ci­al. He’d had no idea how spe­ci­al.

    “If he uses the tes­ti­mony, he’s in vi­ola­ti­on of the conf­ron­ta­ti­on cla­use.” She spo­ke with res­pect, not down to him, not even li­ke a te­ac­her with a stu­dent. But as an equ­al. “That sta­tes all de­fen­dants ha­ve the right to per­so­nal­ly conf­ront an­yo­ne ma­king sta­te­ments aga­inst them.”

    “Is the­re a way aro­und it?” he as­ked.

    “Schuster has to pro­ve that the­re was anot­her op­por­tu­nity for you to cross-exa­mi­ne or call James on what he sa­id.”

    “I wasn’t even in co­urt!”

    “I know. But Schus­ter will say you had op­por­tu­nity af­ter co­urt that day to ma­ke a cla­im aga­inst James.”

    “Schuster was the only at­tor­ney ad­vi­sing me then.”

    “Which is a po­int I in­tend to ma­ke with the jud­ge,” Juli­et as­su­red him.

    “I told Schus­ter the en­ti­re story was a lie,” Bla­ke sa­id. “I was his wit­ness. We we­re on the sa­me si­de. James was the op­po­nent. I didn’t think for one se­cond an­yo­ne wo­uld ac­tu­al­ly be­li­eve my fat­her wo­uld re­sort to black­ma­il. Nor did I see the po­int in pres­sing for­mal char­ges. James was go­ing to ja­il, and I just wan­ted the who­le thing over.”

    “I know.” Juli­et set her pad asi­de, le­aned over, her arms cros­sed on her thighs. “I think we’ll be­at this.” She didn’t smi­le, but her exp­res­si­on re­as­su­red him. “The fact that James…uh…did what he did…so so­on af­ter the tes­ti­mony sho­uld be eno­ugh to show that you did not ha­ve amp­le op­por­tu­nity for re­but­tal.”

    She was still bot­he­red by James’s su­ici­de. Bla­ke wis­hed he co­uld spe­ak with her mo­re abo­ut it. And knew that wo­uld be cros­sing a li­ne he co­uldn’t af­ford to cross.

    At le­ast not now.

    So, okay. Con­cent­ra­ting on bu­si­ness, James’s tes­ti­mony was one bat­tle al­most down.

    He won­de­red how many mo­re hund­red the­re’d be be­fo­re this war was fi­nal­ly over.

    And if, in the end, win­ning bat­tles wo­uld mat­ter.

    It was the war he had to win.

    

    

    AFTER SPEN­DING a co­up­le of ho­urs pe­ru­sing Rams­den En­terp­ri­ses’ tax re­cords and bank sta­te­ments, Juli­et left work early on Mon­day to ta­ke Mar­cie to her first pre­na­tal vi­sit. And then, when the doc­tor re­por­ted that, yes, Mar­cie was ap­pro­xi­ma­tely six we­eks along and everyt­hing lo­oked per­fect, Juli­et and Mar­cie pic­ked Mary Jane up from scho­ol and went for ice cre­am to ce­leb­ra­te. That led to a trip to the mall to lo­ok at baby clot­hes. A la­te din­ner at the fo­od co­urt had to co­me next. And then, long af­ter the sun had go­ne down, the thre­eso­me went ho­me to the cot­ta­ge.

    Mary Jane skip­ped off to bed with a smi­le on her fa­ce.

    Which ma­de up for the ti­me spent away from fi­gu­ring out how to pro­ve to a na­me­less jury that Bla­ke Rams­den had not­hing to do with the Cay­man Is­lands bank ac­co­unt be­aring his na­me. Lack of pa­per­work asi­de, if the pro­se­cu­ti­on fo­und a way to bring up the ac­co­unt, he co­uld play on the Cay­man Is­lands con­fi­den­ti­ality laws as the so­le re­ason for the lack of pa­per­work. To ma­ke that stick, all he had to do was con­vin­ce the jury.

    Unfortunately, Juli­et’s ti­me with her sis­ter and da­ugh­ter didn’t ta­ke her away from ot­her tho­ughts that con­ti­nu­ed to spi­ral out of cont­rol at un­fo­re­se­en mo­ments thro­ug­ho­ut her day. Tho­ughts of Bla­ke as he’d be­en, na­ked in her arms, ni­ne ye­ars be­fo­re.

    Of the man who’d la­ug­hed with her over drinks just we­eks be­fo­re.

    And of the strong, et­hi­cal man who was at­temp­ting to stand aga­inst the li­es and di­sas­ters pla­gu­ing his li­fe.

    A man she had no bu­si­ness thin­king abo­ut.

    

    THE PI­LE OF MA­IL on her desk on Tu­es­day was twi­ce as thick as usu­al, be­ca­use she hadn’t yet at­ten­ded to Mon­day’s stack. Go­ing thro­ugh the usu­al bri­efs, in­vi­ta­ti­ons and junk that just to­ok up spa­ce and kil­led tre­es, she was surp­ri­sed by a le­gal-si­ze en­ve­lo­pe to­ward the bot­tom of the pi­le.

    For two re­asons. The re­turn ad­dress was Eaton James’s. And the­re was so­met­hing lit­tle and hard in­si­de.

    Staring at the en­ve­lo­pe ga­ve her an eerie fe­eling, ra­ising all of the dark emo­ti­ons her cli­ent’s de­ath had evo­ked se­ve­ral we­eks be­fo­re. How co­uld Eaton James ha­ve sent her anyt­hing?

    It didn’t ta­ke long to find out.

    The let­ter had be­en sent from James’s at­tor­ney-a part of the dist­ri­bu­ti­on of his es­ta­te that no one but James and his at­tor­ney had known abo­ut. Ot­her than the pre­da­ted let­ter from James, tel­ling her this, the only thing in­si­de was a small key. And a post-offi­ce-box num­ber.

    

    THE BOX WAS IN La Jol­la, not far from the ad­dress Bla­ke Rams­den had gi­ven her. Juli­et didn’t get out that way of­ten. She tho­ught abo­ut dri­ving aro­und to see if she co­uld find his pla­ce-just to see it.

    And be­ca­use she co­uldn’t af­ford anyt­hing that was go­ing to tie her to the man any mo­re clo­sely than she’d al­re­ady be­en ti­ed, she didn’t.

    It to­ok her se­ve­ral mi­nu­tes and a co­up­le of con­ver­sa­ti­ons cen­te­red on the sig­ned and no­ta­ri­zed let­ter in her hand, but Juli­et fi­nal­ly per­su­aded a su­per­vi­sor at the post of­fi­ce to tell her who was re­gis­te­red to the box num­ber and key she held. The ans­wer sent chills down her spi­ne.

    The box had two re­gis­te­red users. Eaton James and Wal­ter Rams­den. And in­si­de we­re se­ve­ral re­cent bank sta­te­ments from a bank ac­co­unt in the Cay­man Is­lands.

    The na­me on the ac­co­unt was Bla­ke Rams­den.

    

    “WE’VE GOT TRO­UB­LE.” On her cell pho­ne in the post-offi­ce par­king lot, Juli­et used every cal­ming tech­ni­que she’d ever le­ar­ned. The bright sun, which usu­al­ly che­ered Juli­et, was gi­ving her a he­adac­he.

    If he was gu­ilty, she wasn’t go­ing to be ab­le to sa­ve him. And she co­uldn’t fat­hom the al­ter­na­ti­ve.

    “Juliet? What’s up?”

    She’d fo­und Bla­ke in his of­fi­ce. He so­un­ded pre­oc­cu­pi­ed.

    “I’d li­ke to talk to you in per­son. Can we me­et so­mep­la­ce?”

    In the end, she ag­re­ed to wa­it for him in La Jol­la, on a stretch of pri­va­te be­ach not far from his ho­me. As so­on as he’d fi­gu­red out that the news she had was not go­od, he’d op­ted for the oce­an as a me­eting pla­ce.

    Juliet wasn’t surp­ri­sed. She’d ma­de all of her to­ug­hest de­ci­si­ons by the oce­an. Sit­ting on a be­ach la­te one night, let­ting the wa­ves wash up aro­und her legs, she’d de­ci­ded to ke­ep the baby she car­ri­ed.

    And not to tell the baby’s fat­her that he’d ma­de a child.

    She fo­und the par­king al­co­ve and pic­nic tab­le just as he’d desc­ri­bed. She co­uld dri­ve right up. Ta­ke two steps to the tab­le. No re­ason to re­mo­ve her pumps and ho­se to walk in the sand. But she did, any­way. She co­uldn’t pass up the fe­el of the sand bet­we­en her to­es and the scratc­hing along the bot­tom of her fe­et.

    Had Bla­ke li­ed to her?

    Juliet had left the jac­ket to her vi­olet spring su­it in the BMW, but it wasn’t long in the bright sun be­fo­re she was swe­ating any­way. Not that she ca­red.

    Her abi­lity to jud­ge cha­rac­ter had al­ways be­en one of her stron­gest su­its and was a sig­ni­fi­cant fac­tor in the suc­cess of her ca­re­er.

    Blake wo­uldn’t lie to her. Or an­yo­ne. He was ho­nest to a fa­ult. If anyt­hing, his pro­pen­sity to tell the truth pro­ved the old ada­ge that too much of anyt­hing was a bad thing.

    Or was she just blin­ded by me­mo­ri­es of sand and mo­on­light and the most inc­re­dib­le mind and vo­ice and hands? And mo­uth.

    She co­uldn’t for­get that mo­uth. It had do­ne things to her body, aro­used res­pon­ses in­si­de her, that she hadn’t known we­re pos­sib­le.

    Responses she hadn’t felt sin­ce that night.

    And if he hadn’t li­ed? What then? The­re was no way she was go­ing to be ab­le to fight a bank sta­te­ment be­aring her cli­ent’s na­me. So­me things re­al­ly we­re black and whi­te.

    But the­re had to be so­me exp­la­na­ti­on. Bla­ke wo­uld be ab­le to cle­ar this up. She just had to wa­it for him to get the­re.

    Down at the wa­ter’s ed­ge, she wa­ited for the shock to co­me as the cold wa­ter lap­ped at her to­es. Se­agul­ls skim­med the ed­ge of the oce­an lo­oking for prey.

    What had hap­pe­ned to the days when be­ing on the be­ach me­ant lo­oking for shells and dre­aming of sa­iling out to sea with a das­hing cap­ta­in? When had she lost tho­se days, tho­se chil­dish dre­ams? At thir­te­en? On the mo­ve to Map­le Gro­ve? Du­ring law scho­ol? When she’d won her first ca­se?

    “I ex­pec­ted to find you back he­re.” She hadn’t he­ard Bla­ke’s steps in the sand.

    She didn’t turn. Not yet. She hadn’t fo­und the ans­wers, the so­lid pla­ce to stand, she’d be­en lo­oking for.

    “I co­uldn’t get this clo­se and not fe­el the wa­ter,” she told him, kno­wing he’d un­ders­tand.

    They’d dis­co­ve­red the night they met that they we­re oce­an so­ul ma­tes.

    “Do you get to the oce­an of­ten?”

    She lo­oked over at him, squ­in­ting. “Every day. I li­ve in a cot­ta­ge on a pri­va­te strip of Mis­si­on Be­ach.”

    His smi­le was small but ge­nu­ine as he glan­ced down at her thro­ugh his dark sung­las­ses.

    “If I’d had to gu­ess, I’d ha­ve had you li­ving on the be­ach.”

    She’d left her sung­las­ses in the car. She ne­eded to see the co­lors of the sky and the oce­an and the gol­den glow of the sun on the be­ach in all its bright splen­dor.

    “Do you own the pla­ce?”

    It wasn’t re­al­ly a qu­es­ti­on for a cli­ent to ask his law­yer. But per­haps it was one that an old lo­ver might ask?

    Or, pro­bably mo­re ac­cu­ra­tely, it was one that might al­low him to avo­id the re­ason they we­re the­re to­get­her in the first pla­ce. It wo­uld gi­ve him a mo­ment to so­ak up a bit of the oce­an’s he­aling energy.

    “Yes,” she sa­id. “It’s not big, just three bed­ro­oms, but I lo­ve it.”

    He’d re­mo­ved his sho­es, too, and rol­led up the cuffs of his navy slacks and the sle­eves of his whi­te dress shirt.

    “How long ha­ve you be­en the­re?”

    “Four ye­ars.” Just be­fo­re Mary Jane had star­ted at the first of a co­up­le of pri­va­te scho­ols for gif­ted child­ren. Whi­le aca­de­mi­cal­ly they’d chal­len­ged her a bit mo­re than her cur­rent si­tu­ati­on, Juli­et hadn’t be­en happy abo­ut the ri­gid exc­lu­si­vity. They we­re re­pu­tedly go­od scho­ols but not the very best. Un­for­tu­na­tely the best had wa­iting lists ten ye­ars long.

    “You li­ve alo­ne?”

    They we­ren’t he­re to talk abo­ut her. They we­re he­re to es­tab­lish whet­her or not Bla­ke Rams­den had li­ed to her, or to find the mi­rac­le that wo­uld exp­la­in the evi­den­ce sit­ting back in her car.

    “My sis­ter li­ves with me.” She told him the truth, kno­wing that it wasn’t the way he’d ha­ve pre­sen­ted the truth gi­ven the sa­me cir­cums­tan­ces. He’d ha­ve men­ti­oned ever­yo­ne who li­ved in his ho­use.

    Juliet tri­ed hard to ig­no­re the pres­su­re in her sto­mach.

    “Is she a law­yer, too?”

    Hands in the poc­kets of his slacks, he star­ted to walk slowly along the wa­ter’s ed­ge and she fell in be­si­de him. The ma­il in her car was go­ing now­he­re. The facts wo­uld be the sa­me la­ter that night. And every night af­ter as well.

    “No, she’s a ha­ir de­sig­ner ho­ping to get on with one of the stu­di­os he­re in San Di­ego.”

    Grinning, he star­ted to walk aga­in, le­aving imp­rints to fill with wa­ter be­hind him. With a co­up­le of qu­ick steps, Juli­et ca­ught up with him.

    “What’s so funny?”

    “Not funny,” he sa­id, still grin­ning as he lo­oked down at her with an exp­res­si­on that was mo­re be­mu­sed than hu­mo­ro­us. “I’m just trying to ima­gi­ne two of you in the sa­me ho­use.”

    “Marcie isn’t li­ke me,” she as­su­red him. “She’s a lot mo­re la­id-back.”

    “You so­und as if that’s a bad thing.”

    “Of co­ur­se it’s not bad.” She re­ac­hed down to pick up a be­a­uti­ful, lu­mi­nes­cent shell. A ra­re find. “It’s just li­ke anyt­hing el­se, tho­ugh. For every go­od si­de, the­re’s a cor­res­pon­ding bad. Ta­ke me, for ins­tan­ce. I’m a go-get­ter, but I push too hard so­me­ti­mes. I don’t al­ways know when to qu­it.”

    And ta­ke you. You’re so ca­ught up in tel­ling the comp­le­te truth you aren’t ever go­ing to for­gi­ve me if you find out the truth I ha­ven’t told you.

    “So what’s the down­si­de that bro­ught that wor­ri­ed to­ne to yo­ur vo­ice when you men­ti­oned yo­ur sis­ter?”

    It had be­en li­ke this ni­ne ye­ars ago. Her ur­ge to con­fi­de in this man-to tell him things she didn’t talk to an­yo­ne abo­ut. Back then it had be­en dre­ams of the fu­tu­re and her ne­ed to pro­ve her­self.

    That was how they’d star­ted that long-ago night-drin­king and con­fi­ding, partly be­ca­use it had be­en so sa­fe. They’d be­en stran­gers, with not­hing in­ves­ted in the re­la­ti­ons­hip, who wo­uld ne­ver see each ot­her aga­in.

    A co­up­le of kids we­re thro­wing a Fris­bee be­hind one of the ho­uses abo­ve them. She co­uldn’t ma­ke out what they we­re sa­ying, but the in­no­cen­ce in the­ir la­ugh­ter car­ri­ed cle­arly.

    “Marcie has a ten­dency to set­tle for less than she wants. Our mot­her did that. And I saw how it en­ded. I will not see my sis­ter die the sa­me way. I don’t think I’d sur­vi­ve.”

    “If yo­ur sis­ter is anyt­hing li­ke you, she has that co­re of in­ner ste­el we spo­ke abo­ut ear­li­er. It wo­uld stop her be­fo­re she to­ok her own li­fe.”

    Maybe. But then, Juli­et had be­en fa­irly cer­ta­in her mot­her had that sa­me co­re. Whe­re did Bla­ke think Juli­et had got­ten it from? Cer­ta­inly not from the we­ak and clin­ging man who’d fat­he­red her.

    She had to tell him abo­ut the bank sta­te­ments, and then le­ave. Juli­et smo­ot­hed her thumb over the soft in­si­de of the shell in her palm.

    Not that she had to hurry ho­me. To­night was Mary Jane and Mar­cie’s night to­get­her.

    “Marcie’s preg­nant.”

    He was the only per­son she trus­ted who wo­uld ne­ver know her sis­ter. That was the re­ason she’d con­fi­ded so­met­hing that wasn’t hers to tell.

    “I ta­ke it the­re’s not a hus­band who al­so li­ves with you?”

    She sho­ok her he­ad, watc­hing for mo­re shells. “The fat­her is in Map­le Gro­ve. They’ve be­en da­ting sin­ce high scho­ol but the re­la­ti­ons­hip is mo­re of a ha­bit than a ro­man­ce.”

    “He hit the ro­ad when he fo­und out she was preg­nant?”

    “No.” She sho­uld ne­ver ha­ve star­ted this. The­re was no way he, or an­yo­ne el­se, wo­uld ever un­ders­tand.

    The wa­ves lap­ped aga­inst the sho­re and Juli­et he­ard ot­her wa­ter. Saw aga­in that tiny, plas­tic bath­tub in the matc­hing tiny bath­ro­om in the tra­iler whe­re she and Mar­cie had grown from girls in­to wo­men. She’d be­en ho­me for the we­ekend, pre­pa­ring for her fi­nal exams in law scho­ol.

    She’d co­me from Mar­cie’s shop. They’d plan­ned a surp­ri­se trip to San Fran­cis­co to ce­leb­ra­te the­ir mot­her’s birth­day. They’d had re­ser­va­ti­ons at a ro­of­top res­ta­urant. Juli­et had go­ne ho­me to tell her mot­her to put on her best dress…

    “Marcie hit the ro­ad. She’s only be­en li­ving with me for a lit­tle over a we­ek,” Juli­et sa­id slowly. “She and Hank ha­ve had ye­ars to get mar­ri­ed. Ne­it­her one of them has ever be­en mo­ti­va­ted eno­ugh-or in lo­ve eno­ugh, she says-to ma­ke it hap­pen. He works in the fa­mily hard­wa­re sto­re and has no de­si­re to be anyw­he­re el­se. Ever. He’s com­mit­ted to his fa­mily and the sto­re. She ha­tes Map­le Gro­ve. Is bo­red out of her mind half the ti­me. If she mar­ri­es Hank be­ca­use of this baby, she’s go­ing to get ti­ed to that town just li­ke our mot­her was. The re­asons might be dif­fe­rent, but the re­sult will be the sa­me.”

    “A lot of pe­op­le li­ve very happy li­ves in small towns.”

    “I know they do!” Alt­ho­ugh a dep­res­sed tran­si­ent town li­ke Map­le Gro­ve didn’t ha­ve a high per­cen­ta­ge of them. “But Mar­cie isn’t happy the­re! She wants to tra­vel. To see the world. To ha­ve a so­ci­al li­fe. All she co­uld talk abo­ut whi­le we we­re in high scho­ol was get­ting out.”

    “So why didn’t she?”

    “She met Hank and got a job at the lo­cal be­a­uty shop. She’s al­ways be­en in­to ha­ir and ma­ke­up and stuff li­ke that. She’s re­al­ly go­od. She dro­ve an ho­ur each way to ta­ke clas­ses in San Fran­cis­co and got her cos­me­to­logy li­cen­se long be­fo­re I fi­nis­hed col­le­ge.” She gro­und her fo­ot in­to the sand, com­for­ted by the fe­el of it aga­inst her arch. “Be­fo­re she knew it, she had mo­re than half the la­di­es in Map­le Gro­ve co­ming to her. In a San Fran­cis­co sa­lon she’d still ha­ve be­en ma­king mi­ni­mum wa­ge was­hing ha­ir for so­me high-pa­id de­sig­ner. A co­up­le of ye­ars la­ter, when she was tal­king abo­ut mo­ving he­re to try for a job at a big sa­lon-which had al­ways be­en her dre­am-she was of­fe­red the chan­ce to go in­to part­ners­hip in Map­le Gro­ve. The lu­re of her own pla­ce, and the sa­fety of her re­la­ti­ons­hip with Hank, kept her the­re. Dre­aming.”

    She’d ne­ver me­ant to say anyt­hing. Let alo­ne so much.

    “It’s tho­se dre­ams that kill you,” she sa­id a co­up­le of se­conds la­ter. “They eat at you un­til the­re’s not­hing left.”

    If she tho­ught for one se­cond that Mar­cie wo­uld ever be happy in Map­le Gro­ve, if her sis­ter had gi­ven any in­di­ca­ti­on of wan­ting a li­fe the­re…

    “But they didn’t this ti­me.” Bla­ke’s vo­ice was soft. Em­pat­he­tic. “She got out.”

    And Juli­et went to bed every night wor­rying that Mar­cie wasn’t go­ing to set­tle in as qu­ickly as she wan­ted to, that she wo­uldn’t find a job right away, that she’d let the lu­re of se­cu­rity in Map­le Gro­ve call her back in a we­ak mo­ment and put in mo­ti­on the be­gin­ning of the end.

    

    THE SUN WAS SIN­KING over the oce­an by the ti­me Bla­ke tur­ned aro­und to he­ad back to­ward the­ir cars. Anot­her mi­le or so and they’d ha­ve be­en at his pla­ce. He wasn’t su­re he trus­ted him­self to ha­ve her the­re.

    Especially not now, when she was be­co­ming mo­re fri­end than at­tor­ney. They we­re tre­ading dan­ge­ro­us gro­und. And he co­uldn’t af­ford any ext­ra dan­ger in his li­fe at the mo­ment. He was too awa­re of his alo­ne­ness to be su­re he wo­uldn’t do anyt­hing stu­pid. Li­ke hit on his law­yer.

    “I gu­ess we’ve avo­ided the bad news long eno­ugh,” he told her as they he­aded back up the be­ach.

    He had to get ho­me any­way. Fre­edom wo­uld be re­ady for his run on the be­ach. And then a ni­ce gro­und-be­ef din­ner. The lit­tle guy ne­eded so­me fat­te­ning up.

    As Juli­et told him abo­ut the key she’d re­ce­ived in the ma­il, and mo­re hor­ri­fi­cal­ly, the con­tents of the post-offi­ce box, Bla­ke con­ti­nu­ed to put one sandy fo­ot in front of the ot­her. And that was all. The wa­ves that nor­mal­ly cal­led to him we­re no mo­re than a ro­aring in his ears, drow­ning out all but the far-off vo­ice of his de­fen­se at­tor­ney.

    He ran every day. Se­ve­ral mi­les at a ti­me. And ca­me ho­me ba­rely win­ded. Now, just strol­ling the be­ach, his chest was so tight he co­uld hardly pull in air.

    There was a Uni­ted Sta­tes post-offi­ce box re­gis­te­red in Eaton James’s na­me with his fat­her as a co­sig­ner. And a bank ac­co­unt in the Cay­man Is­lands in his na­me, comp­le­te with bank sta­te­ments ad­dres­sed to him.

    The vo­ice fell away. Bla­ke fo­ught thro­ugh the dark fog to fo­cus on only one thing. The prob­lem at hand. Not its ra­mi­fi­ca­ti­ons.

    “This ma­kes the Cay­man Is­land ac­co­unt ad­mis­sib­le as evi­den­ce, do­esn’t it?”

    They we­re wal­king mo­re qu­ickly and had al­most re­ac­hed the po­int whe­re they’d turn up the be­ach to he­ad back to the­ir cars. The set­ting sun ma­de it dif­fi­cult to lo­ok out over the oce­an.

    “It co­uld, yes.”

    “Could?”

    “If we disc­lo­se the bank sta­te­ments.”

    Blake slo­wed. “If we disc­lo­se them? Don’t we ha­ve to?”

    “It’s not that cle­ar-cut.”

    Here it co­mes, Bla­ke tho­ught. Tho­se sha­des of gray he’d be­en wor­ri­ed abo­ut. As go­od as she was, as much as he ne­eded her, he just co­uldn’t let her do that. He re­al­ly be­li­eved that his only ho­pe of win­ning was to stand strong be­hind the va­lu­es he’d sac­ri­fi­ced so much to find. If he wa­ve­red, if he li­ed, even by omis­si­on, he’d lo­se.

    Blake re­mo­ved his sung­las­ses, sli­ding them in­to the poc­ket of his shirt as they wal­ked to­ward the­ir cars.

    “If the evi­den­ce is per­ti­nent to the ca­se, then, yes, we ha­ve to disc­lo­se it, but that’s comp­le­tely su­bj­ect to in­terp­re­ta­ti­on.”

    “I think pretty much an­yo­ne wo­uld ag­ree that Cay­man Is­lands bank sta­te­ments are per­ti­nent to this ca­se.”

    She stop­ped, lo­oked up at him. “That ac­co­unt is yo­urs, then? The card at­tac­hed to it has yo­ur sig­na­tu­re?”

    “No.”

    “Then, as far as yo­ur ca­se is con­cer­ned, I in­terp­ret tho­se sta­te­ments as fal­se do­cu­ments, and the­re­fo­re, not su­bj­ect to disc­lo­su­re laws. Et­hi­cal­ly, I’m ob­li­ga­ted to re­se­arch them and, if I find evi­den­ce that they’re le­gi­ti­ma­te, I ha­ve to disc­lo­se them.”

    “And if they co­me up la­ter and it’s le­ar­ned that we al­re­ady had evi­den­ce of them?”

    “I’ll ar­gue-and win-that they we­re su­bj­ect to in­terp­re­ta­ti­on.”

    She ma­de sen­se. And yet…

    “It’s not right.”

    “It’s right then for us to hang you be­fo­re we ha­ve a chan­ce to fi­gu­re out why James pre­ar­ran­ged to ha­ve that key co­me to me? Or why, for that mat­ter, the­re’s ap­pa­rently an ac­co­unt in the Cay­man Is­lands with you as the prin­ci­pal sig­ner? Be­ca­use I can gu­aran­tee that if I turn the­se over now, Schus­ter su­re as hell isn’t go­ing to try to find out. He’s go­ing to ta­ke them at fa­ce va­lue and run with them.”

    Was it a sta­te­ment of his emo­ti­onal tur­mo­il that Bla­ke co­uld ac­cept so much of what she was sa­ying? Was he, when ti­mes got to­ugh eno­ugh, just as ca­pab­le as an­yo­ne el­se of sel­ling out?

    Juliet la­id a hand on his arm. “It’s not an easy qu­es­ti­on, Bla­ke. Both si­des ha­ve per­fectly va­lid ar­gu­ments, but this one re­al­ly is my call and I ha­ve to do what’s in yo­ur best in­te­rests.”

    In his best in­te­rests in terms of win­ning this ca­se? Or in terms of be­ing ab­le to lo­ok at him­self in the mir­ror for the rest of his li­fe?

    Of co­ur­se, if he lost the ca­se and went to pri­son, he pro­bably wo­uldn’t be fa­cing a lot of mir­rors.

    “You co­uld turn them over and still do the re­se­arch.”

    He was di­sap­po­in­ting her. He co­uld re­ad that in tho­se exp­res­si­ve gre­en eyes-and in her sigh.

    “We only ha­ve two and a half months un­til the tri­al,” she sa­id, still calm, but not as gent­le in her de­li­very. “What if I’m not ab­le to find anyt­hing in that ti­me that’ll pro­ve yo­ur na­me on that ac­co­unt was for­ged? It’ll be yo­ur word aga­inst a de­ad man’s, and the pro­se­cu­tor is sit­ting the­re with pa­per evi­den­ce-bank sta­te­ments that we’ve pro­vi­ded-that pro­ves you the li­ar. What’s the jury go­ing to think, Bla­ke? What wo­uld you think if you we­re sit­ting in one of the­ir se­ats?”

    What she was sug­ges­ting wasn’t aga­inst the law. Things li­ke this we­re do­ne all the ti­me. It was how the world wor­ked.

    And what if it so­me­how got out that he knew abo­ut tho­se sta­te­ments and his at­tor­ney hadn’t disc­lo­sed them? No mat­ter the ar­gu­ment, he’d lo­ok li­ke a li­ar by de­fa­ult, and his in­teg­rity wo­uld ta­ke a le­gi­ti­ma­te hit.

    Never in his li­fe had Bla­ke be­en up aga­inst a har­der de­ci­si­on, or one less cle­ar to him.

    “I want you to disc­lo­se them.”

    Juliet lo­we­red her he­ad. But she didn’t say what he knew she must be thin­king. “You’re ma­king my job a lot har­der than it ne­eds to be.”

    “I know. I’m sorry.” And he was. She was an an­gel the­re to sa­ve him and he’d al­ways be gra­te­ful for that. Even from a pri­son cell.

    “You un­ders­tand that the­re’s not­hing il­le­gal abo­ut what I’m pro­po­sing, cor­rect?”

    “I do.”

    “And you still want me to go ahe­ad and send the sta­te­ments to Schus­ter?”

    “Yes.”

    “Okay.” She star­ted trud­ging thro­ugh the sand aga­in to­ward her car. “I’ve do­ne my best, which is all I can do.”

    It didn’t es­ca­pe Bla­ke that do­ing one’s best was a form of ho­nesty all in it­self.

    

    

    MARY JANE GOT A PER­FECT sco­re on her math test that we­ek. She sa­id it was be­ca­use the boy in front of her qu­it che­wing gum so lo­ud and she co­uld he­ar bet­ter. Juli­et be­li­eved that Mary Jane be­li­eved this was the re­ason. To Mar­cie she da­red to exp­ress ho­pe that the­ir new plan to gi­ve Mary Jane ti­me alo­ne with each of them, and to re­in­for­ce the part­ners­hip she sha­red with her mot­her, was wor­king.

    In less than two we­eks’ ti­me, Mar­cie had ap­pli­ed to all the key stu­di­os in the San Di­ego area and had al­re­ady re­ce­ived calls for half a do­zen in­ter­vi­ews.

    And Juli­et was busy syste­ma­ti­cal­ly qu­es­ti­oning every wit­ness on Schus­ter’s list, lo­oking at ye­ar-end bu­si­ness sta­te­ments, com­pa­ring ac­co­unts pa­yab­le with cre­dit card and chec­king sta­te­ments and tax ca­te­gory cre­dits. And trying not to think abo­ut the tall, ath­le­tic and et­hi­cal­ly up­tight man run­ning on the be­ach with his new puppy. Eating din­ner all alo­ne. And go­ing to bed that way, too.

    He was a cli­ent. She co­uld help him win his ca­se. And as long as she was his at­tor­ney, she co­uldn’t do anyt­hing abo­ut any of tho­se ot­her things.

    On the last Fri­day eve­ning in May, just a co­up­le of days be­fo­re Bla­ke’s pret­ri­al he­aring, Mar­cie and Mary Jane we­re off to see a tra­ve­ling di­no­sa­ur ex­hi­bit that cla­imed to ha­ve one of the world’s most aut­hen­tic Tyran­no­sa­urus rex spe­ci­mens.

    Juliet was plan­ning to go ho­me, gi­ve her­self a fa­ci­al and curl up in a blan­ket on the back porch with a re­ading light and a go­od bo­ok. A mo­ti­va­ti­onal bo­ok for wo­men who wan­ted to li­ve up to the­ir po­ten­ti­al. And if she fi­nis­hed that one, the­re was anot­her abo­ut sta­ying fo­cu­sed when li­fe was in cha­os.

    And then, just as she was le­aving the of­fi­ce, a let­ter ar­ri­ved for her by lo­cal co­uri­er.

    “Hi, Jason, how’re the clas­ses co­ming?” she as­ked the yo­ung law stu­dent who sup­ple­men­ted his scho­lars­hip by do­ing runs for a go­od many of the law of­fi­ces in town.

    “Hard.” The tall, thin twenty-three-ye­ar-old grin­ned as he han­ded Juli­et a clip­bo­ard to sign off on the de­li­very. “And long.”

    “You ke­eping up?”

    “Always.” With a nod and one last smi­le, he was off as qu­ickly as he’d ar­ri­ved, le­aving Juli­et in pos­ses­si­on of a thick ma­ni­la en­ve­lo­pe from Pa­ul Schus­ter.

    With that al­most per­pe­tu­al knot back in her sto­mach, she drop­ped her satc­hel and keys, sank down to her desk cha­ir and slit the en­ve­lo­pe.

    

    AN HO­UR LA­TER, sit­ting in a qu­i­et out-of-the-way bar not far from Mis­si­on Be­ach, Juli­et wa­ited for Bla­ke Rams­den. Me­eting for drinks might not ha­ve be­en the best idea, but she wan­ted Bla­ke to ha­ve a glass of whis­key handy when she sho­wed him what Pa­ul Schus­ter had sent.

    Besides, it was Fri­day night and they wo­uld’ve be­en comp­le­tely alo­ne if they’d met in eit­her of the­ir of­fi­ces.

    In spi­te of all of her ad­vi­ce to her­self, her he­art flut­te­red the se­cond he wal­ked in the do­or. He’d sa­id he was co­ming stra­ight from the of­fi­ce, and whi­le he’d pul­led off his tie, un­do­ne the top but­ton of his whi­te dress shirt and rol­led up his sle­eves, he still lo­oked every bit the suc­ces­sful pro­fes­si­onal that he was.

    His dark ha­ir, the exact co­lor of his da­ugh­ter’s, was rump­led as tho­ugh he’d eit­her dri­ven with the mo­on ro­of open on his Mer­ce­des SUV, or run his hand thro­ugh it mo­re than a few ti­mes.

    She ho­ped he’d dri­ven with the ro­of open.

    “Should we or­der first?” he as­ked as he slid op­po­si­te her in­to the back bo­oth of the mostly de­ser­ted pub. It was still a bit early for the af­ter-work crowd.

    “Probably.”

    His eyes, when they met hers in the dim light, we­re warm. Con­cer­ned. “That bad, huh?”

    Juliet nod­ded.

    The ol­der fe­ma­le wa­it­ress, who’d al­re­ady be­en over twi­ce, ma­de a be­eli­ne for the­ir tab­le as so­on as she saw Bla­ke. She to­ok the­ir drink or­der, sug­ges­ted an ap­pe­ti­zer plat­ter, and as Juli­et and Bla­ke nod­ded, smi­led and sa­id she’d be right back.

    “We’re eit­her go­ing to ha­ve to stop me­eting li­ke this, or start or­de­ring din­ner,” Bla­ke sa­id with a half grin. “The car­bohyd­ra­te co­unt in tho­se ap­pe­ti­zers must be sky high. Not to men­ti­on the cho­les­te­rol.”

    “Probably not,” Juli­et res­pon­ded, kno­wing that, if her sto­mach didn’t set­tle so­on, she wo­uldn’t be eating eno­ugh of the ap­pe­ti­zers for ex­ces­si­ve carbs or cho­les­te­rol to be an is­sue. “Not that I pay as much at­ten­ti­on to stuff li­ke that as I sho­uld,” she ad­ded.

    “I ha­ve only sin­ce fin­ding out abo­ut my fat­her’s he­art con­di­ti­on.”

    She frow­ned, stu­di­ed fe­atu­res that lo­oked the epi­to­me of he­alth. “Are you at risk for he­art prob­lems?” The tho­ught had ne­ver oc­cur­red to her. So­mew­he­re, in the far re­ces­ses of her mind, she’d fi­gu­red she had an en­ti­re li­fe­ti­me ahe­ad of her to tell him he was Mary Jane’s fat­her. Li­ke may­be af­ter the lit­tle girl was mar­ri­ed. And he was a grand­fat­her.

    Or had she tho­ught that she had a who­le li­fe­ti­me to find out if that ma­gic night ni­ne ye­ars be­fo­re had be­en anyt­hing mo­re than a fig­ment of her ima­gi­na­ti­on, glos­sed over and ma­de mo­re per­fect by the pas­sa­ge of ti­me?

    “I’m he­althy as a hor­se,” he sa­id easily. But his exp­res­si­on chan­ged al­most as so­on as he’d sa­id the words.

    Was he won­de­ring if lon­ge­vity might not mat­ter if his li­fe was spent be­hind bars? She ran her fin­ger along a scratch in the scar­red map­le tab­le.

    Blake to­ok a long swig from his whis­key and so­da as so­on as it ar­ri­ved. Then he set down the glass and lo­oked over at her. “Sho­ot.”

    Juliet han­ded him the she­af of pa­pers she’d had on the tab­le be­si­de her.

    “Eaton James’s wi­fe fo­und the­se whi­le go­ing thro­ugh his per­so­nal things at ho­me. She sent them to Schus­ter, who’s ad­mit­ted them as evi­den­ce.”

    Blake re­ma­ined calm as he glan­ced thro­ugh co­pi­es of a chec­king-acco­unt re­gis­ter, pa­ying par­ti­cu­lar at­ten­ti­on to the items that had be­en mar­ked with a yel­low high­ligh­ter.

    Had Schus­ter do­ne that? Or Juli­et?

    There we­re co­pi­es of bank sta­te­ments that cor­ro­bo­ra­ted the check num­bers and amo­unts. Co­pi­es of can­ce­led checks, both front and sig­ned-off back, that al­so matc­hed-num­bers, ac­co­unts, da­tes.

    It didn’t ta­ke an at­tor­ney, or even an­yo­ne very in­tel­li­gent, to fi­gu­re this one out. What he had be­fo­re him was ir­re­fu­tab­le evi­den­ce that for at le­ast the ye­ar be­fo­re Bla­ke’s fat­her’s de­ath, Eaton James had be­en ma­king monthly pay­ments to Wal­ter Rams­den.

    “Shit.”

    “That was my first res­pon­se.”

    Her first. That me­ant she’d had a se­cond. Bla­ke’s mind ra­ced. “Is it pos­sib­le James is a for­ger on a much lar­ger sca­le then he ad­mit­ted? Co­uld he ha­ve for­ged my sig­na­tu­re on that bank ac­co­unt in the Is­lands, for­ged my fat­her’s sig­na­tu­re he­re, and on the post-offi­ce box?”

    “It’s pos­sib­le.” She han­ded him anot­her clus­ter of pa­pers. Bank sta­te­ments from the Cay­man Is­lands ac­co­unt.

    With high­ligh­ted de­po­sits matc­hing the ones he’d just se­en on James’s per­so­nal ac­co­unt.

    “That’s go­od, right? It fits the the­ory. For wha­te­ver re­ason, James was wri­ting him­self checks out of his per­so­nal ac­co­unt and hi­ding the mo­ney in the ac­co­unt in the Cay­man Is­lands.”

    “I’m not su­re why he’d do that,” Juli­et sa­id. The dim ligh­ting pre­ven­ted him from se­e­ing the brown flecks in her eyes, but the­ir warmth was evi­dent just the sa­me.

    He wasn’t su­re he ne­eded to see that warmth, tho­ugh. It we­ake­ned him. Ma­de him want things that we­ren’t go­ing to hap­pen.

    “If he was sip­ho­ning mo­ney from Ter­ra­cot­ta…”

    Juliet sho­ok her he­ad. “He wo­uldn’t run it thro­ugh his per­so­nal bank ac­co­unt.”

    “He wo­uld if…”

    Blake had no idea what fol­lo­wed that “if.” He just co­uldn’t be­li­eve that his fat­her had be­en black­ma­iling Eaton James. It didn’t fit.

    Juliet slid anot­her sta­te­ment ac­ross to him. He lo­oked to see if the­re was anyt­hing el­se on the tab­le be­si­de her. The­re wasn’t.

    He glan­ced at the sta­te­ment on top of his pi­le. To­ok anot­her sip of whis­key. Re­ad the dam­ning words aga­in. Skim­med the high­ligh­ted ent­ri­es.

    “My fat­her de­po­si­ted the mo­ney in­to his own per­so­nal ac­co­unt.” The­re was no for­ging this one. The bank ac­co­unt had be­lon­ged to Wal­ter Rams­den. Bla­ke had tur­ned over the in­for­ma­ti­on him­self.

    Sitting back whi­le the wa­it­ress de­li­ve­red the­ir tray of wings and veg­gi­es, stuf­fed po­ta­to skins and nac­hos, Juli­et just watc­hed him, sa­ying not­hing.

    He wis­hed she’d spe­ak and tell him it was over, that she co­uldn’t help him. Or bet­ter yet, that she’d tell him she had a the­ory. That the evi­den­ce wasn’t ad­mis­sib­le. He wis­hed she’d say she’d had a ca­se just li­ke this on­ce be­fo­re and it had all wor­ked out fi­ne.

    The fo­od bet­we­en them went un­to­uc­hed.

    “What now?” he fi­nal­ly as­ked.

    “We ke­ep lo­oking.” She to­ok a sip of the wi­ne she’d or­de­red, and then anot­her. “Whi­le this might ap­pe­ar to subs­tan­ti­ate James’s tes­ti­mony, we’re plan­ning to get that thrown out on Mon­day. As­su­ming we do, the onus will be on Schus­ter to tie all this to­get­her-to find wit­nes­ses or so­me ot­her way to exp­la­in what all of this me­ans. Ba­sed on what Eaton sa­id, I don’t think he’ll be ab­le to do that. The tran­sac­ti­ons that to­ok pla­ce we­re kept comp­le­tely pri­va­te. Bet­we­en two men who are no lon­ger he­re to spe­ak for them­sel­ves.”

    Blake nod­ded, fe­eling a lit­tle less trap­ped. “You sa­id we ke­ep lo­oking? For what?”

    “Anything that’ll tell us what re­al­ly to­ok pla­ce fi­ve or six ye­ars ago. I didn’t ha­ve ti­me to­night, but over the we­ekend I in­tend to go over all of yo­ur fat­her’s pa­yab­les, both per­so­nal and thro­ugh Rams­den. We ha­ve a re­cord of de­po­sits in­to the Cay­man Is­lands ac­co­unt, but no way of pro­ving who ma­de the de­po­sit.”

    “Unless my fat­her’s re­cords show so­met­hing?”

    She shrug­ged and pic­ked up a stalk of ce­lery, but didn’t ta­ke a bi­te. “Even if he did, that do­esn’t cle­ar you. Tech­ni­cal­ly, that ac­co­unt is still yo­urs and now that Schus­ter has evi­den­ce that’ll hold up in co­urt on that, we ha­ve to find a way to pro­ve you didn’t open the ac­co­unt.”

    “You think my fat­her ope­ned that ac­co­unt in my na­me? That he’s the one gu­ilty of fra­ud?”

    Blake felt her po­in­ted lo­ok. “Do you?” she as­ked.

    “No.”

    She to­ok a bi­te of the ce­lery. “And what hap­pens if I find out dif­fe­rently?”

    “Then you do.”

    He’d be free. At le­ast in a le­gal sen­se.

    On an emo­ti­onal le­vel, he wasn’t su­re. Had his sel­fish­ness of al­most fo­ur ye­ars cost his fat­her not only his physi­cal li­fe, but his so­ul as well? Had he be­en for­ced to comp­ro­mi­se the most im­por­tant thing he’d gi­ven Bla­ke-the only thing that sus­ta­ined Bla­ke at the mo­ment-his sen­se of in­teg­rity?

    Had the old man di­ed a thi­ef and a cri­mi­nal?

    

    AS THE BAR slowly fil­led with Fri­day-night traf­fic, Bla­ke and Juli­et tal­ked abo­ut ot­her pos­si­bi­li­ti­es. Juli­et was go­ing to sub­po­ena the re­cords for the ot­her bu­si­nes­ses clo­sely as­so­ci­ated with Ter­ra­cot­ta-the ones Schus­ter had cla­imed we­re fal­se fronts be­hind which James hid Ter­ra­cot­ta los­ses. She al­re­ady had a pri­va­te in­ves­ti­ga­tor in the Cay­man Is­lands, qu­es­ti­oning bank emp­lo­ye­es, sho­wing pic­tu­res of James and Bla­ke and Wal­ter Rams­den to see if he co­uld get any ta­kers. The go­vern­ment was not re­qu­ired to co­ope­ra­te. The banks we­ren’t li­kely to eit­her, sin­ce much of the­ir bu­si­ness was ba­sed on the as­su­ran­ce that wha­te­ver hap­pe­ned the­re wo­uld go no furt­her.

    “Why are you smi­ling?” she as­ked just af­ter the wa­it­ress de­li­ve­red the­ir se­cond ro­und of drinks. They’d ma­de a very small dent in the ap­pe­ti­zers.

    “I didn’t know I was.” It was the truth. He grab­bed a be­an-and-che­ese-fil­led chip.

    “Well, you we­re.”

    “Hmm.” Dip­ping the chip in so­ur cre­am, he to­ok a bi­te, and then fi­nis­hed it off.

    “Why? What we­re you thin­king?”

    Damn, the wo­man was per­sis­tent.

    “About you.”

    “What abo­ut me?”

    He al­ways told the truth. So he co­uld tell her the truth-that he didn’t wish to ans­wer her qu­es­ti­on.

    Instead, he mur­mu­red, “That no mat­ter how bad things ap­pe­ar, be­ing with you ma­kes them se­em mo­re ma­na­ge­ab­le.”

    Face down, she ran a fin­ger along the ed­ge of her wi­neg­lass. Then she lo­oked up. “Thank you.”

    “And I was won­de­ring if it’s so­met­hing abo­ut you, so­met­hing you bring to all of yo­ur…cli­ents. Or if it’s mo­re than that.”

    “What mo­re wo­uld it be?”

    He to­ok anot­her chip. Bro­ke it in half. Ate one half. “I don’t know,” he told her. “So­met­hing mo­re per­so­nal.”

    “I don’t get per­so­nal with my cli­ents.” The words we­re sa­id with to­tal con­fi­den­ce. And just a bit too qu­ickly.

    “I didn’t think you did.”

    “It’s comp­le­tely unet­hi­cal. I co­uld be dis­bar­red.”

    “I know.”

    He ate a wing. And then anot­her. She to­yed with a po­ta­to skin. He to­ok a sip of whis­key.

    “So, is this ext­ra…nur­tu­ring or wha­te­ver it is so­met­hing you of­fer ever­yo­ne?”

    She frow­ned and lo­oked away, fol­lo­wing the prog­ress of an ol­der co­up­le as they left the bar.

    “No.”

    She rep­li­ed so softly, he wasn’t su­re she had, un­til that comp­le­tely open ga­ze set­tled firmly on him. He re­ad the truth the­re and was sa­tis­fi­ed. He sho­uld le­ave it at that. Ne­eded to le­ave it at that.

    Wanted to le­ave it at that.

    “When this is all over, will we be fri­ends?” He bla­med the qu­es­ti­on on the whis­key, and a re­si­du­al fe­ar of be­ing thrown in ja­il for the rest of his li­fe that was ma­king him ne­edy in ways he didn’t un­ders­tand.

    “As op­po­sed to ene­mi­es?” She’d pretty much mu­ti­la­ted the po­ta­to, eating only a co­up­le of bi­tes and smas­hing the rest with her fork.

    “As op­po­sed to not se­e­ing each ot­her for anot­her fi­ve or ten ye­ars, at which ti­me we ca­su­al­ly say hel­lo when we bump in­to each ot­her on the stre­et.”

    Assuming he was on the stre­et by then.

    She pe­ered over at him, eyes nar­ro­wed. “Do you want to be fri­ends?”

    “I think so.”

    Her eyes clo­sed, her lips not qu­ite ste­ady.

    “I…”

    Reaching ac­ross the tab­le, he to­uc­hed her lips, ba­rely, with one fin­ger. And even that was a mis­ta­ke. He wan­ted so much mo­re.

    “I’m not as­king for a fu­tu­re, or even a re­la­ti­ons­hip,” he sa­id. “I’m just as­king if you’d li­ke to ke­ep in to­uch.”

    He wa­ited a long ti­me for her ans­wer and was for­ced to re­ali­ze how much it mat­te­red.

    “Yes.” The re­li­ef was pal­pab­le when her res­pon­se fi­nal­ly ca­me. “I wo­uld li­ke to be fri­ends.”

    He cho­se to ig­no­re the “but” he sus­pec­ted he he­ard at the end of that sen­ten­ce.

    

    BLAKE’S PRET­RI­AL HE­ARING went exactly as Juli­et had pre­dic­ted. James’s tes­ti­mony was di­sal­lo­wed. The Cay­man bank sta­te­ments sto­od as evi­den­ce. The tri­al was con­fir­med to start on the mor­ning of July twenty-third and ex­pec­ted to last a mi­ni­mum of two we­eks. She and Bla­ke met a few mo­re ti­mes over drinks. Now that Mar­cie was aro­und, Juli­et co­uld get away in the eve­nings and things just se­emed mo­re re­la­xed for both of them in a bar than in eit­her of the­ir of­fi­ces.

    As the we­eks wo­re on and Bla­ke’s ten­si­on grew, she was eager to re­li­eve any of it that she co­uld.

    Marcie fi­nal­ly lan­ded a job in one of the lar­ger San Di­ego stu­di­os, which les­se­ned one of Juli­et’s wor­ri­es, fre­e­ing her up to fo­cus mo­re comp­le­tely as she stu­di­ed tax re­cords, com­pany re­cords and bank re­cords, and fol­lo­wed check tra­ils, in­vo­ices, in­ven­tory, pa­yab­les and re­ce­ivab­les. She tal­ked to every per­son on Schus­ter’s list-and Bla­ke’s. Slowly, syste­ma­ti­cal­ly, she was bu­il­ding a pic­tu­re of the li­ves of Eaton James and Wal­ter Rams­den. And to a les­ser ex­tent, Bla­ke.

    All she co­uld re­al­ly do for him was bu­ild the world’s best cha­rac­ter re­fe­ren­ce. The­re simply wasn’t any evi­den­ce of fra­udu­lent ac­ti­vity bet­we­en him and his fat­her or Eaton James. He’d be­en wor­king in Hon­du­ras-and a co­up­le of ot­her co­unt­ri­es-re­bu­il­ding vil­la­ges. She’d be flying a co­up­le of key wit­nes­ses in for the tri­al and had ta­ken te­le­con­fe­ren­ce de­po­si­ti­ons with many mo­re who wo­uld tes­tify to Bla­ke’s ac­ti­vi­ti­es.

    But no­ne of that me­ant he hadn’t al­so be­en in com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on with his fat­her. She just co­uldn’t pro­ve that he hadn’t be­en.

    Schuster co­uldn’t pro­ve that he had be­en, eit­her, she as­su­red Bla­ke one Thurs­day night in la­te June. They had bank sta­te­ments but no matc­hing check num­bers-no way to pro­ve whe­re the mo­ney in the Cay­man ac­co­unt had co­me from. Ho­we­ver, as Bla­ke qu­ickly po­in­ted out, with tho­se bank sta­te­ments han­ging over him, comp­le­te with matc­hing pay­ments from Eaton James to Bla­ke’s fat­her, Schus­ter might not ha­ve to pro­ve anyt­hing el­se.

    So far, not­hing had tur­ned up in any re­cords anyw­he­re to show mo­ni­es le­aving for the Cay­man Is­lands. Ho­we­ver, iro­ni­cal­ly, Juli­et had fo­und Rams­den cont­ri­bu­ti­ons to a cha­rity for ho­me­less child­ren in Hon­du­ras in amo­unts that per­fectly matc­hed the amo­unts of mo­ney-and pretty ne­arly the ti­ming-of all the pay­ments from Eaton James to Wal­ter Rams­den.

    Also iro­nic, and not lost on Bla­ke when she told him, was the fact that the mo­ney was do­ing exactly what the Eaton Es­ta­tes in­vest­ment was me­ant to do-fe­eding po­or and di­sad­van­ta­ged child­ren in Hon­du­ras.

    Blake had to can­cel an ap­po­int­ment for drinks the last Tu­es­day in June. The­re’d be­en a fall at one of his si­tes and whi­le the fa­ult had cle­arly be­en a sub­cont­rac­tor’s not wor­king to sa­fety co­de, Bla­ke had go­ne im­me­di­ately to the hos­pi­tal to sit with the yo­ung man’s preg­nant wi­fe.

    Arriving ho­me a co­up­le of ho­urs ear­li­er than plan­ned to find what she’d ex­pec­ted to be an empty ho­use bla­zing with lights, Juli­et pul­led the BMW in­to the car­port and hur­ri­ed in­si­de. Ot­her than Mar­cie’s mor­ning sick­ness, li­fe had be­en pretty glo­ri­o­us at the McNe­il cot­ta­ge now that scho­ol and Brow­ni­es we­re do­ne, and Mary Jane co­uld spend her days at ho­me, at the stu­dio with her aunt, at the of­fi­ce do­ing odd jobs for her mot­her and Du­ane Wil­son, or with Don­na Wil­son.

    There we­re still mo­ments when Mary Jane wor­ri­ed abo­ut her mot­her spen­ding ti­me with Bla­ke Rams­den. Whe­ne­ver the lit­tle girl knew Juli­et had be­en with Bla­ke, she’d craw­led in­to bed with her mot­her that night. And Mar­cie had had so­me fa­irly alar­ming-to Juli­et-mo­ments of do­ubts abo­ut her de­ci­si­on to le­ave Map­le Gro­ve. Usu­al­ly af­ter a bad bo­ut of thro­wing up. And Juli­et-well, she was get­ting used to wa­iting out her own mo­ments of do­ubt and gu­ilt and sec­ret lon­gings, of which she was as­ha­med every ti­me she ca­me ho­me to her sing­le preg­nant sis­ter and swe­et in­se­cu­re da­ugh­ter.

    But all things con­si­de­red, the McNe­il wo­men li­ving to­get­her was a suc­ces­sful ar­ran­ge­ment.

    Mary Jane was sit­ting at the kitc­hen tab­le, arms fol­ded ac­ross her chest. She was still we­aring the whi­te shorts and yel­low but­terfly top she’d had on when Juli­et left for work that mor­ning and her curls we­re comp­le­tely dry, which me­ant she hadn’t go­ne swim­ming with Mar­cie as they’d plan­ned.

    Frowning, lo­oking aro­und for Mar­cie, Juli­et set her satc­hel on the co­un­ter. “Hi, imp, what’s up? I tho­ught you and Aunt Mar­cie we­re go­ing to the po­ol.”

    Since Mar­cie’s sche­du­le al­lo­wed her to be ho­me fa­irly of­ten du­ring the af­ter­no­on, Juli­et had bo­ught a fa­mily mem­bers­hip to a com­mu­nity cen­ter with an out­do­or po­ol.

    “We we­re.” Juli­et co­uldn’t tell if Mary Jane was hurt or angry, but so­met­hing was ob­vi­o­usly wrong.

    “So what hap­pe­ned?”

    “I didn’t want to go.”

    Heart sin­king, Juli­et sat down op­po­si­te her da­ugh­ter, re­ac­hing over to brush the curls be­hind her ears and watc­hing as they sprang right back. Wo­uld Bla­ke’s ha­ir be as curly if he al­lo­wed it to grow?

    “How co­me?” she as­ked gently. “You lo­ve to swim.”

    “Because.”

    Mary Jane sta­red glumly at the tab­le.

    “Where’s Aunt Mar­cie?”

    “In her ro­om.”

    “Why?”

    “Because I don’t want to see her ever aga­in.”

    Juliet drew in a de­ep bre­ath. Let it out slowly. She’d ma­de it thro­ugh al­most a who­le month wit­ho­ut the cons­tant pa­nic and ten­si­on that had be­en ri­ding her sin­ce Mary Jane had beg­ged not to re­turn to scho­ol num­ber two af­ter the Christ­mas ho­li­days.

    She’d comp­la­ined that the scho­ol had had too many dumb ru­les. And Juli­et had had to ag­ree with her. But still…

    “Why are you mad at Aunt Mar­cie?”

    Please let this be so­met­hing sim­p­le. Li­ke Mar­cie eating the last cho­co­la­te snack ca­ke.

    Not that Mary Jane had ever let so­met­hing li­ke that up­set her.

    “She li­ed.”

    

    

    OKAY, SO IT WAS a mis­com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on. That was re­la­ti­vely easy to fix. As so­on as her da­ugh­ter told her the who­le story, she co­uld brid­ge the gap in her un­ders­tan­ding.

    “To you?” Juli­et wa­ited for the nod.

    Mary Jane lo­oked up, her eyes fil­led with an­ger. “To you.”

    “Sweetie, Mar­cie didn’t lie to me. We ma­de a pact when we we­re yo­ung that we’d ne­ver lie to each ot­her and we ne­ver ha­ve. Even when tel­ling the truth has be­en hard and we’ve hurt each ot­her’s fe­elings.”

    Mary Jane’s chin jut­ted for­ward. “She li­ed to you, Mom. I know she did. I he­ard her.”

    She’d ne­ver se­en Mary Jane so angry and hurt and sca­red all at on­ce.

    “When?”

    The lit­tle girl’s eyes glis­te­ned. “When she told you she wasn’t tal­king to Hank. He calls he­re.”

    Smiling gently, Juli­et bre­at­hed a sigh of re­li­ef. “He calls, swe­etie, but Aunt Mar­cie do­esn’t talk to him.”

    Marcie had told Hank that she’d call him when the baby was born and that she didn’t want to talk to him un­til then. Juli­et sus­pec­ted that her sis­ter was af­ra­id she’d gi­ve in and go ho­me to Map­le Gro­ve if Hank pres­su­red her hard eno­ugh. Hank, who was tur­ning out to be surp­ri­singly de­ter­mi­ned, still cal­led.

    Where had all that de­ter­mi­na­ti­on be­en for the past fif­te­en ye­ars when Mar­ce had sat ho­me night af­ter night, un­hap­py and go­ing now­he­re?

    She watc­hed for the do­ubt to en­ter her da­ugh­ter’s eyes, in­di­ca­ting that Mary Jane was con­si­de­ring anot­her vi­ew than the one she’d held, fol­lo­wed by ten­ta­ti­ve ho­pe and pe­ace. She’d se­en it hap­pen many, many ti­mes in the lit­tle girl’s li­fe.

    Mary Jane’s arms we­re still clutc­hed tightly to her chest, and her eyes re­ma­ined hard, her exp­res­si­on ada­mant. “That’s what she’s tel­ling you, Mom, that she’s not tal­king to him, but she’s lying.”

    Juliet didn’t un­ders­tand. Mary Jane had al­ways be­en such a re­aso­nab­le child. Even du­ring her twos, when the­re we­re sup­po­sed to ha­ve be­en hor­rib­le tant­rums, she’d usu­al­ly be­en ab­le to re­ason with the lit­tle girl.

    “Did you he­ar Hank on the ans­we­ring mac­hi­ne? Did he say so­met­hing that ma­kes you think Mar­cie’s tal­ked to him?” Words to which Mary Jane had gi­ven wrong me­aning?

    It’s not that she do­ub­ted her sis­ter for a se­cond. She just wan­ted to fix wha­te­ver mis­con­cep­ti­on Mary Jane was ope­ra­ting un­der.

    The lit­tle girl sho­ok her he­ad, her full, an­ge­lic che­eks thin­ned with disp­le­asu­re. “I he­ard her tal­king to him. And it wasn’t the first ti­me, eit­her, be­ca­use she as­ked abo­ut so­met­hing he’d told her a few days ago.”

    It hadn’t be­en Hank. Mar­cie wo­uld ha­ve told Juli­et abo­ut that. “May­be it was Tammy. Or one of the ot­her la­di­es she knew in Map­le Gro­ve.”

    “She sa­id our baby, Mom.” Mary Jane’s vo­ice drip­ped with un­fa­mi­li­ar con­des­cen­si­on.

    The lit­tle girl was po­si­ti­ve she was right and gro­wing mo­re frust­ra­ted with Juli­et by the se­cond, gi­ving Juli­et her first do­ubts.

    “You sho­uldn’t ha­ve be­en lis­te­ning to Aunt Mar­cie’s pri­va­te con­ver­sa­ti­ons, ho­ney.”

    “She sa­id that she was thin­king abo­ut his qu­es­ti­ons,” the lit­tle girl con­ti­nu­ed, ig­no­ring her mot­her’s ad­mo­ni­ti­on.

    Questions?

    “And that she re­al­ly li­ked her job, but that it wasn’t li­ke the shop. She mis­sed her la­di­es and all the talk. And she as­ked abo­ut his mom and the hard­wa­re sto­re and then-”

    “Okay,” Juli­et cut her off. Mar­cie had be­en tal­king to Hank. The rest of this she’d hand­le with her twin. “Eno­ugh. This isn’t any of yo­ur bu­si­ness.”

    “Yes it is. She saw me.”

    “She ca­ught you eavesd­rop­ping?”

    “No.” Mary Jane’s legs swung har­der un­der the tab­le. “She tho­ught I was out­si­de on the be­ach and she was hi­ding in the pantry tal­king re­al­ly soft and I ca­me in to get so­me bre­ad to fe­ed the se­agul­ls and when I pul­led open the do­or she saw me.”

    “Does she know you’re mad at her?”

    Mary Jane nod­ded.

    Something el­se oc­cur­red to Juli­et. “You he­ard all that just when you pul­led open the pantry do­or?”

    Mary Jane tur­ned her he­ad.

    “Look at me, yo­ung lady.”

    It to­ok a long se­cond be­fo­re the child mo­ved her he­ad aro­und, her eyes wor­ri­ed as they met her mot­her’s ga­ze.

    Juliet didn’t say anyt­hing. She just wa­ited.

    “I got kin­da sca­red when I ca­me in and Aunt Mar­cie was tal­king in the pantry. I was af­ra­id she was tal­king abo­ut me. May­be to you. So I lis­te­ned.”

    “Eavesdropping is wrong.”

    “I know.” Mary Jane’s full lo­wer lip star­ted to tremb­le.

    Some pretty strong mo­ti­va­ti­on must ha­ve pro­pel­led the lit­tle girl ac­ross that li­ne.

    “What on earth wo­uld Mar­cie and I ha­ve to talk abo­ut that wo­uld be so sec­ret?”

    “I don’t know.”

    With a slight tilt of her he­ad, Juli­et si­lently ga­ve the child a se­cond chan­ce to tell the truth.

    “Blake.”

    Oh. So all wasn’t as merry as she’d let her­self think. On so­me le­vel, she’d pro­bably known that. Juli­et ne­ver had be­en much of a Pol­lyan­na.

    “Mary Jane, you know I don’t ke­ep things from you, es­pe­ci­al­ly when they’re abo­ut you. I’ve al­ways be­en open with you.”

    The child’s chin sof­te­ned and sank to her chest. “I know.”

    With her in­dex fin­ger, Juli­et lif­ted her chin. “I sa­id I’d let you know be­fo­re I told Bla­ke abo­ut you, and I will. That’s all the­re is to it.”

    “But what if he asks and you li­ke him aga­in and I’m just a kid and-”

    “You me­an mo­re to me than anyt­hing or an­yo­ne el­se in this world, yo­ung lady,” she sa­id in a to­ne she sel­dom used with her da­ugh­ter. “You co­me first. Al­ways.”

    Mary Jane’s eyes fil­led with te­ars and Juli­et pul­led the lit­tle girl in­to her arms, hol­ding on for a long ti­me. They’d be­en happy and con­ten­ted for eight ye­ars. Why did it se­em as if the world was trying to pull them apart now, when they ne­eded each ot­her most?

    Or was it be­ca­use they ne­eded each ot­her that cir­cums­tan­ces se­emed to be pul­ling them apart?

    Something Mrs. Cum­mings had sa­id back in March af­ter the spit­ting epi­so­de ca­me to mind, ma­king Juli­et une­asy. The wo­man had imp­li­ed that her re­la­ti­ons­hip with Mary Jane was too adult. Too open and equ­al to be na­tu­ral. Juli­et had comp­le­tely dis­mis­sed her con­cerns at the ti­me.

    But co­uld the­re pos­sibly be truth to them?

    Was that why everyt­hing se­emed so hard? Be­ca­use she ex­pec­ted mo­re from a child than she sho­uld? Did she, be­ca­use of Mary Jane’s abi­lity to un­ders­tand be­yond her ye­ars, ex­pect too much from the lit­tle girl emo­ti­onal­ly?

    Or was it as with everyt­hing el­se of gre­at va­lue-the bet­ter it was, the har­der you had to work to ke­ep it?

    She didn’t know.

    And that pa­nic­ked her.

    A lot.

    

    BLAKE HAD NE­VER DO­NE so much so­ci­ali­zing. That last month be­fo­re the tri­al, he ac­cep­ted every in­vi­ta­ti­on and hint of an in­vi­ta­ti­on that ca­me his way. May­be, at le­ast in part, he was dri­ven by pa­nic to get as much li­ving in as he pos­sibly co­uld. Just in ca­se.

    However, he al­so wan­ted to see ever­yo­ne he co­uld, talk to ever­yo­ne he co­uld and me­et ever­yo­ne he co­uld who might ha­ve known his fat­her and Eaton James. Juli­et had spo­ken to every sing­le per­son on his list, tur­ning up not­hing of any subs­tan­ce, and he just didn’t know who el­se might hold the elu­si­ve pi­ece of evi­den­ce that wo­uld ga­in him his fre­edom.

    As he sat at the hos­pi­tal Tu­es­day eve­ning, en­ve­lo­ped by dre­ad whi­le he wa­ited with a yo­ung wo­man he’d ne­ver met to find out if her hus­band was go­ing to li­ve or die, he won­de­red whet­her no one co­uld po­int to that mis­sing pi­ece. What if his fat­her and Eaton James we­re the only two pe­op­le who’d ever known what had re­al­ly hap­pe­ned bet­we­en them? What if Bla­ke wo­uld ne­ver know the who­le story? What if the­re was no pos­sib­le way to pro­ve his in­no­cen­ce?

    What if the fat­her of the un­born child ac­ross from him didn’t li­ve thro­ugh the night?

    “Do you ha­ve fa­mily in the area?” he as­ked the be­a­uti­ful yo­ung His­pa­nic wo­man who hadn’t sa­id a word sin­ce the doc­tor had left them to ta­ke her hus­band in for emer­gency neck sur­gery.

    She sho­ok her he­ad, her fe­atu­res stri­king even tho­ugh her fa­ce was stiff with ten­si­on. “They’re all still in Me­xi­co. So far, Ju­an is the only one who got a vi­sa to work he­re. They’re all trying, tho­ugh.”

    “Have you cal­led them?”

    With her hands slowly rub­bing her belly, al­most as tho­ugh she didn’t even know what she was do­ing, she sho­ok her he­ad a se­cond ti­me. “If I call my ma­ma, she’ll call his and I don’t want them to know when the­re’s no way for them to get he­re. No mo­ney.”

    “How abo­ut fri­ends?”

    “We re­al­ly don’t know many pe­op­le yet. We ha­ven’t be­en he­re that long, and with get­ting re­ady for the baby and all…”

    He glan­ced at her belly and away. “How long be­fo­re you’re due?”

    “A month.”

    That was how long he had left to wa­it, too.

    But whi­le he had to wa­it alo­ne, yo­ung Ma­ria Go­mez might not ha­ve to. Bla­ke ex­cu­sed him­self, ma­de so­me te­lep­ho­ne calls, and wit­hin the ho­ur was ab­le to tell Ma­ria that her mot­her, as well as Ju­an’s, had be­en wi­red mo­ney and-as was of­ten the ca­se in emer­gency si­tu­ati­ons-had be­en gran­ted per­mis­si­on to spend a we­ek in the Uni­ted Sta­tes. They’d be with her by the ti­me Ju­an was co­ming out of re­co­very.

    That was when the yo­ung wo­man star­ted to cry. And as Bla­ke sat the­re, hol­ding a very frigh­te­ned ex­pec­tant mot­her, he pra­yed to a God he’d qu­it rel­ying on so­me­ti­me du­ring his tra­vels. He pra­yed for Ju­an and Ma­ria Go­mez. For the­ir lit­tle baby. And for him­self-a man ten ye­ars ol­der than Ju­an Go­mez, who’d ne­ver fat­he­red a child and might ne­ver ha­ve a chan­ce to do so.

    Might the next month so­me­how find mi­rac­les for all of them.

    Because, God knew, only a mi­rac­le or two wo­uld get any of them thro­ugh the we­eks ahe­ad.

    

    IF JULI­ET HAD ANY DO­UBTS left abo­ut Mary Jane’s story, they we­re go­ne by the ti­me the child fi­nal­ly fell as­le­ep half an ho­ur af­ter her bed­ti­me. Mar­cie had yet to le­ave her ro­om.

    “You go­ing to hi­de in he­re fo­re­ver?” Juli­et pus­hed open the do­or to her da­ugh­ter’s for­mer play­ro­om.

    “No.” Mar­cie sat on the flo­or, le­aning back aga­inst the wall, a tis­sue in her fist. Her eyes we­re red and swol­len.

    “You want to tell me abo­ut the con­ver­sa­ti­on Mary Jane in­ter­rup­ted?”

    Marcie did, im­me­di­ately, con­fir­ming what Mary Jane had al­re­ady told her and mo­re.

    “I’d li­ke to be ab­le to tell you I un­ders­tand why you li­ed to me, and that I’m not hurt,” Juli­et sa­id, sit­ting on the ed­ge of the bed. “But I can’t. I don’t un­ders­tand why, if you re­al­ly wan­ted to talk to Hank, you didn’t tell me. The de­ci­si­on is yo­urs to ma­ke. We’ve both al­ways known that. And I am hurt. Re­al­ly hurt.”

    Her twin’s lips par­ted, tremb­led. Te­ars slowly fil­led her eyes. The si­des of Mar­cie’s ha­ir we­re damp. She’d long sin­ce cri­ed away any ma­ke­up she’d had on.

    “I know.”

    The ad­mis­si­on didn’t he­al the ho­le in Juli­et’s he­art. She’d ac­cep­ted many chal­len­ges in her li­fe-met most of them he­ad-on-and co­me thro­ugh stron­ger. She was pre­pa­red to fa­ce wha­te­ver el­se li­fe de­ci­ded to hand her. She’d just ne­ver ex­pec­ted Mar­cie to be the one do­ing the han­ding.

    They’d co­me thro­ugh everyt­hing to­get­her. Everyt­hing.

    “Why?”

    “I-” Mar­cie bro­ke off. And that, mo­re than anyt­hing, sca­red Juli­et. Even now, fa­ce-to-fa­ce, the­re was a wall bet­we­en her and her sis­ter. She had no idea what to do with it.

    “What, I’ve ima­gi­ned the bond bet­we­en us all the­se ye­ars? Ima­gi­ned the trust?”

    “No.”

    She glan­ced at her sis­ter’s bent he­ad and wan­ted to scre­am. Or cry. “Then what?”

    “I’m not li­ke you, Jules, so su­re of everyt­hing all the ti­me.”

    Juliet slid down to the flo­or, her kne­es up to her chest. “I don’t know what you me­an. I’m not su­re of anyt­hing.”

    “Sure you are.” Mar­cie smi­led, but the exp­res­si­on held as much sad­ness as anyt­hing el­se. “You got preg­nant, and you knew just what to do. Oh su­re,” she ad­ded when Juli­et had be­en re­ady to in­ter­rupt. “You we­re sca­red, but you knew you co­uldn’t marry Bla­ke, knew you sho­uldn’t tell him, knew you had to ta­ke the bar exam, and you knew that, even­tu­al­ly, you’d get what you wan­ted out of li­fe.”

    Okay. May­be. She sup­po­sed. So why, lo­oking back, did she re­mem­ber a dif­fe­rent kind of fe­eling-the fe­eling that she was lo­sing the op­por­tu­nity to ever ha­ve what she re­al­ly wan­ted?

    “I’m not su­re, Jules.” Mar­cie’s soft, te­ary vo­ice bro­ught Juli­et’s tho­ughts back to the bed­ro­om.

    And the fact that she was lo­oking at the bro­ken trust bet­we­en her and the ot­her half of her­self. She and Mar­cie had al­ways be­en ab­le to talk to each ot­her abo­ut anyt­hing. What had hap­pe­ned to chan­ge that?

    “Okay, you’re not su­re. That’s no re­ason to lie to me abo­ut tal­king to Hank. I didn’t ask you not to. Or even ask you if you we­re tal­king to him. You’re the one who ca­me to me and as­ked me to fil­ter the calls be­ca­use you didn’t want to spe­ak with him aga­in un­til the baby was born. And be­ing not su­re is a re­ason to talk to me. Ha­ven’t we al­ways do­ne that, co­me to each ot­her, when we ne­eded help?”

    Marcie didn’t say anyt­hing, but the con­vic­ti­on in her tro­ub­led blue eyes told its own story.

    “What?” Juli­et as­ked. “At this po­int you might as well tell me.” She didn’t fi­gu­re the­re was anyt­hing el­se Mar­cie co­uld say that wo­uld hurt her mo­re. She’d ne­ver un­ders­to­od, un­til that mo­ment, how one co­uld hurt too badly for te­ars.

    They’d co­me. She knew that. La­ter, when she was alo­ne in her bed.

    “I didn’t think you co­uld help me.”

    “That’s crazy!” Juli­et’s de­fen­ses we­re up, a first for her with Mar­cie. It pa­nic­ked her. She didn’t know what to do. “Who bet­ter than me, Mar­ce? I was in the sa­me po­si­ti­on you’re in right now. And I lo­ve you mo­re than an­yo­ne in the world.”

    “You don’t know that,” Mar­cie sa­id. “You ha­ve no idea how much Hank lo­ves me.”

    So that’s what this is abo­ut. Two months ago, for the past fif­te­en ye­ars, Mar­cie had tal­ked abo­ut the lack of fi­re bet­we­en her and Hank, the lack of a fe­eling strong eno­ugh to get them to the al­tar. But now that she was preg­nant, sud­denly she was se­e­ing things she’d ne­ver se­en be­fo­re?

    Had it be­en that way with the­ir mot­her, too? Had she known, be­fo­re she got preg­nant, that she and the­ir fat­her we­ren’t in lo­ve?

    Was Mar­cie just li­ke her af­ter all? Anot­her be­li­ever in fa­iry ta­les? Anot­her wo­man lo­oking for a man to ta­ke ca­re of her? Anot­her dre­amer?

    Another gray body lying na­ked in a tub, wa­iting for a da­ugh­ter to co­me ho­me? To dress it with sha­king fin­gers to pre­ser­ve an ir­re­le­vant mo­desty when the aut­ho­ri­ti­es ar­ri­ved?

    “It do­esn’t mat­ter any­way,” Mar­cie sa­id, and Juli­et sta­red, won­de­ring for a mi­nu­te what her sis­ter me­ant. “Hank do­esn’t ha­ve anyt­hing to do with this.”

    “What do­es?”

    She was pretty su­re she didn’t want to know, but so­met­hing for­ced her to sit the­re and lis­ten.

    “Mom.”

    Marcie had re­ad her mind, just li­ke al­ways. Un­der the cir­cums­tan­ces, Juli­et felt ex­po­sed.

    “What abo­ut her?”

    “You aren’t ra­ti­onal whe­re all that’s con­cer­ned, Jules. You ne­ver got over it.”

    “Of co­ur­se I did. I went to co­un­se­ling. Got on with my li­fe.”

    “You con­ti­nu­ed to li­ve, but I don’t think you ever mo­ved be­yond it.”

    Anger sped thro­ugh her, gi­ving her energy. Air to bre­at­he. “You’re so­me­how go­ing to bla­me the fact that you li­ed to me on Mom’s de­ath?”

    Marcie nod­ded and Juli­et felt her­self def­la­te. “You’re so af­ra­id I’m go­ing to end up li­ke her, Jules, that you can’t see stra­ight on this one. I know that. I un­ders­tand. I lo­ve you for it. But I can’t tell you how I fe­el abo­ut this who­le thing with the baby and Hank and Map­le Gro­ve. You just don’t get it.”

    Marcie was wrong. She had to be. Juli­et was the strong one of the two of them. She al­ways had be­en.

    “Are you sa­ying you think I ma­de the wrong cho­ice when I was preg­nant with Mary Jane?” she as­ked, trying to find even a small part of the an­ger that had dri­ven her se­conds be­fo­re and gi­ven her a sen­se that she’d sur­vi­ve. “Be­ca­use if you are, then this is not the first ti­me you’ve li­ed to me. You’ve of­ten sa­id you comp­le­tely ag­re­ed with me.”

    “I don’t think it was the wrong cho­ice,” Mar­cie sa­id softly. “Not ne­ces­sa­rily be­ca­use get­ting mar­ri­ed wo­uld ha­ve ma­de you un­hap­py, but be­ca­use you we­re so cer­ta­in it wo­uld ha­ve. Be­ca­use of that, the­re wo­uldn’t ha­ve be­en any ot­her op­ti­on.”

    It was too much for her ta­ke in. Af­ter months of worry abo­ut Mary Jane, her re­ne­wed con­tact with Bla­ke, the pos­si­bi­lity that he co­uld fa­ce li­fe in pri­son, a ca­se that was one de­ad end af­ter anot­her, and Mar­cie’s preg­nancy, she just co­uldn’t pro­cess any mo­re.

    “What is it that I sup­po­sedly don’t un­ders­tand?” She as­ked a qu­es­ti­on she tho­ught she co­uld co­pe with.

    “That I might be ab­le to be happy in Map­le Gro­ve,” Mar­cie sa­id, her vo­ice calm, gro­wing stron­ger. “I ha­te the pla­ce. I ha­ve the sa­me me­mo­ri­es the­re that you do. But I do lo­ve Hank. All of this has shown me just how much.”

    Marcie stop­ped, her hands still in her lap as she glan­ced over at Juli­et, and the mo­men­tary con­vic­ti­on in her sis­ter’s eyes ga­ve Juli­et mo­re pa­use than anyt­hing el­se that had co­me be­fo­re.

    “I re­al­ly tho­ught that I wan­ted to mo­ve to San Di­ego,” she sa­id. “For ye­ars, I’ve tho­ught that. I’ve be­en dis­sa­tis­fi­ed, un­wil­ling to gi­ve Hank any in­di­ca­ti­on that I was plan­ning to hang aro­und. That he was eno­ugh to ke­ep me the­re. But I didn’t le­ave, eit­her. Didn’t you ever won­der why?”

    Juliet knew why. The sa­me re­ason her mot­her and grand­mot­her be­fo­re her had sta­yed. Fe­ar to be­li­eve in anyt­hing mo­re. Fe­ar of le­aving what lit­tle se­cu­rity was gu­aran­te­ed to find out what the world co­uld bring.

    “It’s be­ca­use I was too af­ra­id not to want to le­ave,” Mar­cie sa­id, ma­king no sen­se to Juli­et at all. “I was af­ra­id that if I wan­ted to stay in Map­le Gro­ve, I’d be just li­ke Mom.”

    It ma­de a very twis­ted kind of sen­se. Or was her sis­ter me­rely jus­tif­ying the very thing they’d both fe­ared? That they we­re just li­ke the two ge­ne­ra­ti­ons of wo­men who had co­me be­fo­re them.

    “You ex­pect me to be­li­eve now that you li­ke Map­le Gro­ve?”

    “No.” Mar­cie sho­ok her he­ad. “But I lo­ve Hank. And he lo­ves me, too. Pro­bably even mo­re. He’s sup­por­ting me thro­ugh all of this. He’s wil­ling to wa­it whi­le I work things out be­ca­use he knows I ne­ed to do this on my own. To know for su­re. But his li­fe is in Map­le Gro­ve.”

    “If he lo­ves you so much, why can’t he think abo­ut ma­king a li­fe so­mew­he­re el­se?”

    “I as­ked him the sa­me qu­es­ti­on.”

    “And?”

    “He do­esn’t know the ans­wer.”

    Life was ne­ver easy. And in the spa­ce of a few short ho­urs, it had just got­ten ine­xo­rably har­der.

    

    BLAKE WA­ITED at the­ir usu­al bo­oth in the lit­tle pla­ce out by Mis­si­on Be­ach for Juli­et to ar­ri­ve for the­ir we­ekly me­eting the first Fri­day eve­ning in July-just three we­eks be­fo­re his tri­al.

    Lucy bro­ught over his whis­key as so­on as he sat down. “Whe­re’s Juli­et to­night?”

    “On her way,” he told the ol­der wo­man. “She’ll ha­ve the usu­al.”

    Lucy nod­ded, didn’t bot­her with her pad. “You ha­ving din­ner?”

    “Probably.”

    “I’ll just le­ave the­se then.” She pul­led a co­up­le of worn black me­nus from the back of her wa­ist­band and plop­ped them down. “You don’t lo­ok so go­od, son,” she sa­id as she was le­aving. “Ta­ke that wo­man of yo­urs on a cru­ise. You’ll both co­me back res­ted and ra­ring to go aga­in.”

    Take his wo­man on a cru­ise. What an im­pos­sib­le tho­ught.

    But an int­ri­gu­ing one. A who­le we­ek alo­ne with Juli­et on the Me­di­ter­ra­ne­an Sea. Fresh air. Suns­hi­ne. Cliffs ol­der than ti­me. His­tory. Gre­at fo­od. And all night long for ma­king lo­ve…

    “Hi, sorry I’m la­te.” He hadn’t no­ti­ced her ap­pro­ach and she was al­re­ady sli­ding in­to the bo­oth be­fo­re he co­uld stand.

    Probably not such a bad thing.

    “Your drink’s on the way.”

    Her smi­le was be­a­uti­ful, as al­ways, and mostly sur­fa­ce. He knew what that me­ant. The clock was tic­king and ans­wers we­ren’t ap­pe­aring.

    “Might as well get it out of the way,” he told her as so­on as Lucy had bro­ught her glass of wi­ne.

    She slid her arms out of the jac­ket to her su­it. He hadn’t se­en the yel­low one be­fo­re and co­uldn’t ima­gi­ne many wo­men lo­oking go­od in it. On Juli­et, with that fi­re-la­ced ha­ir, the out­fit was at­ten­ti­on-grab­bing. Or may­be it was just him. He se­emed to find everyt­hing abo­ut her cap­ti­va­ting.

    “How do you know the­re’s anyt­hing to get out of the way?”

    Infuriating. But cap­ti­va­ting.

    “Your exp­res­si­on, Co­un­se­lor,” he sa­id, bra­cing him­self for wha­te­ver she might tell him. No mat­ter how bad it got, he was not go­ing to lo­se fa­ith. It was abo­ut all he had left.

    His fa­ith, a ro­om full of qu­otes that we­re da­ily re­min­ders that the char­ges aga­inst him did not de­fi­ne him, and an at­tor­ney who was on his mind far mo­re than was he­althy.

    Juliet to­ok a pad out of her satc­hel. He’d no­ti­ced that whi­le she al­ways had that pad and a pen, she sel­dom used them.

    “The worst news is the­re’s not­hing to re­port from the Cay­man Is­lands.” She lo­oked stra­ight at him. Po­un­ded anot­her na­il in his cof­fin wit­ho­ut flinc­hing. He res­pec­ted that abo­ut her.

    “What el­se?”

    Her smi­le was mo­re ge­nu­ine, if a bit sad. “We’ve be­en spen­ding far too much ti­me to­get­her if you know me so well,” she sa­id.

    With both hands sur­ro­un­ding his whis­key glass, Bla­ke watc­hed her thro­ugh nar­ro­wed eyes. “I don’t think it’s a mat­ter of ti­me,” he told her.

    In ot­her cir­cums­tan­ces he wo­uldn’t ha­ve be­en so forth­right. But fa­ced with the fact that he might not ha­ve all that long, the nor­mal ru­les of so­ci­al in­te­rac­ti­on just didn’t me­an all that much.

    She didn’t say anyt­hing. But she didn’t glan­ce away, eit­her.

    “I think it’s a mat­ter of re­cog­ni­ti­on. The first night we met it se­emed as tho­ugh I knew you.”

    She lic­ked tremb­ling lips, to­ok a sip of wi­ne.

    “You think I’m nuts.”

    “No.” She bit her bot­tom lip. “Not un­less I’m nuts, too.”

    Blake ne­eded to kiss that bot­tom lip. And the top one, too. He ne­eded to fe­el tho­se bre­asts aga­inst his chest. To lo­se him­self in­si­de her aga­in as he’d do­ne end­les­sly that night so long ago. To be free to ha­ve anot­her night li­ke that one…

    “I fo­und so­met­hing el­se this we­ek.” Her vo­ice co­oled him off, tho­ugh her eyes still bo­re that stran­ge in­de­fi­nab­le so­met­hing that fil­led the spa­ce bet­we­en them.

    “What?” he as­ked. He’d had a long we­ek, too, and didn’t want to he­ar any mo­re abo­ut things he co­uld do not­hing abo­ut. Yet he ne­eded to know everyt­hing if the facts we­re ever go­ing to co­me to­get­her to ex­po­se the truth.

    “Interestingly eno­ugh, as I pe­ru­sed the re­cords of a co­up­le of ot­her Eaton Es­ta­tes in­ves­tors, I no­ti­ced out­go­ing pa­yab­les in the exact dol­lar amo­unts that James was pa­ying yo­ur fat­her and that we­re be­ing de­po­si­ted in the Cay­man Is­lands. We don’t know that the mo­ney was go­ing the­re. It cer­ta­inly wasn’t re­cor­ded that way. Still, just as with yo­ur fat­her’s cont­ri­bu­ti­ons to the Hon­du­ras cha­ri­ti­es, the co­in­ci­den­ce is no­tab­le.”

    “You think the­re’s a Pon­zi sche­me?” Had Eaton, li­ke Char­les Pon­zi, used la­ter in­ves­tors to pay off ear­li­er in­ves­tors who­se mo­ney he’d lost or con­fis­ca­ted?

    “Possibly.”

    Blake sat up, his he­art be­ating a lit­tle fas­ter. If they co­uld pro­ve so­met­hing li­ke this, he’d be ho­me free.

    “If not­hing el­se, it at le­ast me­ans the mo­ney in the Is­lands co­uld ha­ve co­me from any num­ber of so­ur­ces.”

    “Yes.”

    “Why isn’t this gre­at news?” It me­ant the­re we­re ot­her pla­ces to lo­ok for the mis­sing clue-so­me kind of pro­of that so­me­one ot­her than him had de­po­si­ted mo­ney in that damn ac­co­unt. So­me re­cord of tho­se sa­me amo­unts of mo­ney le­aving so­mep­la­ce el­se with no known des­ti­na­ti­on on just the right days.

    “It might be gre­at news, but it ma­kes the po­ol of pos­si­bi­li­ti­es that much lar­ger when our win­dow of op­por­tu­nity is get­ting smal­ler by the day.”

    Blake sip­ped his whis­key, in spi­te of the no­ose he felt tigh­te­ning aro­und his neck.

    

    

    THE SO­UND OF CE­RE­AL po­uring in­to a bowl wo­ke Juli­et Sa­tur­day mor­ning. Rol­ling over, she pus­hed the ha­ir out of her eyes, trying to ma­ke out the num­bers on the clock thro­ugh sle­ep-blur­red eyes.

    Barely past six. If it we­re win­ter­ti­me, the sun wo­uldn’t even be up yet.

    Yawning, pus­hing past the let­hargy that had cla­imed her limbs du­ring the long night, she grab­bed the terry shorts at the end of her bed and slid them up un­der the spag­het­ti-strap T-shirt she wo­re to bed.

    Something had to gi­ve so­on. She co­uldn’t af­ford too many mo­re sle­ep­less nights li­ke the one she’d just had.

    Worrying abo­ut Mary Jane. And Mar­cie. And Bla­ke’s ca­se.

    And re­fu­sing to think abo­ut the fe­elings he aro­used in her. De­si­res she’d long sin­ce con­vin­ced her­self had be­en the re­sult of too much al­co­hol and a des­pe­ra­te ne­ed to fe­el so­met­hing be­si­des worry and gri­ef.

    She’d had ni­ne ye­ars to es­ca­pe.

    And her body was so on fi­re for the man, she co­uld hardly re­lax eno­ugh to fall as­le­ep. She’d al­ways tho­ught it was only men who wal­ked aro­und all day with ra­ging hor­mo­nes.

    “What’s the rush, imp?” she as­ked, fin­ding her da­ugh­ter at the kitc­hen tab­le. Me­an­de­ring over to turn on the cof­fe­epot, she stop­ped to wi­pe up the pud­dle of milk spil­led on the co­un­ter.

    “I’m not rus­hed.”

    “You’re up and at ’em pretty dar­ned early. You ha­ve so­me big plans for the day I don’t know abo­ut?”

    “Uh-uh.” The lit­tle girl spo­ke with a mo­uth­ful of ce­re­al.

    “You want to spend the af­ter­no­on on the be­ach? We co­uld ta­ke the to­ols and molds and bu­ild anot­her sand town li­ke we did last ye­ar.”

    “Yeah.” Mary Jane was al­re­ady dres­sed in cot­ton flo­we­red ove­rall shorts and a matc­hing purp­le T-shirt. Her ha­ir, al­ways a mass of un­ruly curls, had cle­arly not se­en the ha­irb­rush that mor­ning. “If she do­esn’t ha­ve to co­me along.”

    “Mary Jane McNe­il, that’s eno­ugh.” Juli­et stop­ped, her arm half out of the cup­bo­ard with a cof­fee cup in her hand. She’d ne­ver spo­ken so harshly to the child.

    Mary Jane was sta­ring at her, mo­uth open. Her eyes we­re wi­de and glis­te­ning.

    Setting the cup on the co­un­ter, Juli­et pul­led a cha­ir up next to her and sat. “I’m sorry.”

    Mary Jane sa­id not­hing. Nor did she clo­se her mo­uth.

    “I was wrong to spe­ak to you li­ke that,” she tri­ed aga­in, run­ning one fin­ger along the lit­tle girl’s thigh.

    The child’s ga­ze mo­ved, fol­lo­wing that fin­ger.

    “Say so­met­hing.”

    “You yel­led at me li­ke Mrs. Thac­ker.”

    The third-gra­de te­ac­her who’d hel­ped ma­ke li­fe hell this past spring.

    “I know.” She co­uldn’t be­li­eve it, eit­her. She’d ne­ver felt that an­ger-fil­led ten­si­on to­ward Mary Jane be­fo­re. “I lost pa­ti­en­ce and I’m sorry.” She wan­ted to pro­mi­se she’d ne­ver do it aga­in, but she was af­ra­id to. She didn’t want to add lying to her list of sins, and be­ca­use this was new ter­ri­tory for her, she co­uldn’t be su­re it wo­uldn’t co­me aga­in.

    Mary Jane sta­red at her long and hard. And then nod­ded. “Okay.”

    Juliet co­uldn’t le­ave it the­re. “It’s just that what you’re do­ing to Mar­cie, it’s not right, swe­etie.”

    “She li­ed.”

    “Yes, she did. But to me, not to you.” Juli­et was still trying to comp­re­hend all the ra­mi­fi­ca­ti­ons of her last con­ver­sa­ti­on with her sis­ter. “But she had go­od re­ason.”

    The lit­tle girl ope­ned her mo­uth to spe­ak and kno­wing that she wasn’t up for a de­ba­te on the right­ness of lying if the re­ason was go­od eno­ugh, she qu­ickly sa­id, “We all ma­ke mis­ta­kes, Mary Jane. You do. I do. Li­ke I just did, snap­ping at you.” She le­aned down, arms on her kne­es, brin­ging her eyes le­vel with the child’s. “And think abo­ut how aw­ful it wo­uld be if every ti­me you ma­de a mis­ta­ke, I re­fu­sed to talk to you or spend ti­me with you. What if I didn’t say it was okay when you sa­id you we­re sorry?”

    Mary Jane pus­hed her spo­on aro­und in the milk left in her bowl. “You can’t do that. You lo­ve me.”

    “And you lo­ve yo­ur aunt Mar­cie, too.”

    The lit­tle girl lo­oked over at her. “But lying is the worst,” she whis­pe­red. “You al­ways say so.”

    “I know.” Run­ning a hand aro­und the back of her neck, Juli­et strug­gled to fo­cus, to find words to exp­la­in so­met­hing that she was pretty su­re she hadn’t comp­le­tely gras­ped yet. “But so­me­ti­mes, the­re’s mo­re than one truth and the two truths don’t go to­get­her and you ha­ve to cho­ose which one to tell.”

    Mary Jane’s legs swung un­der the tab­le. She pla­yed with her milk. “That do­esn’t ac­tu­al­ly ma­ke much sen­se, Mom.”

    “Well,” Juli­et sa­id, watc­hing the lit­tle per­son who was as much a part of her as her own he­art and bo­nes, ac­hing for her in ways she didn’t re­al­ly un­ders­tand.

    She co­uldn’t tell the child much, co­uldn’t in­vol­ve her, but cle­arly so­me kind of exp­la­na­ti­on was ne­ces­sary to calm her. “It’s true that Aunt Mar­cie might want to go back to Map­le Gro­ve, but she knew that be­ca­use I fe­el so strongly abo­ut the pla­ce, I wo­uldn’t be ab­le to un­ders­tand what she was fe­eling. The­re’s al­so anot­her truth-that she ha­tes Map­le Gro­ve as much as I do. Both things are true. But she just told me the one she knew I’d un­ders­tand. The one abo­ut ha­ting Map­le Gro­ve and un­ders­tan­ding how and why I fe­el li­ke I do abo­ut the pla­ce. She me­ant it when she told me she didn’t want to talk to Hank, she just didn’t tell me when she chan­ged her mind be­ca­use she knew I wo­uldn’t un­ders­tand.”

    Mary Jane let go of her spo­on, scratc­hed her no­se, and then, re­ac­hing for her spo­on aga­in, ac­ci­den­tal­ly knoc­ked it asi­de, sen­ding milk flying. Se­eming not to even no­ti­ce, she pe­ered at Juli­et, a swe­et frown mar­king her fo­re­he­ad. “Kind of li­ke when anot­her girl has on a new dress and asks you what you think and you know she re­al­ly li­kes it and you un­ders­tand that, so you find so­met­hing to say that’s the truth, li­ke the la­ce is pretty co­ol, when it’s al­so true that you ha­te the dress?”

    “Yes.” Juli­et smi­led, the ten­si­on in her sto­mach easing for the mo­ment. “I think it is kind of li­ke that.”

    “So Aunt Mar­cie is still one of us?”

    Juliet pic­ked up the spo­on and put it back in the bowl. “She’ll al­ways be one of us, no mat­ter what,” she told her da­ugh­ter. “Just li­ke you will be. Whet­her you lie or che­at or ste­al or grow up to be pre­si­dent, you’ll al­ways be my lit­tle girl, just li­ke Mar­cie is al­ways my sis­ter.”

    “I know that,” Mary Jane sa­id, up on her kne­es. With her hands on each si­de of her mot­her’s fa­ce, she put her no­se wit­hin a co­up­le of inc­hes of Juli­et’s and sta­red. “I me­an that we can be­li­eve her aga­in.”

    “Absolutely,” Juli­et sa­id, pe­ace set­tling over her as she hug­ged her da­ugh­ter tight.

    

    FREEDOM WAS A GRE­AT DOG. Gre­at at gul­ping down hu­ge bowls of chow, gre­at at che­wing off the ed­ges of cup­bo­ards, gre­at at wa­king Bla­ke up just abo­ut any­ti­me he ma­na­ged to fi­nal­ly fall in­to a fit­ful sle­ep. And gre­at at be­ing man’s best fri­end. The puppy was al­re­ady le­ash-tra­ined-tra­ined to know that he didn’t want one. For that pri­vi­le­ge, he’d qu­ickly le­ar­ned ne­ver to le­ave Bla­ke’s si­de when they ran on the be­ach.

    To test his skills, and only to test his skills, Bla­ke lo­aded the dog-and the le­ash, just in ca­se-in his car on Sa­tur­day for a dri­ve over to Mis­si­on Be­ach. He had no idea whe­re Juli­et li­ved and pur­po­sely did not try to find her ad­dress. Nor did he in­tend to watch for signs of her sil­ver BMW. It was a long stretch of be­ach-a lot of it with pri­va­te ac­cess, so not very crow­ded-and per­fect for run­ning with a new pup.

    In his black run­ning shorts, whi­te musc­le shirt and fa­vo­ri­te run­ning sho­es, he wasn’t re­ady to ack­now­led­ge that the­re was any com­fort at all in just be­ing clo­se to the wo­man who’d be­co­me so­me kind of sa­vi­or to him-and not just be­ca­use she might be ab­le to ke­ep him out of ja­il.

    She’d shown him a part of li­fe he’d sub­cons­ci­o­usly be­en se­arc­hing for and had gi­ven up on ever fin­ding. The exis­ten­ce of so­met­hing be­ne­ath the sur­fa­ce, be­ne­ath the end­less fight for suc­cess. Juli­et had shown him that he co­uld find pe­ace no mat­ter how hor­rib­le the da­ily cir­cums­tan­ces, just by be­ing with the right per­son.

    He stop­ped the car in a pub­lic lay-by, got out, wal­ked aro­und the ve­hic­le and ope­ned the front pas­sen­ger do­or. “Let’s go, Fre­ed, and watch yo­ur man­ners.”

    The pup squ­e­aled, jum­ped down and wet the toe of Bla­ke’s sne­aker. Pat­ting the bo­un­cing black he­ad, Bla­ke re­ac­hed in­si­de the black Mer­ce­des SUV for a mo­is­te­ned to­we­let­te, wi­ped his shoe and tos­sed the to­we­let­te on the flo­or be­hind the se­at.

    “Come on, boy,” he sa­id, slap­ping his leg as he star­ted down the si­de of a small cliff to the be­ach be­low. Fre­edom pus­hed thro­ugh the we­eds, pran­cing joy­ful­ly be­si­de Bla­ke.

    There we­ren’t any cot­ta­ges on this sec­ti­on of be­ach and Bla­ke ran easily, his mind wan­de­ring, as it al­ways se­emed to the­se days, to his be­a­uti­ful bar­ra­cu­da de­fen­se at­tor­ney.

    Now that he’d fo­und her, he just had a few hurd­les to cross so that he co­uld do so­met­hing abo­ut not lo­sing her aga­in.

    A ca­se to win. A ja­il sen­ten­ce to elu­de. And a wo­man to con­vin­ce.

    The first pe­op­le they saw we­ren’t a prob­lem for Fre­edom-a te­ena­ge co­up­le lying on a blan­ket tuc­ked in­to a co­ve along the be­ach. They we­re so eng­ros­sed, Bla­ke sus­pec­ted they didn’t even know he and Fre­edom had pas­sed.

    Freedom must ha­ve sen­sed the sa­me as, af­ter a cur­sory glan­ce, he ig­no­red them, too.

    So far so go­od.

    At le­ast if Bla­ke was sent to pri­son, Fre­edom wo­uld ha­ve a bet­ter chan­ce of fin­ding a go­od ho­me than he’d had when Bla­ke got him. Pe­op­le pre­fer­red tra­ined dogs to un­dis­cip­li­ned ones.

    He wasn’t go­ing to put his ho­use on the mar­ket. He co­uld af­ford to ha­ve Pru Dun­can co­me in every day for the next forty ye­ars if he ne­eded to.

    She’d be so­mew­he­re in her ni­ne­ti­es then.

    So he’d hi­re so­me­one el­se.

    He’d even con­si­de­red ha­ving Pru lo­ok af­ter Fre­edom for him. But what kind of li­fe wo­uld it be for the dog, ha­ving no fa­mily of his own, li­ving alo­ne with only da­ily vi­sits from the hi­red help?

    Hell, Bla­ke had cho­sen to li­ve that way and had en­ded up with al­most in­to­le­rab­le lo­ne­li­ness.

    Freedom bar­ked at a bird that flew just in front of his no­se. Bla­ke chuck­led. He co­uldn’t ever re­mem­ber a ti­me of such in­no­cen­ce.

    They pas­sed a mid­dle-aged co­up­le wal­king along the be­ach hand in hand. Af­ter a qu­ick sniff, Fre­edom con­ti­nu­ed jog­ging along, slos­hing in the wa­ter now and then when he got too far ahe­ad of Bla­ke and had to stop.

    He’d sell the Mer­ce­des. The thing wo­uld be ob­so­le­te twenty ye­ars from now. With a pang, he left that tho­ught be­hind. He’d only had the car a ye­ar and wasn’t anyw­he­re ne­ar re­ady to part with it. They we­re just set­tling in to­get­her.

    He and the puppy ran for an ho­ur in the July mid­day sun along de­ser­ted gro­und ban­ked by rocky co­ves, and ac­ross sandy be­ac­hes bor­de­red by dis­tant ho­mes. Fre­edom was a fri­endly sort, gre­eting most hu­mans he pas­sed, but a slap of Bla­ke’s hand aga­inst his thigh told the dog not to lin­ger. And when they got hot, they dip­ped in­to the oce­an just long eno­ugh to co­ol down.

    The pup ro­un­ded a cor­ner up ahe­ad and Bla­ke la­ug­hed out lo­ud when he ma­de the turn to find the lit­tle guy with his no­se bu­ri­ed de­ep in the sand.

    “Freedom, get over he­re,” he cal­led. “You nut, you’re go­ing to end up with a crab on the end of that sno­ut.”

    The dog bar­ked and trot­ted on, as tho­ugh pro­ud of him­self.

    Yeah, the dog was gre­at.

    Freedom bar­ked aga­in, and for a se­cond Bla­ke was al­most con­vin­ced the ani­mal co­uld re­ad his mind and was bar­king in ag­re­ement. He he­ard the vo­ices ahe­ad just in ti­me to see the pup te­aring ahe­ad of him. His tar­get-a yo­ung girl wa­ist de­ep in sand amidst what lo­oked to be the most int­ri­ca­te sand vil­la­ge Bla­ke had ever se­en.

    “Freedom!” he cal­led sharply, trying to avo­id im­mi­nent di­sas­ter. The dog skid­ded to a halt just be­fo­re gal­lo­ping on top of a sand ro­of that so­me­how had the tex­tu­re of ti­le. Whet­her it was Bla­ke’s call that had stop­ped the dog, or the lit­tle girl who­se fa­ce was re­ce­iving a bar­ra­ge of sloppy puppy kis­ses, he wasn’t su­re.

    “I’m sorry,” Bla­ke sa­id, only slightly out of bre­ath as he stop­ped be­si­de the lit­tle girl. And then his ga­ze mo­ved to the two adults who’d be­en sit­ting in the sand with the child.

    “Oh my God.” Juli­et McNe­il jum­ped up, her fa­ce comp­le­tely hor­ror-stric­ken.

    “I hardly think be­ing ca­ught in a very at­trac­ti­ve pa­ir of shorts and equ­al­ly ni­ce bi­ki­ni top is re­ason for such hor­ror,” he sa­id to her, ple­ased be­yond re­ason to ha­ve run in­to her. Even if she was ta­king a lit­tle lon­ger than he was to ap­pre­ci­ate the chan­ce to ha­ve the­ir comp­le­tely ne­ces­sary pro­fes­si­onal dis­tan­ce bre­ac­hed for just a mo­ment or two.

    He hadn’t lo­oked for her. And he­re she was any­way, on the be­ach with a ne­igh­bor’s child. And…

    His eyes mo­ved to the wo­man who was still sit­ting in the sand, sta­ring at him with eyes that, whi­le dif­fe­rent in co­lor, wo­re the sa­me con­fu­sing exp­res­si­on of dre­ad as they as­ses­sed him.

    “You must be Mar­cie,” he gu­es­sed, hol­ding out a swe­aty palm to ta­ke the sand-co­ve­red hand she of­fe­red al­most as an af­tert­ho­ught.

    The wo­man drop­ped his hand, nod­ded, sto­od. Juli­et had not exag­ge­ra­ted when she’d sa­id she and her twin had the sa­me bu­ild. It was un­can­ny, lo­oking at the two of them. One blond and blue-eyed. The ot­her earth and fi­re.

    “What’s his na­me?” The lit­tle girl’s qu­es­ti­on re­min­ded Bla­ke that it wasn’t po­li­te to sta­re.

    “Freedom,” he sa­id. “Don’t worry, he won’t bi­te.”

    “I wasn’t wor­ri­ed.” So­met­hing abo­ut the child re­min­ded him of so­me­one, but he co­uldn’t pla­ce who it might be. Her curly brown ha­ir and chubby che­eks ma­de her se­em al­most che­ru­bic. The as­ses­sing lo­ok in tho­se eyes co­uld ha­ve be­en in­ti­mi­da­ting.

    Blake smi­led at her. “What’s yo­ur na­me?”

    “Mary Jane. What’s yo­urs?”

    “Blake Rams­den.”

    The chan­ge in the lit­tle girl was ins­tan­ta­ne­o­us. Her fa­ce bright red, she spun in the sand to fa­ce Juli­et. “You pro­mi­sed!”

    “Mary Jane, I didn’t tell him. Not anyt­hing.”

    Juliet’s to­ne of vo­ice was comp­le­tely dif­fe­rent, fil­led with a com­bi­na­ti­on of aut­ho­rity and lo­ve that struck Bla­ke.

    “He knows whe­re I li­ve.” The lit­tle girl’s ac­cu­sa­tory to­ne was un­mis­ta­kab­le.

    Confused, fe­eling as tho­ugh he’d stumb­led in­to so­me kind of inexp­li­cab­le fan­tasy with night­ma­re over­to­nes, Bla­ke glan­ced over to see what Juli­et wo­uld say.

    Nothing shoc­ked him mo­re than his de­fen­se at­tor­ney’s spe­ech­less-and help­less-sta­re as she fa­ced the li­vid child.

    “No, I don’t,” he of­fe­red, ho­ping it wo­uld help. “I don’t know whe­re you li­ve.” And then as mo­re oc­cur­red to him, he ad­ded, “I gu­ess Ms. McNe­il told you the na­me of her ne­west cli­ent, but you don’t ha­ve to be frigh­te­ned. I’m not a cri­mi­nal.”

    “You li­ed to me!” the lit­tle girl scre­amed, se­eming not to ha­ve he­ard him at all. She didn’t turn. Didn’t spa­re him anot­her glan­ce. “I ha­te you,” she spit at Juli­et. “I ha­te you. And I’ll ha­te you fo­re­ver!” Wit­ho­ut a lo­ok at an­yo­ne, inc­lu­ding the pup who’d be­en trying to get her at­ten­ti­on, she ran for one of the cot­ta­ges in the dis­tan­ce.

    “I’ll go af­ter her.” Mar­cie spo­ke for the first ti­me. At Juli­et’s nod, she ran af­ter the lit­tle girl, catc­hing up with her be­fo­re they’d ma­de it half­way to the ho­use. Mar­cie’s pre­sen­ce at her si­de didn’t slow Mary Jane down at all.

    “Pretty lit­tle girl,” Bla­ke sa­id, flo­un­de­ring for con­ver­sa­ti­on whi­le he ma­de sen­se out of what had just hap­pe­ned. He must ha­ve run fart­her than he’d tho­ught, or it was hot­ter than he tho­ught. He didn’t usu­al­ly fe­el so slow-wit­ted.

    “Yeah.” Juli­et wrap­ped her arms aro­und her ba­re mid­dle, her fo­re­he­ad cre­ased as she glan­ced back to­ward the cot­ta­ge. Mar­cie and Mary Jane di­sap­pe­ared in­si­de what lo­oked to be the lar­gest dwel­ling in the row.

    “Is she a ne­igh­bor?”

    “No.” Lips pinc­hed, Juli­et lo­oked up at him. The exp­res­si­on in her eyes was stran­ge. Ho­oded and yet full of so­met­hing he wasn’t get­ting.

    “She’s vi­si­ting you?”

    “No.”

    Why did she lo­ok so hun­ted? And hurt?

    And ter­ri­fi­ed?

    “She’s not Mar­cie’s, is she? I as­su­med this was yo­ur sis­ter’s first preg­nancy.”

    “It is.”

    He nod­ded then. Okay, so he was on so­lid gro­und the­re.

    Freedom ran down to the wa­ter, plod­ding along the sho­re, po­un­cing on the wa­ves.

    “She’s mi­ne, Bla­ke.”

    The sky was blu­er than blue to­day. Cle­ar and be­a­uti­ful. Bla­ke slid his hands in­to the poc­kets of his shorts, his fin­gers wrap­ping aro­und the sing­le car key he car­ri­ed when he ran.

    “You ha­ve a child,” he sa­id, nod­ding.

    It didn’t mat­ter that Juli­et had a child. He li­ked child­ren.

    Though per­haps, af­ter all the ti­me he’d spent with her the­se past we­eks, he sho­uld ha­ve known so­met­hing so im­por­tant. They’d tal­ked abo­ut be­ing fri­ends.

    “Why didn’t you ever men­ti­on her?”

    He sho­uld pro­bably won­der abo­ut her fat­her. What part he pla­yed in Juli­et’s li­fe. And the lit­tle girl’s.

    “I co­uldn’t.” Juli­et’s eyes we­re mo­ist, as if she might cry. And they we­re ple­ading with him.

    In so­me way, Bla­ke re­ali­zed so­met­hing hor­rib­le was abo­ut to hap­pen. He co­uldn’t le­ave un­til it had pla­yed out.

    Somehow, his li­fe de­pen­ded on it.

    His neck was stiff. So was his chin. And lips. “How old is she?” It wasn’t a qu­es­ti­on he’d ha­ve any re­ason to ask. The words ca­me any­way.

    “Eight.” She held his ga­ze; he ga­ve her that much. And re­al­ly, ba­sed on how dif­fi­cult this ap­pe­ared to be for her, he sup­po­sed it was a lot.

    “Born when?”

    “December.”

    Eyes ne­ver le­aving hers, Bla­ke did the math. And fo­ught a swirl of emo­ti­on that thre­ate­ned to con­su­me him. His arms ac­hed with it. His sto­mach knot­ted aga­inst it. Pa­in stab­bed at his chest, ma­king it dif­fi­cult for him to bre­at­he.

    “She’s mi­ne.”

    Juliet slowly nod­ded.

    And te­ars pric­ked at the back of his eyes. All tho­se ye­ars lost.

    Blake glan­ced back up at the cot­ta­ge do­or thro­ugh which his da­ugh­ter had pas­sed.

    His da­ugh­ter.

    He had a child.

    A girl.

    Family of his very own.

    And this wo­man who he’d tho­ught was con­nec­ted to him in so­me ele­men­tal way was a wo­man he didn’t know at all.

    He’d be­li­eved that she bro­ught him pe­ace. Ins­te­ad, she’d rob­bed him of the first eight ye­ars of his lit­tle girl’s li­fe. Ne­ver mind that he hadn’t be­en at all pre­pa­red for fat­her­ho­od back then. That se­emed ir­re­le­vant now.

    Blake roc­ked back, trying to stay on his fe­et as anot­her ons­la­ught of raw pa­in hit his chest. Mary Jane. He hadn’t even had a chan­ce to gi­ve her a na­me.

    

    

    “I HA­VE TO GO to her.” Juli­et’s vo­ice was the ba­rest thre­ad of so­und.

    He co­uldn’t al­low it. Too many op­por­tu­ni­ti­es had al­re­ady be­en lost to him. “I’ll do it.”

    “Blake, no.” He was surp­ri­sed when she step­ped for­ward.

    “I ha­ve a lot of ti­me to ma­ke up for.” Anot­her stab of pa­in. “And pos­sibly few chan­ces to do so.” For the first ti­me, in­si­di­o­us bit­ter­ness en­te­red his he­art. He’d ma­na­ged to hold it at bay, but now…

    He felt a nud­ge aga­inst his hand. Cold. Wet. Re­as­su­ring. Fre­edom. He’d ac­tu­al­ly for­got­ten the dog was the­re.

    Thank God for Fre­edom.

    “I’m not le­aving,” Bla­ke sa­id. He me­ant the words and wo­uld act on them, tho­ugh the aut­ho­ri­ti­es wo­uld pro­bably just ha­ul him away for tres­pas­sing and zap mo­re char­ges at him. Thre­aten mo­re ti­me loc­ked away in a cell, wa­iting whi­le li­fe pas­sed, ta­king with it all the op­por­tu­ni­ti­es he’d be­en born to find.

    He was not go­ing to die in­comp­le­te.

    “I will see her.”

    “Okay.”

    Her comp­li­an­ce shoc­ked him. With ha­ir fal­ling out of her pony­ta­il, no ma­ke­up on her co­lor­less fa­ce and drop­lets of swe­at run­ning down bet­we­en her bre­asts, Juli­et didn’t lo­ok any bet­ter than he felt.

    “Just let me go to her first,” she sa­id. And when he mo­ved to ar­gue, she held up her hand. “You can stay right he­re. I won’t ask you to le­ave. But she’s only a child, Bla­ke. You ha­ve to think of her. She’s go­ing to ne­ed a mi­nu­te to hurl hat­red at me, if not­hing el­se. And then, ho­pe­ful­ly, she’ll be ab­le to lis­ten. We ha­ve to ma­ke this as easy on her as we can.”

    That no­te of aut­ho­ri­ta­ti­ve lo­ve he’d he­ard in Juli­et’s vo­ice ear­li­er ca­me cras­hing back. It had be­en the vo­ice of a pa­rent.

    He was a pa­rent.

    And as such, his da­ugh­ter’s ne­eds ca­me be­fo­re his own.

    “I’ll wa­it,” he sa­id. And wit­ho­ut anot­her lo­ok in her di­rec­ti­on, he tur­ned, drop­ped down to the be­ach and sta­red out at one of his ol­dest and de­arest fri­ends-the oce­an.

    He might not un­ders­tand it, but he co­uld co­unt on it to al­ways be the­re. Ste­ad­fast. Unc­han­ging. Li­ving by its ro­uti­ne day in and day out, ti­de in and ti­de out, whet­her he was the­re or not.

    Even af­ter ye­ars away, the oce­an had wel­co­med him ho­me, sa­me as al­ways. Her sho­re­li­nes might chan­ge. The bo­ats upon her wa­ters might chan­ge. But she did not. Ever.

    And ne­it­her wo­uld he. For as long as it to­ok, he was go­ing to sit the­re.

    “Freedom, co­me.”

    The dog ca­me. Lay be­si­de his mas­ter. Put his he­ad down. And wa­ited.

    

    “JULES?” Mar­cie ca­me run­ning thro­ugh the kitc­hen just as Juli­et ca­me in the sli­ding glass do­or from the be­ach.

    “She’s go­ne!”

    “What?” Juli­et, dre­ading the mi­nu­tes ahe­ad, de­athly af­ra­id that li­fe wo­uld ne­ver be go­od aga­in, sta­red at her twin.

    “Mary Jane’s go­ne!”

    “Gone?” As fe­ar to­re in­to her, Juli­et ran thro­ugh the cot­ta­ge. “She can’t be go­ne. She just ca­me in with you.”

    There was no sign of the girl in the li­ving ro­om.

    “Mary Jane McNe­il, you co­me out he­re right now!” Juli­et scre­amed so lo­udly her thro­at stung. “I me­an it, yo­ung lady. Co­me out he­re, now!”

    Before this mor­ning she’d ne­ver spo­ken to her da­ugh­ter li­ke that. Now it was twi­ce in one day.

    “She went to her ro­om,” Mar­cie was sa­ying, run­ning be­hind Juli­et. “She shut the do­or and sa­id she wan­ted to be alo­ne.”

    That wasn’t un­he­ard of. Mary Jane didn’t usu­al­ly po­ut in pub­lic.

    “I had to go to the bath­ro­om and when I ca­me out, her do­or was open and she was go­ne!”

    Juliet burst in­to Mary Jane’s ro­om. “Mary Jane? If you’re hi­ding un­der that bed, you’d bet­ter gi­ve it up. Now!”

    The spa­ce un­der the bed was empty. And the ro­om lo­oked surp­ri­singly nor­mal. As tho­ugh this was any ot­her or­di­nary Sa­tur­day and they’d be le­aving for the gro­cery sto­re any mi­nu­te now.

    Until she no­ti­ced a bend in the blinds over the win­dow.

    And on­ce she lif­ted them, the open win­dow was ob­vi­o­us. So was a truth Juli­et didn’t think she was strong eno­ugh to withs­tand.

    Mary Jane had run away.

    

    HEARING FO­OTS­TEPS run­ning in the sand be­hind him, Bla­ke jum­ped up. He co­uld hardly bre­at­he as he tur­ned aro­und, re­ady to ta­ke his lit­tle girl in­to his arms for the first ti­me.

    He was thin­king abo­ut how fu­ri­o­us she’d be­en when he’d int­ro­du­ced him­self, al­most as tho­ugh she’d re­cog­ni­zed the na­me and had known who he was. It didn’t ma­ke sen­se. But he was su­re the­re’d be a lo­gi­cal exp­la­na­ti­on.

    In the me­an­ti­me…

    He tur­ned. His he­art skip­ped a be­at when he saw Juli­et run­ning to­ward him, alo­ne, with a fa­ce so pinc­hed it was al­most un­re­cog­ni­zab­le.

    By the ti­me she re­ac­hed him, the blo­od was pum­ping pa­in­ful­ly thro­ugh his ve­ins.

    “She’s run away!” Juli­et’s ter­ror was a hor­rib­le thing to see. And con­ta­gi­o­us.

    A lit­tle girl out in the world alo­ne. He shi­ve­red with cold and fury aga­inst all the unk­nown evils that co­uld be­fall his child. And he was shoc­ked at his own re­ac­ti­on-as tho­ugh he’d be­en a pa­rent far lon­ger than this me­re half ho­ur.

    “Call the po­li­ce,” he bar­ked out.

    “Marcie al­re­ady is. And cal­ling so­me ne­igh­bors and fri­ends, too, to start a se­arch.”

    He nod­ded. “Fi­ne, but it’ll ta­ke too long for them to get he­re. We can’t wa­it that long.”

    “I know.” Juli­et swal­lo­wed. “I think she clim­bed out her win­dow.”

    She po­in­ted to the si­de of the cot­ta­ge bloc­ked from vi­ew by a lit­tle patch of tre­es.

    He nod­ded and pus­hed asi­de any fe­elings he might at one ti­me ha­ve had for her. “I’ll ta­ke the be­ach. This di­rec­ti­on.” He po­in­ted up the be­ach, whe­re the child wo­uld ha­ve co­me out thro­ugh the tre­es. “You and Mar­cie ta­ke the stre­et. You go one way and tell her to ta­ke the ot­her.”

    Looking li­ke a lost lit­tle girl ins­te­ad of the po­wer­ful de­fen­se at­tor­ney he knew her to be, Juli­et nod­ded. “I’ll ta­ke my cell pho­ne. Mar­cie’ll ha­ve hers, too.”

    “Mine’s back in my car,” Bla­ke sa­id. But he wasn’t lo­sing a se­cond to go back for it. “Honk a car horn three ti­mes if so­me­one finds her and I’ll know to co­me back. De­pen­ding on how long I’m go­ne, you might ha­ve to dri­ve up the ro­ad a bit for me to he­ar.”

    She glan­ced at him on­ce mo­re, and nod­ded. Bla­ke re­fu­sed to ta­ke the com­fort she was of­fe­ring. Or to gi­ve her what she ne­eded, eit­her.

    He just didn’t ha­ve it.

    “Can Fre­edom stay in­si­de?”

    “Of co­ur­se.”

    “Go, boy,” Bla­ke sa­id, grab­bing the dog’s col­lar and han­ding him over to Juli­et.

    They hadn’t even tur­ned aro­und be­fo­re he was hi­king up the be­ach.

    

    SHE JUST WAN­TED to spit. And…and…anything el­se that wo­uld hurt her mot­her’s fe­elings. Trom­ping along in the sand, ma­king hu­ge big fo­otp­rints be­ca­use she was so mad and step­ping so hard, she sta­red at the gro­und. She wo­uldn’t lo­ok at the wa­ter at all.

    Mom al­ways told her to lo­ok at the wa­ter. And to know that the­re was no end to what she co­uld do with her li­fe. And no end to ho­pe. Or to lo­ve, eit­her.

    Mom was a stu­pid li­ar.

    She al­most step­ped on a pretty, per­fect shell. It was pink and all shiny with dif­fe­rent co­lors in the sun. Mom’s fa­vo­ri­te kind. They al­ways pic­ked up and sa­ved tho­se ones. Mary Jane tho­ught abo­ut stom­ping on it, but she didn’t want so­me kid in ba­re fe­et to co­me la­ter and step on it and get cut. She ha­ted that.

    Instead, she pic­ked it up and threw it as hard as she co­uld, far out in­to the wa­ter whe­re Mom co­uld ne­ver ever find it, even if she wan­ted it badly eno­ugh.

    And then she trud­ged on, way fart­her than she was al­lo­wed to go-and af­ter a whi­le, fart­her than she’d ever be­en, even with Mom and Aunt Mar­cie.

    So what? They sa­id it wasn’t sa­fe for her he­re alo­ne, but who ca­red? They we­re both li­ars.

    She tur­ned so­me cor­ners and wal­ked re­al­ly fast. She swe­ated a lot, too.

    If she got too hot, she’d go in the wa­ter. Mom didn’t want her to do that, eit­her. She was just go­ing to do everyt­hing Mom didn’t want her to do. Mom de­ser­ved it.

    Sometime af­ter she’d pas­sed so­me pe­op­le on a blan­ket-a man, a wo­man and so­me boy-Mary Jane tho­ught abo­ut how ti­red her legs we­re. She’d for­got­ten how ti­red the sand co­uld ma­ke her fe­et when she wal­ked in it a long ti­me.

    So she mo­ved clo­ser to the wa­ter, let­ting the wa­ves co­me up over her new whi­te ten­nis sho­es.

    She lo­ved them most when they we­re brand-new whi­te. Mom did, too. And she’d be re­al­ly sorry when she saw them all dirty.

    Not that she was go­ing to see them. Mary Jane wasn’t ever go­ing ho­me aga­in. Who co­uld li­ve with pe­op­le who li­ed to you?

    She he­ard a dog bark and jum­ped back, kind of sca­red. Mom sa­id stray dogs we­re dan­ge­ro­us so­me­ti­mes and they co­uld bi­te and gi­ve you ra­bi­es, which co­uld ma­ke you ha­ve so­me pretty bad shots or die. She’d ne­ver be­en alo­ne aro­und a stray dog.

    But when she lo­oked aro­und, the­re wasn’t one too clo­se. She was kind of thirsty, tho­ugh. And the oce­an wa­ter was bad for drin­king be­ca­use of salt ma­king you even thirs­ti­er. She sho­ul­da bro­ught her ther­mos from scho­ol. And a sand­wich, too. Be­ca­use it was go­ing to be din­ner­ti­me and she hadn’t fi­gu­red out whe­re she was go­ing to li­ve yet.

    Still, she was away from the li­ars. And that was all that mat­te­red.

    A man was by him­self, up ahe­ad by the wa­ter. Mary Jane slo­wed down. She wasn’t sca­red or anyt­hing, but ever­yo­ne knew men we­re so­me­ti­mes bad and she didn’t want to ha­ve to run away fast. She just wan­ted to be left alo­ne. And qu­it be­ing li­ed to.

    Just then she he­ard the dog bark aga­in. It ran to the man. And then a lady was the­re, too, and Mary Jane sa­id hi as she wal­ked past. They sa­id hi and smi­led. She pro­bably co­uld ask them for wa­ter if she had to. And if they fed a dog, they might fe­ed her. A lot of adults tho­ught dogs and kids we­re a lot ali­ke. And be­si­des, she wasn’t a picky eater and didn’t eat much eit­her.

    So she’d be okay.

    But she was ti­red. And she ne­eded to find out whe­re she was go­ing to li­ve be­fo­re it got dark and she had to go to bed.

    Mary Jane ran in­to a wa­ve, la­ug­hing as the wa­ter ca­me up to get her shorts wet. And then she did it aga­in.

    Pretty so­on she was all wet. It wasn’t re­al­ly funny when you we­re all alo­ne and no one co­uld see.

    She wasn’t go­ing to be sca­red of the dark. She just wan­ted to get her bed ma­de be­fo­re she co­uldn’t see what she was do­ing. Lumps in beds ma­de her kind of grumpy.

    Mom had te­ased her abo­ut that one ti­me when they’d cam­ped out in a sle­eping bag on the be­ach. Mary Jane kept punc­hing at the lumps in the sand and fi­nal­ly Mom got a sand sho­vel from the ho­use and dug Mary Jane a per­fect oval to sle­ep in.

    She co­uld dig her own oval, tho­ugh. She knew how. She’d use her new whi­te ten­nis shoe and get it even dir­ti­er.

    When she stub­bed her toe and fell down, Mary Jane didn’t re­al­ly ca­re. Her knee was scra­ped, but only ba­bi­es cri­ed over stuff li­ke that. And she wasn’t a baby. She was big and strong and didn’t ne­ed any fat­her.

    Slopping along at the wa­ter’s ed­ge, she tho­ught abo­ut Bla­ke Rams­den’s dog. He’d lic­ked her. And his ton­gue was ro­ugh and kind of tick­led. And was gross wet.

    She’d al­ways wan­ted a dog but Mom sa­id they co­uldn’t ha­ve one be­ca­use they we­ren’t ho­me eno­ugh and who wo­uld fe­ed it and tra­in it to go potty out­si­de and cle­an up on the be­ach when it ma­de a mess.

    Mary Jane sa­id she wo­uld, but Mom still sa­id no.

    But so what? Mom was a li­ar.

    And then she tho­ught of Bla­ke Rams­den. He’d smi­led at her be­fo­re she knew who he was. She’d li­ked him then. She’d felt all warm in­si­de when he’d smi­led, li­ke she co­uld ha­ve run to him if the ho­use was on fi­re and he’d climb a lad­der and sa­ve her mom and her dog.

    Even when he’d as­ked her na­me, she’d li­ked him. He pro­bably ma­de go­od sand vil­la­ges, and may­be wo­uld’ve let her play Fris­bee with his dog on the be­ach. If she had a Fris­bee. She’d lost hers.

    Then he’d sa­id his na­me. Mary Jane ha­ted his na­me. And she ha­ted him, too. Be­ca­use Mom didn’t want him to be her dad-or he didn’t re­al­ly want to be her dad. How did she know which it was?

    She stumb­led aga­in. And fell on the very sa­me knee. And got wet sand in with the skin.

    It stung a lot. But that wasn’t why the­re we­re te­ars in her eyes. She just felt li­ke crying. That was all.

    Pretty so­on, she felt li­ke crying a lot. And it was go­ing to get dark. She wasn’t af­ra­id of the dark but bad men ca­me out mo­re at night. The oce­an me­ant dre­ams co­me true, tho­ugh, so she’d stay clo­se to that.

    Wondering what she was go­ing to do next, Mary Jane wan­de­red fart­her up the be­ach.

    

    BLAKE DIDN’T KNOW how to ha­ve an eight-ye­ar-old da­ugh­ter. He’d ne­ver be­en a fat­her.

    Striding up the be­ach, eyes stra­ining to see every mo­ve­ment, fo­cu­sed on any mo­ve­ment, he re­vi­sed his last tho­ught. He’d be­en a fat­her. He just hadn’t known abo­ut it.

    He co­uldn’t walk fast eno­ugh, lo­ok ca­re­ful­ly eno­ugh. He co­uldn’t do eno­ugh. Ever. He wasn’t go­ing to re­cap­tu­re eight lost ye­ars. And he might not ha­ve eight mo­re we­eks to get to know the child who was flesh of his flesh. His fa­mily.

    The only fa­mily still ali­ve.

    As he pas­sed a man and wo­man on a blan­ket with the­ir lit­tle boy, as­king if they’d se­en a lit­tle girl, and mo­ving on as they sho­ok the­ir he­ads, he won­de­red if he even wan­ted his own child to get to know him. Did he want his da­ugh­ter to me­et a man on tri­al for mo­re cri­mes than she had ye­ars on earth? Did he want her to le­arn that her fat­her might be spen­ding the rest of his li­fe in ja­il?

    He wan­ted her to know he wasn’t gu­ilty of tho­se cri­mes. He wan­ted her to know that if she had not­hing el­se but her in­teg­rity, it wo­uld be eno­ugh.

    He wan­ted her to un­ders­tand that he lo­ved her wit­ho­ut even kno­wing her. That he’d gi­ve his li­fe for her.

    About her mot­her, he tho­ught not at all. He co­uldn’t af­ford to.

    The be­ach was re­la­ti­vely de­ser­ted. Bla­ke wasn’t su­re if that was go­od or bad. With fe­wer pe­op­le out, the per­cen­ta­ges we­re less that a twis­ted jerk wo­uld find a lit­tle girl strol­ling alo­ne on the be­ach. And yet, with fe­wer pe­op­le aro­und, a twis­ted jerk wo­uld find that girl easy prey.

    Sick to his sto­mach, he wal­ked on, mo­ving ra­pidly, mis­sing not­hing. The­re we­re in­den­ta­ti­ons in the sand, but too many to be dis­tin­gu­is­hab­le as a lit­tle girl’s fo­otp­rints.

    Or the­re we­re no fo­otp­rints, which was why he was only se­e­ing fo­otp­rint-li­ke in­den­ta­ti­ons. She might not ha­ve co­me this way. She might be so­mew­he­re in the vil­la­ge of Mis­si­on Be­ach, wan­de­ring stre­ets whe­re all kinds of we­ir­dos co­uld be watc­hing her-a be­a­uti­ful lit­tle curly-he­aded an­gel all alo­ne.

    No. He co­uldn’t think that way. She was out he­re on the be­ach, po­uting, dra­wing sha­pes in the sand so­mew­he­re with a twig, may­be even on the ver­ge of run­ning back ho­me.

    Was she smart eno­ugh to walk on the ed­ge of the wa­ves so her prints wo­uld be was­hed away? Or smart eno­ugh to stay away from the wa­ter so that she wasn’t unex­pec­tedly suc­ked un­der?

    The fa­mi­li­ar dull stab­bing in his chest struck aga­in as he con­si­de­red that he knew not­hing at all abo­ut his own child. Was she go­od in scho­ol or did she strug­gle? Did she la­ugh at car­to­ons?

    Could she ke­ep her­self sa­fe?

    Blake had tho­ught, when he’d be­en fa­ce-to-fa­ce with the re­ality of pos­sibly lo­sing his fre­edom for the rest of his li­fe, that the emo­ti­ons con­su­ming him we­re the ab­so­lu­te worst he co­uld ever ex­pe­ri­en­ce.

    He’d be­en wrong.

    He wal­ked. He se­arc­hed. Un­der every bit of brush, in every cranny of every cliff bank, in yards. He tal­ked to the few pe­op­le he pas­sed on the be­ach. He knoc­ked on cot­ta­ge do­ors, as­king if an­yo­ne had se­en an eight-ye­ar-old girl with dark curly ha­ir and swe­et chubby che­eks. He co­uld hold up a hand to show them how tall she was. But he didn’t ha­ve the ac­tu­al sta­tis­tic.

    He didn’t even know the co­lor of her eyes.

    And when pe­op­le sho­ok the­ir he­ads, aga­in and aga­in, he re­sol­ved not to lo­se ho­pe. He’d find her.

    He had to find her. To know she was sa­fe. To get to know her.

    And when he did find her, he was go­ing to spend every wa­king mo­ment with the child, lis­te­ning to everyt­hing she had to say, tel­ling her abo­ut her grand­pa­rents. Sho­wing her his ho­me. He was ta­king no chan­ces. If he went to pri­son, his da­ugh­ter was at le­ast go­ing to ha­ve the­se we­eks. She was go­ing to know that she ca­me from go­od, hard­wor­king, ho­nest pe­op­le.

    He had a lot to do in very lit­tle ti­me.

    The sun was star­ting to sink and Bla­ke had co­ve­red mo­re than a co­up­le of mi­les of be­ach, with still no horn so­un­ding from the ro­ad abo­ve. Worry was star­ting to over­ri­de every po­si­ti­ve ef­fort he ma­de. If they didn’t find her by night­fall, the en­ti­re si­tu­ati­on chan­ged. His da­ugh­ter wo­uld no lon­ger be an up­set lit­tle girl pre­ten­ding to run away. She’d be an en­dan­ge­red fe­ma­le child.

    A yo­ung co­up­le with a dog had se­en a lit­tle girl pass by, alt­ho­ugh they co­uldn’t re­al­ly desc­ri­be her. A co­up­le of te­ena­ge boys with new surf­bo­ards and no idea what they we­re do­ing we­re su­re they’d se­en her. But they didn’t even know the co­lor of her ha­ir.

    He sho­uld turn back. The po­li­ce wo­uld be the­re, and a se­arch party wo­uld ha­ve gat­he­red by now. May­be Mar­cie or Juli­et had fo­und her and so­un­ded a horn and he just hadn’t he­ard it.

    She’d pro­bably run back ho­me as qu­ickly as she’d left.

    But still he plun­ged on. That lit­tle girl had be­en fu­ri­o­us with her mot­her. She tho­ught she’d be­en li­ed to.

    He stop­ped him­self just short of de­ter­mi­ning that her run­ning was jus­ti­fi­ed.

    Did he se­ri­o­usly want his lit­tle girl sac­ri­fi­cing her li­fe be­ca­use of a lie?

    God, no.

    Truth wasn’t worth that.

    He al­most mis­sed the so­und as he wal­ked. A qu­i­et, ani­mal-li­ke mo­an co­ming from bet­we­en a bo­ul­der and a cliff in a spot whe­re the be­ach nar­ro­wed to al­most not­hing.

    Heart po­un­ding, Bla­ke fo­cu­sed on calm as he slowly ro­un­ded the bo­ul­der, not su­re what he’d find. An inj­ured squ­ir­rel? A dog?

    A child.

    Sitting hunc­hed over, kne­es pul­led up to her chest, her he­ad bu­ri­ed in her thighs. He’d only se­en her on­ce, but one glan­ce at the curly brown he­ad and Bla­ke knew he’d fo­und his da­ugh­ter.

    There was dri­ed blo­od all over her.

    The so­und ca­me aga­in. A tiny mo­an fol­lo­wed by a dry sob, as tho­ugh she was still hur­ting but was all cri­ed out.

    Keeping his emo­ti­ons in check, when he wan­ted to grab up that tiny body and run for the ne­arest pho­ne, Bla­ke kne­eled down a few fe­et away. He didn’t want to sca­re her, but he had to know how badly she was hurt.

    “Mary Jane?”

    She jum­ped, her eyes wi­de and gla­zed with fright. And then, se­e­ing him, she hid her swol­len, te­ar-and-sand-sta­ined fa­ce.

    “Honey, are you hurt?”

    Dumb, Rams­den. Re­al­ly dumb. Of co­ur­se she was hurt. It hurt to ble­ed. And it hurt to think that the one per­son in the world you co­uld trust had be­en lying to you.

    When she con­ti­nu­ed to ig­no­re him, Bla­ke tri­ed aga­in. “Mary Jane, I un­ders­tand that you ne­ed to be alo­ne, but you’re ble­eding. At le­ast let me ma­ke su­re you don’t ne­ed a doc­tor.”

    “I don’t.” The vo­ice was surp­ri­singly strong.

    “Can I ple­ase see whe­re you’re hurt, just to be su­re?”

    A skinny lit­tle leg pop­ped out, sho­wing him a se­ve­rely scra­ped shin and knee. Whi­le the cuts we­ren’t de­ep, the­re wasn’t much skin in­tact.

    “Is that all?”

    While she kept her he­ad lo­we­red, the ot­her leg ca­me forth. And then two palms and an el­bow. From what he co­uld tell, she was right. She pro­bably didn’t ne­ed a doc­tor. But she wo­uld if tho­se scra­pes we­ren’t cle­aned up.

    “What hap­pe­ned?”

    “I fell.” She was tal­king to her chest, but the words we­re full of energy. And an­ger.

    “Where?”

    She glan­ced up at him then, her lit­tle fa­ce puc­ke­red with ir­ri­ta­ti­on. “On the be­ach and he­re.” She po­in­ted to the cliff.

    Blake glan­ced up. And swal­lo­wed. “You tri­ed to climb up the­re?”

    “I saw a ca­ve.”

    She saw a ca­ve. The kid had wal­ked for mi­les. Be­en go­ne for ho­urs. Mis­sed at le­ast one me­al. And she hadn’t be­en plan­ning on co­ming ho­me.

    And sud­denly his ye­ars of not be­ing a fat­her we­re ext­re­mely evi­dent. He had no idea what to do next.

    

    

    THE RO­AR OF THE WA­VES was so lo­ud he co­uld hardly he­ar him­self think-not that he was ha­ving any tho­ughts worth he­aring.

    “I’m a klutz,” the child an­no­un­ced sud­denly.

    “What?” He watc­hed her, his he­art fil­ling, bre­aking, and fil­ling so­me mo­re.

    “I’m a klutz,” she re­pe­ated in a mat­ter-of-fact to­ne that lost so­me of its ef­fect with the re­si­du­al sob that ac­com­pa­ni­ed it. “You might as well know, I knock things over and fall a lot.”

    The con­di­ti­on didn’t se­em to up­set her much.

    “Okay.”

    “I don’t ne­ed a fat­her.”

    The words might ha­ve hurt, if he’d had any ro­om for any mo­re emo­ti­on. But he’d fi­gu­red out, so­mew­he­re du­ring his trek as he’d rep­la­yed that sce­ne on the be­ach bet­we­en her and her mot­her, that Mary Jane wo­uld not ha­ve cho­sen to see him.

    “You know who I am.”

    Green. Her eyes we­re gre­en with lit­tle brown flecks, just li­ke her mot­her’s.

    “You met my mot­her one night a long ti­me ago.”

    Well, that just abo­ut sum­med it up.

    “I…”

    “You can go now. We’re just fi­ne wit­ho­ut you,” she sa­id, and then, as he di­ges­ted that, as he told him­self he co­uldn’t pos­sibly fe­el mo­re pa­in, her fa­ce scre­wed up as if she might cry aga­in.

    “I’m sorry,” she sa­id. “That was me­an.”

    “A lit­tle.”

    “But it’s true, and this is one of tho­se ti­mes when so­me­one asks if you li­ke her dress and you ha­ve to say no, you ha­te it.”

    In spi­te of all the he­ar­tac­he and frust­ra­ti­on con­su­ming him, Bla­ke smi­led. He co­uldn’t help it. The lit­tle girl int­ri­gu­ed him, and not just be­ca­use she was his da­ugh­ter.

    But she was. He’d only just met her and sud­denly felt as tho­ugh he’d known this child all her li­fe.

    “You are yo­ur mot­her’s da­ugh­ter,” he sa­id.

    “Yeah.” The de­ri­si­on was back. “But I don’t want her, eit­her.”

    “You don’t me­an that.”

    She stu­di­ed him for a mi­nu­te, her red-rim­med eyes se­ri­o­us be­yond her ye­ars. “Pro’bly not, but I’m re­al­ly, re­al­ly mad right now.”

    Taking a chan­ce that she wo­uldn’t clo­se up on him, Bla­ke set­tled in the sand in front of her, his legs stretc­hed out so his whi­te ten­nis sho­es we­re al­most to­uc­hing hers. Hu­ge and so small. The cont­rast ma­de his thro­at tight.

    “Why is that?” he as­ked when he co­uld.

    Those wi­de gre­en eyes har­de­ned. “She li­ed to me. She pro­mi­sed me she wo­uldn’t tell you abo­ut me. I knew when she to­ok yo­ur ca­se this wo­uld hap­pen, but she pro­mi­sed and pro­mi­sed and I be­li­eved her and she li­ed to me.”

    Mary Jane knew he was Juli­et’s cli­ent. And that he’d be­en with her mot­her on­ce, a long ti­me ago. What el­se did this pre­co­ci­o­us child know? The ex­tent of his cri­mes? Why her mot­her ne­ver told him that she exis­ted?

    “She didn’t lie to you.”

    Mary Jane didn’t be­li­eve him, not that he bla­med her. He knew what it felt li­ke to be li­ed to.

    “I didn’t ha­ve any idea you exis­ted un­til I saw you with yo­ur mot­her on the be­ach,” he sa­id. “I knew she had a cot­ta­ge so­mew­he­re on Mis­si­on Be­ach, that’s all. She’d ne­ver told me whe­re. Fre­edom ne­eds prac­ti­ce be­ing aro­und pe­op­le. Mis­si­on Be­ach is a lit­tle bu­si­er than mi­ne, but not too busy, so it se­emed li­ke a go­od cho­ice.” It struck him that he was a grown man, sit­ting on the be­ach, con­fi­ding in an eight-ye­ar-old child.

    He’d tho­ught ear­li­er that this child’s mot­her had bro­ught him so­met­hing he’d be­en se­arc­hing for his en­ti­re li­fe-a sen­se of pe­ace that co­uld be fo­und with the right per­son.

    Not with her-ne­ver aga­in with her. But per­haps with the da­ugh­ter she bo­re him.

    

    IT WAS GET­TING DARK. Pa­cing bet­we­en the front do­or and the back, the be­ach and the stre­et, with Fre­edom along­si­de her, Juli­et watc­hed fran­ti­cal­ly for an­yo­ne who might show up with her baby girl in tow. Du­ane and Don­na we­re out, Mar­cie was out, so­me of the ne­igh­bors we­re out.

    Blake was out.

    The po­li­ce had full desc­rip­ti­ons and pic­tu­res, and had put out an alert.

    Juliet was ho­me in ca­se the lit­tle girl re­tur­ned on her own, and to ans­wer the pho­ne.

    She was do­ing that, and slowly lo­sing her mind. This mor­ning she’d be­en re­la­ti­vely happy. She’d ma­na­ged to patch things up with Mary Jane and Mar­cie. And she had Bla­ke Rams­den on the pe­rip­hery of her li­fe, wan­ting to be her fri­end.

    This mor­ning she’d held her da­ugh­ter in her arms.

    Tonight, Mary Jane was go­ne. And two of the three pe­op­le who ow­ned her he­art ha­ted her.

    Freedom whi­ned, sho­ving his no­se in­to her palm. She rub­bed his black he­ad al­most un­cons­ci­o­usly.

    God, ple­ase let her be okay.

    The eight-ye­ar-old had be­en go­ne for al­most fo­ur ho­urs. At best, she had to be get­ting hungry. At worst…

    Juliet co­uldn’t even think abo­ut it. Not and stay stan­ding.

    That lo­ok in Bla­ke’s eyes when he’d re­ali­zed Mary Jane was his child tor­tu­red her. Over and over aga­in. She’d lost the res­pect of the one man who­se re­gard me­ant mo­re to her than her in­de­pen­den­ce.

    And the worst part was, she’d de­ser­ved that lo­ok. She’d rob­bed a fat­her of eight ye­ars of his da­ugh­ter’s li­fe.

    Just as she’d rob­bed her sis­ter of the con­fi­dan­te she’d ne­eded at one of the most cri­ti­cal ti­mes of her li­fe.

    And at le­ast partly be­ca­use she had this cont­rary ha­bit of be­li­eving that she knew what was best for ever­yo­ne. How in the hell had she de­ve­lo­ped such an ego? And wit­ho­ut kno­wing it? No, it had ta­ken se­e­ing ever­yo­ne she ca­red abo­ut in pa­in be­fo­re she’d re­cog­ni­zed that lit­tle fact abo­ut her­self. It had ta­ken the­se ho­urs of be­ing ut­terly alo­ne.

    She’d me­ant well. And that fact didn’t do an­yo­ne one bit of go­od.

    Her ga­ze stretc­hing so far her eyes ac­hed, Juli­et to­ok in the be­ach for at le­ast the hund­redth ti­me. Whe­re was he? Had he fo­und her?

    She lo­oked and saw not­hing. Her vi­si­on blur­red as te­ars fil­led her eyes aga­in. She’d fal­len apart a co­up­le of ti­mes sin­ce Mar­cie had an­no­un­ced that Mary Jane was go­ne.

    For on­ce in her li­fe she felt comp­le­tely po­wer­less. The­re was no way she co­uld fix this one. She just didn’t know what to do.

    Except check out front aga­in to see if an­yo­ne was co­ming.

    No one was. Juli­et’s he­ad drop­ped aga­inst the front win­dow as sobs sho­ok her sho­ul­ders.

    “Oh God, Mary Jane. Ple­ase co­me ho­me. Ple­ase, baby. I didn’t lie to you. I didn’t tell him abo­ut you. I lo­ve you, baby. Ple­ase co­me ho­me…”

    At first the words just pla­yed over and over in her mind. But even­tu­al­ly, as she sto­od the­re, a de­ad we­ight aga­inst the win­dow, she star­ted to talk to her da­ugh­ter out lo­ud. The words we­re so­me­ti­mes in­dis­tin­gu­is­hab­le, bro­ken up by al­most ani­ma­lis­tic mo­ans of pa­in, but she con­ti­nu­ed to talk to Mary Jane. May­be the lit­tle girl wo­uld fe­el the po­wer of her ne­ed.

    Or may­be she was lo­sing her mind.

    “I didn’t lie to you, imp. I’d ne­ver lie to you…”

    “I know.”

    Juliet fro­ze, her fo­re­he­ad wet and sticky aga­inst the win­dow.

    “I know you didn’t lie. Bla­ke told me.”

    She spun aro­und and then, with hu­ge, gul­ping sobs, grab­bed up the child who had mi­ra­cu­lo­usly ap­pe­ared in the ro­om be­hind her. If she was de­men­ted, so be it. She didn’t want them to ever bring her out of it. Fre­edom was bar­king li­ke crazy.

    “Mary Jane?” She co­uldn’t let go long eno­ugh to lo­ok at the child’s fa­ce. But she knew the he­art be­ating aga­inst her own. “Thank God. Oh, thank God.”

    She had no idea how many mi­nu­tes pas­sed be­fo­re she no­ti­ced the man stan­ding be­hind the­ir da­ugh­ter, watc­hing her. No mat­ter what hap­pe­ned from the­re on out, how much he ha­ted her, how hor­rib­le he was to her, she wo­uld al­ways be gra­te­ful to him. Bla­ke had bro­ught her baby back to her.

    The irony in that didn’t es­ca­pe her.

    

    IT WAS ANOT­HER TWO HO­URS be­fo­re Juli­et had a chan­ce to be alo­ne with Bla­ke. On­ce she’d as­su­red her­self that, whi­le Mary Jane might lo­ok a mess, she was no­ne the wor­se for her es­ca­pa­de, Juli­et had the whe­re­wit­hal to call the cell pho­nes of the ot­her se­arc­hers and tell them that Mary Jane had re­tur­ned. She owed them all mo­re than she’d ever be ab­le to re­pay.

    And she cal­led off the cops.

    Everyone, inc­lu­ding the pa­ir of of­fi­cers she’d spo­ken with ear­li­er, stop­ped at the ho­use, just to see for them­sel­ves that the lit­tle girl was fi­ne. They all wan­ted to he­ar the story of how Bla­ke had he­ard her whim­pe­ring be­hind a rock se­ve­ral mi­les from ho­me, and then car­ri­ed her all the way back.

    Sitting at the kitc­hen tab­le eating a pe­anut but­ter sand­wich af­ter her bath, with Fre­edom sle­eping un­der the tab­le at her fe­et, Mary Jane held co­urt with her vi­si­tors, tel­ling them abo­ut her ad­ven­tu­re. The lit­tle girl wo­uld ha­ve to be pu­nis­hed, Juli­et knew that, but not yet. Not to­night. To­night she was ho­me and sa­fe, and ne­eded all the nur­tu­ring she was get­ting.

    It wasn’t every day that, with no war­ning, a girl ca­me fa­ce-to-fa­ce with a stran­ger who al­so hap­pe­ned to be the man who’d fat­he­red her.

    And when Mary Jane’s eyes star­ted to dro­op, ever­yo­ne ex­cept Bla­ke sa­id the­ir go­odb­yes.

    The ne­igh­bors had gi­ven the tall, go­od-lo­oking man se­ve­ral cu­ri­o­us lo­oks. Du­ane Wil­son was go­ing to be gril­ling her li­ke crazy when she got to work on Mon­day, as­king why her cli­ent had be­en on her be­ach in the first pla­ce.

    “It’s past yo­ur bed­ti­me,” Juli­et an­no­un­ced as so­on as the front do­or clo­sed. She ne­edn’t ha­ve bot­he­red. Mary Jane was al­re­ady off her cha­ir, hug­ging her aunt Mar­cie go­od-night. Juli­et wa­ited to walk with her down the hall and tuck her in. To­night, of all nights, she wasn’t go­ing to miss that.

    She had to blink back mo­re te­ars when Mary Jane stop­ped in front of Bla­ke.

    “Thank you for fin­ding me,” the child sa­id so­lemnly, sta­ring up at him.

    His eyes glis­te­ned as he ga­zed at his da­ugh­ter, as tho­ugh en­rap­tu­red. “You’re wel­co­me.”

    “And I’ve tho­ught over what you sa­id and it’s okay for you to see me aga­in. But I still don’t ne­ed a fat­her.”

    He bo­wed his he­ad, whet­her simply to ac­cept her of­fer, or be­ca­use he was hi­ding emo­ti­on he didn’t want them to see, Juli­et didn’t know. “Thank you.”

    Mary Jane re­ac­hed out one small hand and pat­ted his. “Go­od night.”

    Hands on the tab­le in front of him, Bla­ke sa­id, “Go­od night, swe­et­he­art.”

    Juliet had a fe­eling he’d ha­ve gi­ven his li­fe for a hug, and felt her he­art bre­ak a lit­tle bit mo­re when he didn’t push the lit­tle girl.

    

    HE WAS WA­ITING alo­ne in the kitc­hen when she re­tur­ned from the bed­ro­om.

    “I’m so, so-”

    “Don’t.” He held Fre­edom’s le­ash. “I don’t want to he­ar it. I just sta­yed to let you know I in­tend to see her as much as pos­sib­le over the next co­up­le of we­eks.”

    There was no soft­ness in his vo­ice, and no warmth in the eyes sta­ring back at her. Cold and withd­rawn now that Mary Jane was go­ne, Bla­ke was mo­re of a stran­ger than he’d be­en the mo­ment she’d first met him ni­ne ye­ars be­fo­re.

    “As long as it’s okay with her, it’s fi­ne with me.”

    “You don’t re­al­ly ha­ve much cho­ice in the mat­ter. You owe me eight ye­ars and I’m not awa­re of any way you’ll ever be ab­le to pay that back.”

    She co­uld fe­el the te­ars fil­ling her eyes aga­in and co­uld do not­hing to stop them. She didn’t bla­me him for his an­ger and wo­uldn’t bla­me him if he ne­ver spo­ke a ci­vil word to her aga­in.

    “If you’re ever re­ady to lis­ten, I’m he­re and will tell you anyt­hing you want to know.”

    He tap­ped his leg for Fre­edom. Put the dog on his le­ash.

    “Would you li­ke me to dri­ve you to yo­ur car?”

    His eyes we­re hard as he glan­ced over at her. “I’ll walk,” he sa­id. “I ne­ed the air.”

    And be­ing in the sa­me car with her wo­uld be far too con­fi­ning, she re­ad bet­we­en the li­nes.

    He ope­ned the back do­or and was half­way thro­ugh it be­fo­re she spo­ke.

    “Blake?”

    He tur­ned.

    “Do you want to find a new at­tor­ney?”

    He frow­ned, ga­ve a de­ri­si­ve sigh. “The­re’s hardly ti­me, is the­re?”

    Probably not. The pa­per tra­il was too ex­ten­si­ve for an­yo­ne to ha­ve ti­me to co­me in cold and get up to spe­ed.

    “I’ll do my best.”

    He nod­ded. Wal­ked out. And clo­sed the do­or be­hind him with ob­vi­o­us fi­na­lity.

    

    OVER THE NEXT TWO WE­EKS, Juli­et saw Bla­ke but spo­ke to him only bri­efly, to ma­ke ar­ran­ge­ments for his vi­sits with his da­ugh­ter and to up­da­te him re­gar­ding his ca­se. She tri­ed a co­up­le of ti­mes to spe­ak with him abo­ut the past-and a fu­tu­re. Each ti­me, he re­min­ded her that he was her cli­ent and any kind of per­so­nal in­te­rac­ti­on bet­we­en them wo­uld be unet­hi­cal.

    They both knew his words we­re mo­re a slap in the fa­ce than a de­monst­ra­ti­on of con­cern over le­gal et­hics. Whi­le they cer­ta­inly co­uldn’t em­bark on a re­la­ti­ons­hip whi­le she was rep­re­sen­ting him, they’d al­re­ady had so­me highly per­so­nal con­ver­sa­ti­ons.

    Mary Jane was still cla­iming she didn’t want a fat­her, but af­ter her first din­ner with Bla­ke-a din­ner she al­most bac­ked out of-she ag­re­ed to see him every ti­me he as­ked. She didn’t say much to Juli­et abo­ut what they did or whe­re they went, or even what they tal­ked abo­ut. For the first ti­me, her da­ugh­ter wasn’t sha­ring everyt­hing with her.

    Juliet tri­ed to talk with Mary Jane abo­ut her gro­wing fe­elings for her fat­her, wha­te­ver tho­se fe­elings we­re, wan­ting her to know that she sup­por­ted them, but Mary Jane wo­uldn’t dis­cuss Bla­ke with her. Nor did she se­em to want to talk abo­ut Bla­ke’s up­co­ming tri­al.

    Until the day the tri­al be­gan.

    “You’re not we­aring red,” Mary Jane sa­id that mor­ning, her vo­ice al­most ac­cu­sing as Juli­et ca­me in­to the kitc­hen.

    “It’s not my turn yet, you know that,” she sa­id, po­uring her­self a se­cond cup of cof­fee. She’d ta­ken the first one in­to her bath­ro­om with her whi­le she got re­ady for a day she was dre­ading.

    Marcie had co­me in­to the bath­ro­om and tal­ked with her whi­le she put on her ma­ke­up and did her ha­ir, but, not fe­eling well, she’d go­ne back to bed for anot­her half ho­ur rat­her than fol­low Juli­et out to the kitc­hen.

    “But this ca­se is spe­ci­al. You sho­uld we­ar yo­ur po­wer su­it every day.”

    If she’d had mo­re than one red su­it, she wo­uld ha­ve chan­ged. “I can’t we­ar the sa­me su­it every day of the tri­al,” she told the lit­tle girl. “Be­si­des, it lo­ses ef­fec­ti­ve­ness if you we­ar it all the ti­me.”

    Mary Jane dug in­to her bowl of ce­re­al, spil­ling so­me of it over the si­de of the bowl on­to the tab­le. “You’ll we­ar it the first day it’s yo­ur turn, tho­ugh, right?”

    “Right.”

    “And you’re go­ing to win.”

    “I’ll do my best.” She co­uldn’t gi­ve the girl the pro­mi­se she wan­ted.

    Eight ye­ars of lo­ve and trust had se­en them thro­ugh this cri­sis with Bla­ke. Ne­it­her of them had ever men­ti­oned Mary Jane’s mis­ta­ken as­sump­ti­on that Juli­et had li­ed to her. But she co­uldn’t risk ha­ving Mary Jane ac­cu­se her of lying a se­cond ti­me.

    

    JURY SE­LEC­TI­ON TO­OK ten days. The pro­se­cu­ti­on only to­ok fo­ur to pre­sent eno­ugh evi­den­ce to put Bla­ke away for li­fe. Much of it was cir­cums­tan­ti­al. The bank ac­co­unt was not.

    Juliet had a few tricks up her sle­eve, but even with tho­se, things didn’t lo­ok go­od for Bla­ke.

    “We’re up first thing in the mor­ning,” she told him as they left the co­urt­ro­om the se­cond Wed­nes­day in August. Dres­sed in a navy su­it and se­da­te navy and cre­am tie, Bla­ke wal­ked be­si­de her out of the bu­il­ding and to­ward her car.

    It was the first ti­me he hadn’t ta­ken his le­ave of her at the first op­por­tu­nity.

    “For what it’s worth,” he sa­id, hands in his poc­kets, “I ha­ve comp­le­te fa­ith that you’ll do the best job that can be do­ne. I won’t bla­me you if things don’t go well.”

    He bla­med her for rob­bing him of his da­ugh­ter, but she got full marks for her le­gal abi­lity.

    Juliet won­de­red if that sa­id so­met­hing abo­ut her pri­ori­ti­es. She ho­ped to God it didn’t, and was sca­red to de­ath it did.

    

    SHE AS­KED HIM to go for drinks, to talk over the qu­es­ti­ons she’d be as­king him on the stand the next mor­ning. He fi­gu­red he al­re­ady knew the drill. They’d be­en dis­cus­sing the ca­se for months. But for so­me re­ason, he ag­re­ed any­way.

    Probably be­ca­use Mary Jane was out with Mar­cie that eve­ning and Bla­ke didn’t want to go ho­me to a ho­use empty of her swe­et vo­ice. He’d had her for din­ner al­most every night sin­ce the day he’d met her. She wo­uldn’t let him get too clo­se, wo­uldn’t dis­cuss her fe­elings and in­ter­rup­ted him or pre­ten­ded not to he­ar any ti­me he tri­ed to tell her how he felt. But she was fri­endly and ge­ne­ro­us with her tho­ughts on any num­ber of to­pics. And she had hund­reds of qu­es­ti­ons. Bla­ke at­temp­ted to ans­wer every one of them. He tri­ed to be pa­ti­ent, alt­ho­ugh the days we­re pas­sing far too qu­ickly-days that might be his only chan­ce to es­tab­lish a re­la­ti­ons­hip with the da­ugh­ter he’d lost.

    Juliet had be­en comp­le­tely ge­ne­ro­us with the lit­tle girl’s ti­me; he had to hand her that.

    Or not. So she’d gi­ven him a co­up­le do­zen nights. She’d ta­ken eight ye­ars.

    He’d ha­ve pre­fer­red to me­et Juli­et down­town, so­me bar with a lot of pe­op­le and eno­ugh no­ise to ma­ke con­ver­sa­ti­on just dif­fi­cult eno­ugh to ke­ep the me­eting short. They en­ded up at the­ir usu­al bar out in Mis­si­on Be­ach, but only be­ca­use Bla­ke wan­ted to stop in and see Mary Jane be­fo­re she went to bed.

    As so­on as Lucy had ser­ved them, com­men­ting on the­ir ab­sen­ce in the past we­eks, Juli­et got right to the po­int, out­li­ning the qu­es­ti­ons she’d be as­king-abo­ut his ti­me ab­ro­ad, his re­la­ti­ons­hip with his fat­her, cer­ta­in bu­si­ness de­alings that re­ve­aled him as a man to whom in­teg­rity ca­me first. She didn’t ack­now­led­ge the pos­si­bi­lity of lo­sing, only of gi­ving a win the­ir best shot.

    He’d be­en right to think he had it all down. The­re we­re no surp­ri­ses he­re. He nod­ded. Sip­ped his whis­key. And nod­ded so­me mo­re. Un­til her vo­ice tra­iled off.

    And then the­re they we­re, with half a drink api­ece, and not­hing left to say.

    Had Lucy be­en clo­se, he wo­uld’ve mo­ti­oned for the check. She was ac­ross the ro­om, her back to them as she wa­ited on a gro­up of guys in anot­her bo­oth.

    “I was wrong.”

    He con­si­de­red pre­ten­ding that he hadn’t he­ard Juli­et spe­ak. He lo­oked at her thro­ugh half-lo­we­red lids, ins­te­ad, sa­ying not­hing. But lis­te­ning.

    Not be­ca­use he be­li­eved she had anyt­hing to say that he wan­ted to he­ar. Or be­ca­use the­re was anyt­hing she co­uld ever say that wo­uld ma­ke him okay with what she’d do­ne.

    Perhaps what he felt was mor­bid cu­ri­osity. Or may­be just the simp­le fact that anyt­hing was pre­fe­rab­le to be­ing alo­ne the eve­ning be­fo­re he to­ok the stand in his own de­fen­se.

    She to­yed with the stem of her wi­neg­lass, her eyes fo­cu­sed so­mew­he­re bet­we­en it and the tab­le.

    “I didn’t fi­gu­re it all out un­til just re­cently,” she sa­id. He co­uldn’t tell if she was tal­king to him or just ta­king out lo­ud to her­self. So­me­how that ma­de him pay mo­re at­ten­ti­on. “I had this con­ver­sa­ti­on with Mar­cie…”

    She lo­oked over at him. “She li­ed to me.”

    “Must run in the fa­mily.” Bla­ke reg­ret­ted the words as so­on as they we­re sa­id. Not be­ca­use she didn’t de­ser­ve them, but be­ca­use they we­re be­ne­ath him. He’d ne­ver de­li­be­ra­tely hurt anot­her in­di­vi­du­al in his li­fe.

    “I told you my mot­her com­mit­ted su­ici­de,” she sa­id, her eyes nar­ro­wed and ti­red-lo­oking as she pe­ered at him thro­ugh the dim ligh­ting. “What I didn’t men­ti­on was that I was the one who fo­und her.”

    Shit. She’d be­en what? Twenty-three? Fo­ur?

    “I ca­me ho­me to help her get re­ady for a surp­ri­se birth­day din­ner in the city. I’d bro­ught a new out­fit for her to we­ar-a silk dress just li­ke she’d worn when she was mar­ri­ed to my fat­her. I even had pumps to match…”

    Blake swir­led the whis­key in his glass. She didn’t ha­ve to tell him this. He didn’t ne­ed to he­ar.

    “She was lying fa­ce­up in the tub. She’d only be­en in the­re a co­up­le of ho­urs, but al­re­ady her skin was gray, her body blo­ated and wrink­led.”

    He wan­ted to down the rest of his glass and or­der anot­her. He co­uldn’t ma­ke him­self lift it to his lips. Co­uldn’t be that pre­sent in the mo­ment.

    “I cal­led 911, and then got ob­ses­sed with the idea that she’d be mor­ti­fi­ed if per­fect stran­gers ca­me in and saw her na­ked. She’d want to be se­en in that new dress…”

    He was still watc­hing her. Co­uldn’t pull his ga­ze away from hers, even when her eyes fil­led with te­ars.

    “So I ha­uled her out, dri­ed her as qu­ickly as I co­uld, strug­gled with un­der­we­ar. And panty ho­se…”

    Juliet’s vo­ice tra­iled off and Bla­ke bre­at­hed a sigh of re­li­ef that she was do­ne. Even tho­ugh he knew she wasn’t. He wa­ited.

    “I had her comp­le­tely dres­sed, sho­es and all, by the ti­me they got the­re.”

    She sho­ok her he­ad and smi­led, as tho­ugh trying to pre­tend that she hadn’t just be­en tal­king abo­ut dres­sing her de­ad mot­her’s na­ked body.

    “You sho­uld ne­ver ha­ve had to go thro­ugh that.” He hadn’t me­ant to com­ment. “Espe­ci­al­ly not alo­ne.”

    With a half shrug, Juli­et pic­ked up her glass, swal­lo­wed the re­ma­in­der of the con­tents.

    “Yeah, well, the thing is, I tho­ught I’d de­alt with all of that. I went to co­un­se­ling. I un­ders­to­od the pha­ses of gri­ef. I went thro­ugh them and got on with my li­fe.”

    He wan­ted to hold her in his arms. Just for a se­cond.

    “I le­ar­ned from the ex­pe­ri­en­ce, used it to ca­ta­pult me to suc­cess. My mot­her got preg­nant just be­fo­re she was due to start col­le­ge. She ga­ve it all up to get mar­ri­ed and ha­ve Mar­ce and me. I wasn’t go­ing to do the sa­me. I was go­ing to ma­ke her sac­ri­fi­ce worthw­hi­le by not re­pe­ating the sa­me mis­ta­ke.”

    No. He wasn’t go­ing to let her ma­ke sen­se. Wasn’t go­ing to un­ders­tand. Her cho­ice had cost him too much.

    “But you know what?” She lo­oked as in­no­cently lost as the­ir da­ugh­ter had that day he’d fo­und her hud­dled be­hind a bo­ul­der on the be­ach.

    “What?”

    “I wasn’t over it at all. Ins­te­ad of le­ar­ning from my mot­her’s li­fe, from her cho­ices, I let her de­ath ru­le me.”

    Eyes nar­ro­wed, Bla­ke sip­ped his drink, and mo­ti­oned to Lucy for two mo­re. “How so?”

    “When I first fo­und out abo­ut Mary Jane, when I first knew that I was preg­nant, what I wan­ted mo­re than anyt­hing was to tell you.”

    He might ha­ve tho­ught she was lying, but she didn’t se­em to ca­re whet­her he be­li­eved her or not. She was tel­ling him what she knew wit­ho­ut any ap­pa­rent in­te­rest in his res­pon­se. She was con­fes­sing, not con­vin­cing.

    “I wan­ted to be­li­eve in the fa­iry ta­les and ma­gic my mot­her had al­ways tal­ked abo­ut. The stuff she’d re­ad from tho­se story­bo­oks from the ti­me we we­re tod­dlers.”

    She stop­ped as Lucy bro­ught the­ir drinks, and then, wit­ho­ut to­uc­hing hers, con­ti­nu­ed.

    “I let my fe­ar of be­ing too much li­ke her, my fe­ar of ma­king the sa­me wrong de­ci­si­on, my fe­ar of be­li­eving in lo­ve at first sight dist­ract me from the truth.”

    It ma­de per­fect sen­se. But so much had hap­pe­ned bet­we­en then and now. So much had chan­ged.

    “There wo­uldn’t ha­ve be­en a way for you to con­tact me,” he he­ard him­self sa­ying. The pa­in of lo­sing so many ye­ars of Mary Jane’s li­fe had be­en easi­er to be­ar when he co­uld bla­me it all on her. “When I first left, even my fat­her didn’t know how to re­ach me.”

    There was al­ways la­ter, tho­ugh.

    “Would you ha­ve co­me back if you’d known?”

    And that was the mil­li­on-dol­lar qu­es­ti­on. Bla­ke wo­uld li­ke to be­li­eve, une­qu­ivo­cal­ly, that he wo­uld ha­ve.

    He just wasn’t su­re.

    “And what abo­ut fi­ve ye­ars ago? You we­re mar­ri­ed to an un­hap­py wi­fe, di­so­ri­en­ted yo­ur­self, thank­ful that you didn’t ha­ve child­ren.”

    Mary Jane wo­uld ha­ve be­en three. Still a tod­dler. Too yo­ung to re­mem­ber that he hadn’t be­en aro­und from the be­gin­ning.

    “I wo­uld’ve ta­ken res­pon­si­bi­lity.” He me­ant what he sa­id.

    But how co­uld he ha­ve ma­na­ged that? As she’d al­re­ady sa­id, he’d had an un­hap­py wi­fe. He’d be­en fil­led with gu­ilt and gri­ef. Di­so­ri­en­ted.

    She nod­ded. Sto­od.

    “See you to­mor­row,” she sa­id, and wal­ked out, le­aving him the­re with her un­to­uc­hed drink.

    

    

    THE DE­FEN­SE SPENT a we­ek brin­ging in wit­nes­ses who tes­ti­fi­ed to the cha­rac­ter of the de­fen­dant. Emp­lo­ye­es, cli­ents, even fri­ends from Egypt. Juli­et bu­ilt a so­lid pic­tu­re for the jury, a pic­tu­re of a man in­ca­pab­le of def­ra­uding an­yo­ne. A man who’d spent his ti­me in the Cay­man Is­lands li­ving li­ke the yo­ung mar­ri­ed and fi­nan­ci­al­ly mo­dest man he was, not a man in pos­ses­si­on of mo­re than a mil­li­on dol­lars. A man who was on the Is­lands only oc­ca­si­onal­ly in bet­we­en vo­lun­te­ering for we­eks at a ti­me in third world co­unt­ri­es. Eaton James had sent mo­ney to help fe­ed ho­me­less child­ren. Bla­ke Rams­den ta­ught them to fe­ed them­sel­ves.

    And still, the jury lo­oked do­ubt­ful.

    “It’s that damn bank ac­co­unt,” she told Du­ane la­te on the third Thurs­day in August. The tri­al had be­en go­ing on for al­most fo­ur we­eks. If she didn’t win them over so­on, Bla­ke Rams­den was go­ing to pri­son.

    “What I know,” Du­ane sa­id, lo­un­ging back in the cha­ir ac­ross from her desk, “is that I’ve ne­ver se­en you so emo­ti­onal­ly in­vol­ved in a ca­se.”

    She didn’t li­ke his to­ne. “And yo­ur po­int is?”

    “Nothing, Juli­et.” He sat for­ward. “You’re li­ke a da­ugh­ter to me, you know that.”

    She did, and ack­now­led­ged his sta­te­ment with a nod. “But?”

    “I just won­der if may­be yo­ur emo­ti­onal in­vol­ve­ment with this man is clo­uding yo­ur judg­ment.”

    “You think he’s gu­ilty.”

    “I ha­ve no idea.” The ol­der man ran a hand over his bal­ding he­ad. “What I do know is that you ha­ve a ta­lent for fin­ding the truth and for so­me re­ason, that ta­lent isn’t hel­ping you out on this one.”

    Her fri­end and part­ner had ne­ver as­ked her why Bla­ke, her cli­ent, had be­en at her ho­use that day. He’d ne­ver as­ked why the lit­tle girl had run away. But she knew he was hurt that she wasn’t tel­ling him.

    If she had any idea what to say, she wo­uld.

    But she didn’t.

    

    ON THE SE­VENTH DAY of tes­ti­mony, when the de­fen­se was due to rest, Mary Jane in­sis­ted on at­ten­ding co­urt.

    “He’s my dad, Mom,” she’d sa­id over bre­ak­fast that mor­ning. “He ne­eds me the­re.”

    Juliet might ha­ve rep­li­ed if she hadn’t be­en cho­ked up with te­ars that she co­uldn’t let fall. It was the first ti­me the child had ack­now­led­ged that she had a dad. Un­til then, Bla­ke had be­en a fat­her in the bi­olo­gi­cal sen­se. And, may­be mo­re re­cently, a fri­end. Bla­ke se­emed to be cap­tu­ring his da­ugh­ter’s he­art as su­rely as he’d cap­tu­red Juli­et’s. When Juli­et sa­id not­hing, Mar­cie jum­ped in, of­fe­ring to bring the lit­tle girl to the af­ter­no­on ses­si­on.

    Had the­re be­en any chan­ce the jury wo­uld de­li­be­ra­te and de­li­ver the­ir ver­dict that day, Juli­et wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve al­lo­wed Mary Jane to be the­re. As it was, she co­uldn’t jus­tify ke­eping her away.

    Blake had al­re­ady lost eight ye­ars of sha­ring li­fe with Mary Jane. And she was right. He did ne­ed her the­re.

    All mor­ning in co­urt he was rest­less, and gro­wing mo­re ten­se as the mi­nu­tes tic­ked past. Li­ke her, he co­uld pro­bably see the wri­ting on the wall.

    And the­re wasn’t a damn thing he co­uld do abo­ut it ex­cept sit the­re and wa­it to be han­ged.

    She of­fe­red to ta­ke him to lunch, or to ha­ve sand­wic­hes bro­ught in to her of­fi­ce. He op­ted to dri­ve out to the be­ach ins­te­ad. She ha­ted to pic­tu­re him the­re, all alo­ne, but co­uldn’t very well stop him from go­ing.

    She went to her of­fi­ce alo­ne, ins­te­ad. And spent the ho­ur and a half po­ring over num­bers and re­ports and sta­te­ments that she’d al­re­ady com­mit­ted to me­mory front­ward and back­ward.

    

    BLAKE TO­OK HIS SE­AT for the af­ter­no­on ses­si­on of co­urt with mo­re pe­ace in his he­art than he wo­uld ha­ve ex­pec­ted. He’d rat­her die than spend ti­me in pri­son, but so­me­how, over the past we­eks, he’d co­me to un­ders­tand that the­re was one thing that mat­te­red mo­re than ti­me, or pri­son, or even li­fe or de­ath. It had fi­nal­ly hit him an ho­ur be­fo­re, at the be­ach.

    It was the ob­li­ga­ti­on to be true to one­self.

    He’d be­en true to him­self when he’d sta­yed away three ye­ars lon­ger than he’d plan­ned-and when he’d co­me ho­me, des­pi­te the dif­fi­culty his wi­fe had had adj­us­ting to li­fe in one pla­ce.

    The ob­li­ga­ti­on to be true to one­self was why Juli­et had had to ha­ve her baby on her own terms, by her­self.

    After we­eks, months, ye­ars of se­arc­hing, it had ta­ken one walk on the be­ach with his back comp­le­tely aga­inst the wall to show him what he’d known all along.

    Real ho­nesty me­ant fol­lo­wing the dic­ta­tes of one’s own he­art.

    He was al­re­ady se­ated in co­urt by the ti­me Juli­et ar­ri­ved. She’d be­en plan­ning to wa­it out­si­de to walk Mar­cie and Mary Jane in. He didn’t turn aro­und to see if she had.

    But he did try to catch her eye as she slid in­to her se­at be­si­de him. She didn’t gi­ve him a chan­ce. So­met­hing had hap­pe­ned.

    Tight-lipped, she shif­ted in her se­at as they wa­ited for the call to ri­se. She shot up the se­cond Jud­ge Lock­hard as­ked if she had any furt­her wit­nes­ses. He knew that she had not. She’d al­re­ady pre­sen­ted every pi­ece of evi­den­ce she’d disc­lo­sed.

    “May I ap­pro­ach the bench, Yo­ur Ho­nor?”

    Eyebrows ra­ised, Lock­hard glan­ced to­ward Pa­ul Schus­ter, mo­ti­oning both at­tor­neys to co­me for­ward. The­re fol­lo­wed a rat­her lengthy con­sul­ta­ti­on, du­ring which Bla­ke fo­und it hard to ke­ep his hold on the pe­ace he’d bro­ught in with him. One way or the ot­her, he was re­ady for this to be over.

    He co­uld fe­el Mary Jane back the­re so­mew­he­re be­hind him. He suf­fe­red war­ring emo­ti­ons kno­wing she was the­re. Her pre­sen­ce ga­ve him a strength he didn’t know it was pos­sib­le to ha­ve-a ne­ed to sur­vi­ve, just so she’d be okay. But it hurt him, kno­wing that his lit­tle girl was watc­hing him li­ke this, ac­cu­sed and on tri­al.

    Finally, fol­lo­wing so­met­hing the jud­ge sa­id, both at­tor­neys tur­ned. Schus­ter, with eyes se­ri­o­us and mo­uth uns­mi­ling, sat. Juli­et nod­ded to so­me­one be­hind him.

    “The de­fen­se calls Pri­va­te De­tec­ti­ve Ric­hard Gre­en to the stand.”

    Blake frow­ned, tur­ned, watc­hed a man he’d ne­ver se­en be­fo­re step for­ward.

    To his de­fen­se?

    The man to­ok the stand. Ag­re­ed to tell the truth.

    Coming back to the tab­le, Juli­et pul­led a she­et of what lo­oked to be mug-shot pho­tos out of her satc­hel.

    “Detective Gre­en, can you exp­la­in what I’m hol­ding he­re?”

    “Yes, ma’am, that’s a prin­ted copy of parts of a vi­de­ota­pe ta­ken at the Na­ti­onal Bank in the Cay­man Is­lands.”

    The bank whe­re Bla­ke’s sup­po­sed ac­co­unt was ho­used.

    “And can you tell me what’s sig­ni­fi­cant abo­ut the­se par­ti­cu­lar pho­tos?”

    “That is the por­ti­on of film ta­ken the day and ti­me when Bla­ke Rams­den ope­ned his ac­co­unt.”

    Juliet tur­ned to the jud­ge. “I’d li­ke this ad­mit­ted as evi­den­ce, Yo­ur Ho­nor.”

    Judge Lock­hard glan­ced to­ward Schus­ter. “No obj­ec­ti­on, Yo­ur Ho­nor.”

    The jud­ge nod­ded.

    That was when Juli­et tur­ned, lo­oked stra­ight at Bla­ke and smi­led.

    “Mr. Gre­en, do you re­cog­ni­ze the man in tho­se pho­tos?”

    “Yes, ma’am.”

    “Would you tell the jury if that man is in this co­urt­ro­om to­day?”

    Blake held his bre­ath.

    “That wo­uld be im­pos­sib­le, ma’am. The man in the­se pho­tos is de­ad.”

    Blake’s he­ad swam.

    Eaton James had ope­ned the ac­co­unt him­self, for­ging Bla­ke’s na­me. Just as he’d for­ged Wal­ter Rams­den’s na­me on the post-offi­ce box, and for­ged va­ri­o­us ot­her do­cu­ments and in­vest­ment ag­re­ements, as well as the na­mes of prin­ci­pal sig­ners of com­pa­ni­es that did not exist.

    Blake had fi­gu­red all along that Eaton had ope­ned that ac­co­unt. He’d had no idea of so­me of the ot­her things the man had do­ne.

    And didn’t par­ti­cu­larly ca­re at the mo­ment.

    He lis­te­ned, trying to fo­cus on facts be­ing re­ve­aled by Gre­en, who’d just flown in from the Cay­man Is­lands. It se­emed James had ta­ken the sec­recy of the Cay­man Is­lands a lit­tle too se­ri­o­usly. First, he’d tho­ught he co­uld hi­de his ill-got­ten ga­ins the­re in an ac­co­unt that co­uld not be ve­ri­fi­ed by anyt­hing ot­her than a bank sta­te­ment, which he’d ma­ni­pu­la­ted to po­int the fin­ger at so­me­one el­se. And se­cond, he’d tho­ught he co­uld sho­ot off his mo­uth the­re, too. On­ce Gre­en had fo­und James’s wa­te­ring ho­le, just the night be­fo­re, the truth had co­me po­uring out, va­li­da­ted and ve­ri­fi­ed by wit­nes­ses over and over aga­in. It had ta­ken him ho­urs-and pro­bably mo­ney-to get his hands on the ta­pe.

    James hadn’t lost mo­ney on Eaton Es­ta­tes, he’d ban­ked it. He’d purc­ha­sed the land for less than a tenth of what he’d shown in the in­vest­ment ag­re­ement, for less than a tenth of what he’d char­ged his in­ves­tors. True, the ori­gi­nal in­vest­ment had go­ne so­ur, but Eaton had that ext­ra mo­ney no one knew abo­ut. And when Wal­ter Rams­den had star­ted to ask qu­es­ti­ons, James had of­fe­red to pro­ve his in­teg­rity by pa­ying the man back every cent he’d in­ves­ted, to ke­ep Rams­den from no­sing aro­und.

    That exp­la­ined tho­se checks James had writ­ten to Bla­ke’s fat­her. Pa­yoff, not black­ma­il. James must’ve had a gre­at la­ugh at Rams­den for tur­ning aro­und and sen­ding every di­me of that mo­ney to Hon­du­ras to fe­ed tho­se hungry child­ren-who we­re the first and only child­ren to ha­ve be­ne­fi­ted from the Eaton Es­ta­tes de­al.

    Blake tri­ed to pay at­ten­ti­on to the rest, to fo­cus on the ans­wers that had ne­arly dri­ven him in­sa­ne with the­ir elu­si­ve­ness. But they just didn’t se­em to mat­ter any­mo­re.

    He wis­hed Juli­et wo­uld fi­nish up with her wit­ness and co­me sit be­si­de him.

    She did, and the mo­ment her ga­ze met his, when that old con­nec­ti­on fla­red bet­we­en them, was as swe­et as any he’d known.

    Until, two mi­nu­tes la­ter, when he he­ard the words, “Ca­se dis­mis­sed.”

    He felt li­ke jum­ping up, who­oping and hol­le­ring li­ke a kid, but he co­uldn’t se­em to mo­ve. Af­ra­id he might do so­met­hing re­al­ly stu­pid, li­ke cry, he sat the­re, his arms he­avy aga­inst the arms of his cha­ir, and blin­ked a co­up­le of ti­mes.

    It was all the ti­me it to­ok for Mary Jane to co­me hurt­ling for­ward and fling her­self on top of him.

    “We did it!” she cri­ed, hug­ging him.

    It was the first ti­me he’d ever felt tho­se tiny arms aro­und him.

    Tears slowly drip­ped down his fa­ce.

    

    JULIET STO­OD and watc­hed whi­le the co­urt­ro­om qu­ickly cle­ared out, re­por­ters fol­lo­wing Pa­ul Schus­ter thro­ugh the back do­or. She tri­ed not to watch her da­ugh­ter in Bla­ke’s arms. Tri­ed not to be je­alo­us. Tri­ed not to ne­ed to be the­re, too.

    Marcie, who’d co­me for­ward be­hind Juli­et, nud­ged her. “I gu­ess this is as go­od a ti­me as any to tell you I’m get­ting mar­ri­ed.”

    Juliet had sus­pec­ted as much, and was sca­red to de­ath of what Mar­cie’s fu­tu­re wo­uld bring her.

    She pul­led her twin in­to her arms and held on. “Be happy, Mar­ce.”

    Marcie hug­ged back, tightly, and then le­aned back to lo­ok Juli­et squ­are in the eye. “I am, Jules. For the first ti­me sin­ce Mom di­ed, I fe­el ge­nu­inely happy.”

    “Did you tell her?” Mary Jane pi­ped up from her fat­her’s arms. Bla­ke had ri­sen and held the lit­tle girl high on his su­ited hip, as tho­ugh she we­re lit­tle mo­re than a tod­dler. The sight to­ok Juli­et’s bre­ath away. Her da­ugh­ter had a dad. And se­emed to be per­fectly happy abo­ut it. Mary Jane might be to­ugh, but Bla­ke was to­ug­her. Her mot­her co­uld ha­ve told her that.

    “Yes,” Mar­cie sa­id, the smi­le on her fa­ce go­ing on and on. She rub­bed her sto­mach and tho­ugh she wasn’t re­al­ly sho­wing yet, Juli­et felt anot­her twin­ge of envy. Mar­cie was go­ing to ha­ve it all. Mary Jane was go­ing to ha­ve it all. Bla­ke was go­ing to ha­ve it all.

    And Juli­et had rob­bed her­self of everyt­hing she’d ever wan­ted.

    “So then.” With one arm ho­oked aro­und her fat­her’s neck, Mary Jane pul­led her mot­her over to them in the now de­ser­ted co­urt­ro­om. “Now that Daddy knows everyt­hing abo­ut the bad guys, aren’t you guys go­ing to qu­it lying and just ad­mit that even if you’re mad you re­al­ly lo­ve each ot­her and want us to be a fa­mily?”

    Juliet cho­ked. And tri­ed not to cry. Her emo­ti­ons we­re on over­lo­ad.

    “If I ha­ve to ha­ve a fat­her, that’d be okay, but the­re’s no way I’m go­ing to be a split.”

    “It’s not that easy, swe­etie,” Juli­et sa­id, ha­ting the fe­ar she he­ard be­hind Mary Jane’s at­tempt at con­fi­den­ce.

    Blake lo­oked at her, at the­ir da­ugh­ter, and then back at her. “I think it might be.”

    She stop­ped. Sta­red. Af­ra­id to be­li­eve.

    “You did what you had to do,” he sa­id, his ga­ze in­tent whi­le his da­ugh­ter lo­oked from one to the ot­her. “You we­re be­ing true to yo­ur­self, and that’s in­teg­rity at its co­re.”

    Her eyes fil­led with te­ars then, even tho­ugh she was still in co­urt. “What are you sa­ying?”

    He glan­ced from the child to Juli­et aga­in. “Our da­ugh­ter sa­id it’s ti­me to ad­mit that we lo­ve each ot­her.”

    She tri­ed to spe­ak. And co­uldn’t.

    “I al­ways tell the truth,” he fi­nis­hed.

    “So do­es Mom,” Mary Jane as­ser­ted.

    Marcie la­ug­hed out lo­ud.

    “So I gu­ess this me­ans it’s of­fi­ci­al,” Mary Jane sa­id. “We sho­uld get mar­ri­ed be­fo­re scho­ol starts so that I can fi­nal­ly qu­it get­ting so mad every ti­me so­me­one says so­met­hing abo­ut dads.”

    

    MUCH LA­TER THAT NIGHT, on a blan­ket on the be­ach be­hind Juli­et’s cot­ta­ge, Bla­ke lay with Juli­et be­si­de him, his arm crad­ling her he­ad, whi­le they lo­oked up at the stars.

    “I want to know everyt­hing abo­ut her.”

    “I ha­ve scrap­bo­oks with pic­tu­res and jo­ur­nal ent­ri­es for every ma­j­or event,” she told him. “I told myself I’d send them to you when she tur­ned eigh­te­en.”

    He co­uldn’t get up­set with that. He un­ders­to­od that tho­se bo­oks we­re Juli­et’s way of ke­eping him with her when her fe­ar was for­cing him away. Her fe­ars, her li­fe’s ex­pe­ri­en­ces and con­di­ti­oning-his cho­ices-had for­ced her to ra­ise the­ir da­ugh­ter alo­ne. But her he­art had in­sis­ted that she sha­re the ti­me with him any­way.

    “When do­es scho­ol start?” he as­ked.

    “In a co­up­le of we­eks.”

    The co­ol bre­eze co­ming in from the oce­an felt glo­ri­o­us on his he­ated skin.

    “Doesn’t gi­ve us long to plan a wed­ding.”

    “Flights go from San Di­ego to Ve­gas every ho­ur.”

    “Can you get off work to­mor­row?”

    “At the mo­ment, I just lost my big­gest cli­ent,” she told him, so­un­ding as if she was grin­ning. “How abo­ut you?”

    “I’d al­re­ady cle­ared my ca­len­dar in ca­se of an ex­ten­ded va­ca­ti­on.”

    Juliet didn’t say anyt­hing and he won­de­red if she’d co­me up with so­me ot­her chal­len­ge to block her trip to hap­pi­ness. Wha­te­ver it was, he wasn’t go­ing to let her do it twi­ce.

    “I know we sa­id we’d wa­it, but I can’t,” she fi­nal­ly sa­id, her vo­ice fra­ught with pa­in.

    He tur­ned to lo­ok at her. “Wa­it for what?”

    “This.”

    With a he­avy gro­an, she rol­led on top of him. “I just can’t wa­it any­mo­re.” Very slowly she lo­we­red her he­ad to his, ope­ned her mo­uth and to­ok them both back ni­ne long ye­ars-to a be­ach and a night and a mo­ment that they had ne­ver for­got­ten.

    No one had ever be­en li­ke Juli­et, not­hing li­ke the way he felt in her arms. Or she in his.

    “Mary Jane,” he mut­te­red when he co­uld form a co­he­rent tho­ught.

    “Is a very so­und sle­eper.”

    Blake didn’t stop for anot­her tho­ught un­til the dawn was co­ming up over the oce­an.

    “We’ve do­ne it aga­in,” Juli­et sa­id, sit­ting be­si­de him on the blan­ket with her re­cently don­ned clot­hes ske­wed and wrink­led.

    He ho­ped so. God, he ho­ped so. Inc­lu­ding the very sa­me con­se­qu­en­ces they’d had ni­ne ye­ars be­fo­re.

    Only this ti­me, Daddy wo­uld know.