She closes her eyes and forces her breaths back to even. “No, I’ll be fine. I’m just . . . I was a fool to ever think . . .” She pats her perfect hair and turns back to me. “Tell William I’ll fix this. And I’ll come home. Tell him—”

“I can’t do that. I can’t pass messages. I—”

“It’s important that he knows I’m willing to come home!” she says, pushing. “And that I will clean up this mess I have made.” She stands abruptly. “I can show myself out, gentlemen. Thank you, Mr. Becker, for your . . . honesty.”

And her eyes go flat. Like a death row inmate, just waiting for someone to come along and flip the switch.

Then she sweeps out of my office, closing the door softly behind her. I stare at the closed door for a few minutes . . . remembering.

Until Stanton calls my name. “You all right, Jake?”

I blink and shake my head clear. Then I move closer to my desk and refocus.

“Yeah, I’m good.” And my voice is as lifeless as Mrs. Holten’s eyes. “Just part of the job.”

• • •

A few hours later, after pitch black fills my office window, another commotion stirs outside the door. It opens and the young prosecutor Tom Caldwell stands there, fuming.

His noble steed is probably parked outside.

I tell Stanton dryly, “Must be dramatic entrance day. Lucky me.”

I wave Mrs. Higgens away as Tom practically charges my desk. “What did you say to her?”

I lean back in my chair. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Tom.”

His finger stabs the air. “You know exactly what I’m talking about! Sabrina Holten came to my office—to recant her allegations against her husband. Said she couldn’t risk her indiscretions coming to light.”

I shrug. “Flip-flopping witnesses are always a pain in the ass.”

“I know she was here!” he rails, eyes burning into me.

“She stopped in, yeah. Seemed pretty distraught.”

He leans on my desk. “Did you discuss the case with her?”

I still don’t bother to get out of my chair. “Of course I didn’t—except to say that I couldn’t discuss the case with her. Otherwise we spoke of hypotheticals. And then she left. Stanton was in the room the entire time.”

“ ‘Hypotheticals’ . . . ,” he spits, like it’s a dirty word. “I bet.”

From across the room, Stanton asks, “Are you accusing my colleague of something, Caldwell?”

Caldwell addresses his answer to me. “Yes, I’m accusing him of being a scumbag.”

I stare him down. “I really don’t like your fucking attitude, Tom. It’s been a rough day—you don’t want to push me.”

He backs down, but only a little. His hands are still balled into fists, his gaze still throwing knives. “I told her I could proceed without her testimony—I would submit her statement as evidence.”

“Which I would never let you do,” I say, interrupting him. “I can’t cross-examine a statement.”

“She was scared out of her mind, Becker! Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

I don’t answer. Because sometimes, there’s just nothing you can say.

“She went so far as to tell me that she would testify on her husband’s behalf if I went forward,” Caldwell goes on. “That she would claim she was confused and it was all a political witch hunt against him. I said I could charge her with perjury.”

Stanton laughs. “Wow, prosecuting your victims? That’s gonna make you real popular with advocacy groups.”

“I wasn’t going to actually do it,” Tom tells him. “I just wanted to see if she’d change her mind. She didn’t.” He glowers at me for a few seconds, then he asks, “Have you looked at her medical history? She’s not his wife—she’s his punching bag!”

I rub my eyes. Suddenly . . . so fucking tired. Of all of it. “What are you looking for here, Caldwell? I don’t get it—what do you want me to do for you?”

His eyes rake over me, filled with loathing. With disgust. “Forget looking at yourself in the mirror—I just want to know, how do you live in your skin?”

The words hang heavy in the quiet of the room, until Tom shakes his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter and you’re not worth my time.”

And he marches out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

I run my hand over the back of my neck. Then I stand and pack files into my briefcase. “I’m heading out,” I tell Stanton.

“You want to come over tonight? Have dinner with me and Sofia?”

“Not tonight, man. The faster I get to sleep, the faster this fucking day will end.”

• • •

But I don’t go home. Instead I drive over to a small hole-in-the-wall kind of place—a real dive bar—with grouchy staff, almost nonexistent clientele, and fantastic scotch. Instead of having to deal with friendly, tip-hungry bartenders and female patrons looking to hook up, here I know they’ll leave me the fuck alone. Which is exactly what I need at the moment.

I sit on the threadbare stool as a muscular bartender with a thick, black goatee pours me a double scotch—neat. I toss several bills onto the rotting wood bar, more than needed.

“Just leave the whole fucking bottle.”

20

Hours later, I find myself stumbling onto Chelsea’s stoop, without any clear recollection of how I got there. I glance back at my car—parked crookedly.