This latest drama was not what Matt needed the night before the trial began. But Meg’s accusations would be a different case, brought before a different judge on a different day . . . if there was enough evidence to try it. He would never have told Charlie, but part of Matt had to wonder how reliable Meg’s tearful confession was. She had already been taking hallucinogenic drugs that night. . . . It was possible that this alleged assault was imagined.

And that was how it affected his current case-he could no longer risk Meg as a witness. If she testified to bringing the drugs and then confessed to being attacked, too, would the jury believe her? And if they didn’t, would they still believe Gillian?

Matt couldn’t say for sure whether Meg was going to help or hurt the case. He didn’t need her to convict Jack St. Bride; therefore, he would simply omit her. He’d call Chelsea Abrams up for her eyewitness account, instead . . . and if her story didn’t match quite as neatly with Whitney O’Neill’s as Meg’s had, it was still less of a gamble with the jury.

Matt touched his hand lightly to the sweet globe of his daughter’s head. “Good night,” he whispered, but for long minutes afterward, he made no move to leave her.

The moon slipped over the windowsill and beneath the covers, but Jordan and Selena didn’t notice. Selena stared down at her arms, tangled with Jordan’s just below her breasts. “What are you thinking?”

“That I plead temporary insanity.”

“Ah.” Selena turned in his embrace. “Feeling guilty?”

“No. I feel . . . I feel . . .”

She swatted at his hand. “Yeah, I see what you feel.” Laughing, she darted out of the way. “Get out of there.”

“That’s not what you said ten minutes ago.”

“Maybe I’m pleading temporary insanity, too.”

They had fallen asleep sitting on the couch, watching reruns of Perry Mason on TVLand. Somehow, when they’d awakened, they’d been lying down in each other’s arms, pressed together from chest to thigh. It was all the impetus they needed; a subliminal reminder that no matter how hard they tried, they weren’t meant to be apart. From there, they’d been lucky to make it to the privacy of a bedroom.

“Hey, Selena?”

“Mmm?”

“Why didn’t we do this a month ago?”

“Oh, take your pick: We were smarter then. We had better self-control.”

Jordan looked at her soberly. “You really think that?”

For once, she had no smart answer. “Actually,” Selena admitted, “I don’t.” She stared at him. “How do you think this will all turn out?”

Jordan shook his head. “I have no idea.”

Selena smiled against his chest. “Are you talking about us, or the case?”

“Either one.” He sighed, choosing the easier route of conversation. “All we’ve really been able to prove is that she’s a witch.”

“A witch on drugs. I’ve thought about it,” Selena confessed. “And I can explain away just about all the evidence, and clear Jack in my head. Except for that semen. That’s not something you leave behind while you’re just chatting it up with someone.”

“The semen’s the most inconclusive evidence Houlihan’s got. A jury will see that.”

“You hope.”

“I hope.”

“Jack could still be lying to you,” Selena pointed out.

“So could Gillian Duncan.”

They were quiet for a while, soaking up the heat and the memory of each other’s bodies. “Speaking of lies,” Selena whispered. “I have to tell you something.”

Jordan came up on one elbow. “What?”

“My car was ready two weeks ago.”

“I have to tell you something, too.” His teeth flashed in the darkness. “Your car would have been ready five weeks ago, but I paid the mechanic to say the part was delayed.”

Selena came up on an elbow. “You’d go to all that trouble to keep from losing your best investigator?”

Jordan leaned forward and kissed her lightly. “No,” he said. “I’d go to all that trouble to keep from losing you.”

They held hands across a cafeteria table, surrounded by men who had murdered others in fights and beaten their wives and burned houses to the ground with people still inside. A correctional officer stood guard. When Addie had first embraced Jack, the CO had tapped her on the shoulder and politely explained that sort of touching was not allowed.

Addie looked at the couple beside them. The man had a snake tattooed around his neck. His visitor was a woman with spiked green hair, an eyebrow ring, and a dog collar.

In fifteen hours, the trial would begin.

“Are you nervous?” she asked.

“No. I figure the sooner we get this over with, the sooner I’ll be with you.”

Addie bent her head. “That,” she said, “will be wonderful.”

“I’ve been thinking about it, you know. We’ll go to the Carribbean. June is the rainy season, but I figure we could both use a vacation. I want to be outside all day long. I want to sleep outside. Hell, maybe we won’t even have to pay for a room.”

Addie choked on a laugh, one that rounded neatly into a little sob. She looked up at Jack and tried to smile.

“If you’re that upset, sweetheart, I’ll get us a hotel.” He spoke softly, stroking her palm with his thumb.

A deep, shuddering breath wracked Addie. “What if-”

“Ah, Addie, don’t.” Jack put his finger to her lips a moment before the guard frowned at the contact. “Sometimes, when I think I’m going to lose it in here, I just imagine that I’m already out. I think about what we’re going to do for the weekend, and whether the diner’s going to be busy that day, and how all I want is for it to be nighttime so that I can sleep holding onto you. I think about us, six months from now. Six years from now. Until I can remember what it’s like to have a normal life back.”

“A normal life,” Addie repeated, with longing.

“We can even practice,” Jack said earnestly. He cleared his throat. “Hi, honey. What did you do today?”

Addie stared into his eyes, those beautiful ocean eyes. She thought of Meg. And then she imagined a beach as wide as the world, a froth of waves that raced over her feet and Jack’s as they watched the sun seal another absolutely ordinary day. “Nothing,” she said, smiling hard from the bottom of her heart. “Nothing at all.”

1979

New York City

Jack and J. T. and Ralph hunkered down in the crawl space beneath the staircase that led up to the second floor of the St. Bride penthouse, a spot usually reserved for the vacuum but that worked equally as well as a clandestine spot for ten-year-old boys trading baseball cards and secrets. “I’ll give you Keith Hernandez for Luis Alvarado,” J. T. said.

“You think I’m a moron?” Ralph scowled. “Hernandez is worth three White Sox.”

“I’ve got Bruce Sutter,” Jack said. “I’ll trade him for Hernandez.”

“Cool.”

The boys swapped cards, turning them over to read the stats, a faint bubble-gum smell enveloping the deal.

“I’ve got a Don Baylor,” J. T. said.

“California sucks this year.”

Ralph snickered. “I wouldn’t use a Baylor card to scrape dog shit off the street.”

“He’s an MVP, you jerk.” But J. T. shuffled the card to the back of his shoebox all the same.

Suddenly, Ralph held up the crown jewel of baseball cards that summer, Willie Stargell from the Pittsburgh Pirates. “I’m willing to trade. For the right price.”

Jack riffled through the heap of cards he’d collected. Ralph wouldn’t take a Palmer or a Guidry, the two best players Jack had. There was only one other card he could even think of trading for equal value, although the player was just a really crappy outfielder for the Chicago White Sox who couldn’t have hit a curveball if it were hanging dead still on a string in front of him. What made Jack’s card the envy of every other young collector was the name on it.

“Holy shit,” J. T. breathed. “Jack’s got Rusty Kuntz.”

The three boys dissolved into fits of laughter. “Man, you have Kuntz,” Ralph said.