Cate collected herself and mustered a smile for plaintiff’s counsel. “Good afternoon, Mr. Gill.”

“Good afternoon, Your Honor.” Herman Gill was a standard-issue big-firm lawyer; tall, middle-aged white guy in a dark suit, horn-rimmed glasses, and brown wingtips, as if he’d been mugged by Brooks Brothers.

“What do we have today, specifically?” Cate asked, glancing at the papers.

“Your Honor, I will review the facts briefly. Plaintiff Jean-Patrice Tourneau is a decedent, a Pennsylvania resident and former CEO of VistaView Communications, Inc., a Pennsylvania corporation with its headquarters in Blue Bell.”

Cate listened, coming back down to earth. The defense lawyer, another big-firm squash player, crossed his pinstriped legs. She made notes, though she knew Emily had included it in her bench memo. The law clerk sat off to the side, taking her usual copious notes. She seemed better than she had been this morning, too. Sitting at his desk near her, the courtroom deputy was catching up on the crossword puzzle. The courtroom was back to normal. The pews sat empty, ten vacant rows of honey-hued wood, and Cate could see clear to the back wall, with its oil portraits of past district judges, all of them men with bald heads, horn-rimmed glasses, and somber smiles. The way you look, the way you act, even the way you dress. Cate wondered if she would ever feel like this were her courtroom.

Suddenly the door opened in the back, and the movement drew Cate’s attention. A man in a dark suit entered and sat down on a back bench. Something familiar about him gave Cate pause, then she realized who it was.

Gill was saying, “We urge the Court that there is a true conflict, because Indiana law, unlike District of Columbia law…”

Cate tuned out, her concentration broken. The man in the back was Detective Russo. He sat still, facing front, his arms folded. He couldn’t be here for the argument. Was he watching her? She couldn’t see his features at this distance. It unnerved her. She couldn’t get her bearings today, with so many distractions. Art Simone was dead, and so was the man from last night, Partridge. It was like a one-two punch, and now Russo was watching her, the sole spectator in the empty courtroom, sitting squarely in her line of vision.

In the next minute, Russo folded his arms. He knew she had to see him. Was he trying to intimidate her? Cate tried to catch the eye of the courtroom deputy, but he was doing the crossword, chewing the end of a pencil. Emily sat absorbed in her note-taking, her legal pad balanced on her lap.

Cate tried to focus on the proceeding but couldn’t. She would rule later in a written opinion; she wouldn’t rule from the bench, though she would have preferred it that way, and so would counsel. She’d always liked the quick answer when she was in practice. Gill finally concluded his argument, then defense counsel rose, took the lectern, and made an endless counterargument, but by then, Cate was dying to get off the bench. She couldn’t shake Russo’s gaze and felt it like a weight. Did he blame her for what Marz did? Could he blame her more than she blamed herself? As soon as the rebuttal was finished, Cate banged the gavel, ended the session, and practically fled the courtroom.

Russo was still sitting there when she left.

Keep a look out, tonight. A dark blue Subaru.

Cate shuddered, driving away from the courthouse. It was almost dark, and she’d ended the workday early, having fussed all afternoon with the same opinion, unable to clear her head enough to write. She hadn’t heard a word from Russo. He made no attempt to call chambers or contact her. She’d called Nesbitt and left a message for him at the Homicide desk, but he hadn’t called back yet. In truth, she didn’t know what she’d have said to him. Russo hadn’t done anything wrong and he wasn’t the threat to her. Marz was.

Do you have a gun?

Marz really could be out there. She couldn’t be in denial. She’d been fairly safe in her office, walled behind locks and federal marshals, but now she was on her own. She glanced in her rearview mirror at the car behind her, but it was too dark to tell its make. Its headlights were too high to be a Subaru. It must be an SUV.

She eyed the cars around her as she traveled down Race Street. Plumes of exhaust curled from the car bumpers, chalky in the bitter-cold night. She didn’t see a Subaru, but she wouldn’t have been able to tell one from a Toyota or Honda. She felt tense the whole time and took a quick right when the light changed, heading east to vary her driving routine, just in case. She drove all the way to her street with an eye in the rearview, and after she saw no Subaru on her street, wasted no time barreling into her garage, closing the door behind her, and hustling into the house, checking all the locks.

It wasn’t five minutes later that her doorbell rang.

Cate hurried to the window and pushed the curtain aside an inch. She couldn’t see who was at the door. Maybe they’d go away.

Ding dong!

She went for her purse, dug out her cell phone, and flipped it open, her finger on the emergency button. She went to the door and pressed an eye to the peephole.

Russo. Cate froze. She didn’t know what to do. What did he want? Why was he here? Had he seen her come in? Was he watching her house, too? On the other hand, what was she afraid of? He was a detective, and she’d liked him when he testified.

Ding dong! She couldn’t ignore him, could she? She hated feeling so afraid, for no reason. She was working herself up for nothing. She finally pressed the intercom to speak. “Yes?”

“Judge Fante, it’s Detective Russo. I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes, if you don’t mind. I tried to see you after court, but your secretary said you’d left early. It’s important.”

“Hold on,” Cate said, relaxing. She was being paranoid. She flipped the phone closed, set it on the entrance table, and opened the front door. “Come in, Detective.”

“Thanks.” Russo entered the entrance hall, and Cate closed the door behind him. He took up most of the small room, taller in his brown leather coat than he’d looked on the witness stand. His eyes were dark, and his largish nose red from the cold, though his hair remained in glossy place, as if he had just combed it. He said, “Sorry to bother you at home.”

“Would you like a drink? A Coke or something?”

“No, thanks. I won’t stay long.”

“Come on in.” Cate walked ahead and gestured him into the living room, taking a quick look around to see if it was in order, a homeowner’s impulse. She straightened two magazines on the glass coffee table and sat down on the soft tan couch. “Please, take a chair.”

“Thanks.” Russo eased heavily into the side chair, looking around. “This is a lovely house. How long have you lived here?”

“About six years.”

“Nice.” Russo looked around again, and in the light from the Waterford lamp on the end table, Cate could see the pain in his eyes.

“I saw you in the courtroom today. Why were you there?”

“I just wanted to go back, I guess, like it was a crime scene. I’m still trying to figure this whole thing out. Simone, dead. Rich, a fugitive.” Russo’s voice softened with naked emotion. “I can’t believe he would do that. I can’t believe it all came to this.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Cate paused. “Let me say something that might not be standard procedure.”

“Go right ahead.” Russo chuckled, his heavy shoulders shifting once in the jacket. “My coming here sure isn’t procedure.”

“I’m very sorry about the way the case came out. I ruled the way I had to, not the way I wanted to. That’s probably all I should say on the subject. It’s not more than I said in open court.”

“I understand.” Russo’s full lips went tight. “I guess it’s just hard to swallow.”