“She’s crazy. I knew it.”

“These come from when she was a child and might have no bearing on this case.”

“What else have you got?” Jack asked.

“You.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s got to be enough.” Jordan leaned his forehead against the metal. “Now do you see why I need you to shape up?”

“Okay.”

The consent came so softly, Jordan frowned, certain he’d misheard. “What?”

“I said I’ll do it. I’ll put on the jumpsuit. But you have to do me a favor.”

Jordan felt anger bubbling inside him once more. “I don’t have to do you any favors. You, on the other hand-”

“A pen, for Christ’s sake. That’s all I want.”

A pen. Jordan stared at the Rollerball in his hand. Jack’s change of heart had been too hasty. He imagined his client taking the pen and jamming it into his jugular.

“I don’t think so . . .”

“Please,” Jack said quietly. “A pen.”

Slowly, Jordan slipped the pen through the slot in the metal door. A few seconds later it came back, wrapped tight with a pale blue scroll. T-shirt, Jordan realized. Jack had ripped off a piece of his goddamn precious T-shirt to write something.

“Can you get that to Addie Peabody?” Jack asked.

Jordan unrolled it. A single word was written on the cloth, a word that might have been meant as praise or accusation. “Why should I help you?” he asked. “You aren’t doing anything to help me.”

“I will,” Jack swore, and for just a moment-the time it took the attorney to remember to whom he was talking-Jordan actually believed him.

“Jesus, Thomas.” Jordan winced as the door slammed shut. “Do you have to be so damn loud?”

Thomas stopped at the sight of his father, sprawled on the couch with a washcloth covering his forehead. Selena touched him on the shoulder. “Poor baby had to work today,” she clucked. “He’s cranky.”

“He can hear you talking about him, and he has a headache the size of Montana,” Jordan scowled.

“More accurately, the size of Jack St. Bride,” Selena murmured.

Thomas walked into the kitchen and took a carton of milk from the refrigerator. After swilling a long gulp, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Lovely,” Selena said.

“I learned it all from my role model of a dad.” Thomas set the milk on the counter. “What’s the problem with the guy, anyway? He seemed nice enough at the diner.”

“So did Ted Bundy,” Jordan muttered.

“Ted Bundy used to work there?” Thomas said. “No shit!”

Jordan sat up. “What are they saying in school?”

“Everything. By fourth period there was a rumor that he’d escaped and raped some seventh grader.”

“He hasn’t escaped, and it’s only an alleged rape.”

“Amazing, isn’t it,” Selena mused, “how he can stick to doing his job even when the client is driving him up a tree?”

“Not so amazing, but then again, he insists he loves me, and still, I’ve been grounded by him before.” Thomas sat down on the floor and reached for the remote control of the TV, but Jordan grabbed it first.

“Hang on,” he said. “Tell me more.”

Thomas sighed. “I guess some people feel bad for Gillian.”

“And the others?”

“They think what they’ve always thought . . . that she’s a bitch.”

“A bitch? Gillian Duncan isn’t the homecoming queen?” Selena asked.

Thomas burst out laughing. “She’d probably kill herself if she got elected. She thinks she’s better than all that, and she lets everyone know it. Just goes around with her little circle of friends and tries to keep them from mingling with the peons. When I first tried to talk to Chelsea-”

“Who’s Chelsea?”

Thomas gave him a long look. “Dad. You know.”

“Ah, right.”

“Well, anyway, Gillian was all over that, trying to tell Chelsea I wasn’t worth her time. I mean, you ask me, Gillian had this coming-acting better than everyone else, you’re gonna piss someone off sooner or later. But when I said that to Chelsea, she told me it wasn’t like that at all.”

“No?”

“She was there, when Gillian came out crying . . . afterward. And she told me Gillian could barely talk. That she’s still pretty messed up.”

Jordan balled the damp washcloth into a knot. He exchanged a glance with Selena, then looked at his son. “Thomas,” he suggested, “find out what else Chelsea has to say.”

The envelope was tucked between an electric bill and a flyer advertising the candidacy of George W. Bush for president. ADDIE PEABODY, it said, scrawled in block lettering she did not recognize. There was no stamp; someone had dropped this off while she was at work.

She slit open the envelope with her finger.

Inside was a small roll of fabric, the same blue as the T-shirt Jack had been wearing the morning of his arrest. Addie unraveled it and found, in his handwriting, one word.

Loyal.

She sank onto the ground at the base of the mailbox, turning the fabric over and over in her hands and trying to understand the cryptic message. Was he accusing her of not sticking up for him during the arrest? Was he begging for her support?

The corners of her memory began to curl, like paper set on fire.

Then again, maybe this was not an adjective at all.

The phone startled Jordan out of a sound, deep sleep. He knocked over his clock-radio reaching for it, and dragged the base halfway across the bed. “Hello,” he said gruffly.

“You are about to receive a collect call from Carroll County Jail,” a computerized voice said. “Are you willing to accept the charges?”

“Oh, fuck,” Jordan muttered.

“I’m sorry, I did not understand your-”

“Yes,” Jordan yelled. “Yes, yes!”

“Thank you.” The next moment, St. Bride was on the other end. “Jordan? Jordan, you there?” Jack was frantic, breathless.

“Calm down. What’s the matter?”

“I gotta see you.”

“Okay. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“No, I’ve got to see you now.” Jack’s voice cracked on a sob. “Please. I remember. I remember now.”

“I’m on my way,” Jordan said.

An hour later, Jack stood before him, sweating and wired from the story he’d just told. The clock on the wall of the tiny conference room ticked like a bomb. “Let me get this straight,” Jordan said finally. “You keep seeing things hanging from the trees.”

Jack nodded. “Tied to them.”

“Like tinsel?”

“No,” Jack said. “Ribbons, and little sachets. Weird shit. Like that movie . . . The Blair Witch Project.”

Jordan folded his arms across his stomach. “So creepy twig crucifixes were hanging from the trees when you were walking past them, in the dark, in the forest where you did not encounter Gillian Duncan. This is what you woke me up for?”

“There was something strange going on. I thought that was patently important to my case, but pardon the hell out of me for disturbing your beauty sleep.”

“Well, it’s not important, Jack. Important would be if you remembered someone who saw you between midnight and one-thirty. Important would be just admitting you slept with the girl.”

“I didn’t have sex with Gillian Duncan,” Jack yelled. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“You were drunk! What would you find easier to believe-that some guy who’s six sheets to the wind got a little too aggressive with a girl he happened across . . . or this Halloween/Scream decor in the middle of the forest you’re telling me about? Stuff, I might add, that neither the cops nor my investigator found traces of?”

Jack flung himself into a chair. “I want a polygraph,” he said.

Jordan closed his eyes. God save me from defendants. “Even if you took a polygraph and passed, it’s not admissable in court. You’d be doing it only for yourself, Jack.”

“And for you. So that you know I’m telling you the truth.”

“I already told you, I don’t care whether you committed the crime. I’m still going to defend you.”

Jack bowed his head over his knotted hands. “If you were sitting in my seat,” he said quietly, “would that be enough?”