“Goddamn fucking shit!”

Stanton swivels around in his chair from his desk on the other side of the office we share.

“Problem?”

I rub at the stain on my chest with a napkin, trying to murder it. “I spilled my coffee.”

His eyebrows rise. “Did somebody piss in it first? You’ve been barking all morning. You even snapped at Mrs. Higgens—and she’s as close to a saint as I’ve ever seen.”

I shake my head, not in the mood to share. “Just a bad day.”

He goes back to reading the document in his hands. “And it’s only just begun.”

Fucking tell me about it.

• • •

I don’t hear from Chelsea all morning, not that I expect to. And I don’t think about her. Not the anger frozen on her face or the hurt in her eyes the last time I saw her. Not her plump lips that kiss so softly, smile so easily, and laugh so enchantingly. I don’t think about the kids either—not Riley’s wisely perceptive look or Raymond’s kind questions. I don’t think about Rory’s smartass smirk or Rosaleen’s giggle. Not Regan’s sweet voice or Ronan’s drooling grin.

I refuse to think of any of them—at all.

• • •

After a quiet lunch with Sofia and Stanton—Brent was stuck in court—I sit down at my desk and bury myself in case files for two hours. And then there’s a commotion outside my office. Raised voices and Mrs. Higgens saying I can’t be disturbed without an appointment. For a crazy split second I think maybe it’s Chelsea with a few of the kids.

But it’s not.

“Mrs. Holten.”

She stands in my office doorway, blond hair perfectly coiffed in an elegant knot at the base of her neck. Her blouse is white, just a shade darker than her skin tone. French-manicured nails decorate delicate hands, one of which is still graced with a shiny engagement ring and wedding band. They rest at her sides, against a Democratic-blue skirt.

Mrs. Holten is Senator William Holten’s wife. The one he’s accused of beating to a bloody pulp in the US attorney’s case against him. The case I’m representing him in. And she’s in my office.

“I need to speak with you, Mr. Becker.”

Mrs. Higgens tries to explain, “I told her you can’t see her, Jake. I—”

I hold up my hand. “It’s all right, Mrs. Higgens. I’ll take care of it.” She closes the door as she leaves.

Mrs. Holten lets out a quick relieved breath and steps closer to my desk. “Is it true?”

“Mrs. Holten—”

“I just came from the prosecutor’s office. They said at my husband’s trial, certain . . . indiscretions . . . from my past could be made public. By you. Is that true?”

I stand up. My voice is even but firm. “I can’t speak with you. You are the complaining witness in a felony assault case against my client.”

“I need to know!”

My palm moves to my chest. “I could be accused of tampering with a witness. You can’t be here.”

She grinds her teeth, on the verge of tears, hands shaking—but more than anything she looks utterly terrified. “I married William when I was eighteen years old. I’ve never had a career—my only job was to be his wife, the mother to our children, his prop on the campaign trail.” Her throat contracts as she swallows reflexively. “He’s capable of tying up our divorce for years. He knows all the judges. When this is done, all I will have to rely on is the kindness of affluent friends and the admiration of my children. If you know what I suspect you know, and if that comes out at William’s trial, they will never look at me the same way again. I will have nothing. Please, Mr. Becker, I just need to be prepared for what’s to come.”

I scrape my hand down my face and gesture to the chair in front of my desk. Mrs. Holten sits down but remains stiff as a frightened board. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“Thank you, yes.”

I pour her a glass and set it on my desk within her reach. Then I sit back down and when I speak, I choose my words so very carefully, doing my damnedest to bend the rules without breaking them, and in the process wrecking my entire fucking career.

“Speaking purely hypothetically and not referring to this particular case at all, it is standard practice for this firm and myself personally to employ private investigators who vet potential witnesses. They look into their backgrounds and recent histories for information which could possibly be used to impeach their credibility.”

“ ‘Impeach their credibility’?” she repeats. “So, once a liar, always a liar—is that right?”

I look into her eyes—they’re gentle brown, like a doe’s. “Depending on the circumstances . . . yes.”

Mrs. Holten sips her water and asks, “So if a potential witness had an affair and lied to her husband, her children, her friends about it? If she developed a reliance on pain medication and had to attend a live-in rehabilitation center? Would you use those facts to impeach a witness’s credibility, Mr. Becker?”

She’s asking because according to the report in my desk drawer, Mrs. Holten has done all those things.

My stomach twists, angry and sick. But I won’t lie to her. “As much as a judge would allow, yes, I would absolutely bring those facts up at trial.”

“That’s blackmail!”

“That’s the law.”

She starts to pant, hand to her throat—almost hyperventilating. Stanton approaches her from across the room. “Is there anything you need, ma’am?”