"Lauren, please. Now isn't the time for nonsense, okay? I have a job to do here, and if you don't want to try to informally take a step in the right direction, I guess we'll have to -"

"Video evidence, Jeff," I continued. "Video evidence is incontrovertible, isn't it? The only reason I keep harping on it is that, in the course of my investigation, I came across a… well…"

I took my laptop out of my bag, turned it on, and hit "play."

"Maybe you ought to see this for yourself," I said. "You really should, Jeff."

I LET HIM WATCH from the beginning of the surveillance to the end, uninterrupted. I sat staring out his window at the stands in the stadium. My dad had taken me to my first game there when I was eight. I didn't catch a home run, but I did taste my first beer when a drunk behind us dropped one on my head.

I wondered what my dad would think of all this, of me. Would he be ashamed? Or proud that I was capable of getting bare-knuckle down and dirty to fight for my survival? I listened for some sign from my father as I waited. But all I heard was the number 4 train rattling by.

When he was finished watching the DVD, Jeff Buslik snapped the laptop closed and took a good long look out the window himself.

We listened to the heavy silence together for a while.

The video was of Jeff's boss, John Meade, but in a way, that was even better than if it had been of Jeff. Jeff was going to run for the DA's office next November when Meade stepped down, and word was, he was a shoo-in to win. And that wasn't the only office he would be seeking, it was rumored. Diamond-bright, black, and with real star presence, he was already being called the Barack Obama of the Bronx by the press.

But the political fact of life was, Jeff needed his boss's blessing. John Meade was a Bronx institution, and Jeff was his right-hand man. Until Election Day, at least, they were inextricably connected.

Until Election Day, if John Meade crashed, Jeff would burn along with him.

Jeff seemed to realize this as much as I did. He looked like he had an upset stomach all of a sudden. A bad one. Finally, he moved his sour gaze onto me.

"Evidence," I repeated. "You have it. I have it. Listen, I have no hard feelings, Jeff. I understand coming after me would be huge for you. National coverage, maybe celebrity status. I think it's great for somebody to want to get ahead. But if you take me on, I swear to God, the next time you see this footage, it'll be on the Fox News channel."

Jeff thought about that one for a little while.

"Did you kill him, Lauren?" he finally said. "Did you actually kill Scott Thayer?"

"No," I said. "Don't you read the papers? Victor Ordonez did. Anyway, I am resigning. I just can't take this crazy crap anymore. I think it's best to go out on a high note. Kind of like your boss. Don't you think that's best?"

I stood and popped the DVD out of the laptop.

"We're done here, right?" I said. "Our friendly little chat?"

Jeff sat there silent for another minute. Then he turned, and the shredder behind his desk screamed twice, almost with glee, as he fed Scott's phone records and the parking ticket into it.

"We're done, Lauren," Jeff said quietly to the far wall. There was a sadness in his voice. He didn't turn around again until I was gone.

"I didn't kill him," I finally said – but only after I was outside the building, walking to my car.

"MORE SPARKLING WATER, signora? More Chianti, signore?"

"Si," Paul and I said in unison. Let the good times roll, right?

The stubbled young waiter beamed with elation as he topped off our glasses, almost as if we'd just granted him his life's wish. Behind him, the pale stone walls of Monticiano, the newest and most expensive Italian restaurant in Greenridge, Connecticut, glowed like a Tuscan sunset.

Paul's surprise dinner trip north to Litchfield County 's only four-star Italian had been more than welcome after my draining morning at the courthouse.

After what I'd managed to pull off with Jeff Buslik, I thought, as I took another mind-blowing bite of my fettuccine with truffles, I deserved a trip to the real Tuscany.

"Signora, the signore would like to propose a toast," Paul said.

"To the future," he said.

"To the future."

We clinked glasses.

And to us being safe and together once and for all, I thought, taking a cool, clear sip of my San Pellegrino.

Paul drank his wine and leaned back, smiling. It was like he somehow sensed everything was okay, now that the craziness was over, and that our new life – our real life – was about to start.

In the flickering candlelight, I stared at Paul, almost as if for the first time. His sandy hair, his intense blue eyes, his strong hands – hands that had fought for me.

"Honey? Honey, listen," Paul said, and he leaned across the table toward me. "Can you believe it?"

From the speakers, Frank Sinatra was singing "The Way You Look Tonight."

Our wedding song.

Could it have gotten any more disgustingly perfect? My heart floated like the bubbles in my glass. That confirmed it, I decided. Paul and I would be together now. Finally happy, finally free. With the child we'd always wanted.

"Well, what do you think?" Paul asked after the song ended.

"The pasta?" I said. "Bellissima."

"No," Paul said. "The new neighborhood."

Greenridge might have been just another quaint New England small town, except for the pricey art galleries, the pricey wine shops, and the pricey day spas up and down Main Street. Norman Rockwell meets SoHo. Monticiano itself was housed in a repurposed nineteenth-century firehouse. I'd read in New York magazine that a lot of New York City fashion designers and artists had country homes here. With the second-lowest crime rate in the entire Northeast, why wouldn't they?

"It's mind boggling that we're going to move anywhere," I said. "But to here?"

"And you haven't even seen the house yet," Paul said. "The tour starts after dessert."

A new house, I thought. I mean, a roof that didn't leak? Doors that closed and stayed closed? I shook my head with amazement.

I think it was still spinning when the waiter came back ten minutes later. "Some cappuccino, signora? Tonight's dessert special is cannoli with a lemon cream."

"Si," I said, leaning back on my banquette, basking in my relief, the golden glow of the night, our insanely good luck. "Si, si, si."

HALF AN HOUR LATER, Paul was driving faster than he ought to have been in his Camry. My shoulder belt and stomach tensed simultaneously as he suddenly braked, and we swerved off the ridiculously bucolic road we'd been winding our way along over hill and dale.

The sign outside my window, placed at the base of a stone fence, no doubt by kind woodland creatures or perhaps Robert Frost himself, read "Evergreens."

In the fading light, the shadows of softly swaying pine trees along the drive printed a golden barcode across the fresh asphalt.

"What do you think?" Paul said, stopping the car.

"So far," I said, looking around, "so awesome."

"You hear that?" Paul said, rolling down his window.

I listened. All I could hear was the wind rustling the leaves.

"Hear what?"

Paul smiled.

"Exactly," he said. "This is what it sounds like when there are no jackhammers or bus engines or raving homeless people. I've read about this somewhere. It's called peace and quiet, I think."

"What are those grayish-looking things alongside the road – with that green stuff on top?" I said, squinting out my window.