Jordan smirked. “You took that last part from my closing in the Katie Riccobono case.”

“The battered wife?” Selena shrugged. “Well, even if I did, it fits.”

Suddenly Jordan blinked. He stood up, grabbed his wife, and kissed her. “You are so fucking brilliant.”

“I’m not going to argue, but do tell me why.”

“Battered woman syndrome. It’s a valid legal defense. Battered women get stuck in a world that slams them down; eventually they feel so constantly threatened that they take action, and truly believe they’re protecting themselves-even if their husbands are fast asleep. That fits Peter Houghton, to a T.”

“Far be it from me to point this out to you, Jordan,” Selena said, “but Peter’s not female, and he’s not married.”

“That’s not the point. It’s post-traumatic stress disorder. When these women go ballistic and shoot their husbands or slice off their dicks, they aren’t thinking about the consequences…just about stopping the aggression. That’s what Peter’s been saying all along-he just wanted it to stop. And this is even better, because I don’t have to fight the prosecutor’s usual rebuttal about a grown woman being old enough to know what she’s doing when she picks up the knife or the gun. Peter’s a kid. By definition, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Monsters didn’t grow out of nowhere; a housewife didn’t turn into a murderer unless someone turned her into one. The Dr. Frankenstein, in her case, was a controlling husband. And in Peter’s case, it was the whole of Sterling High School. Bullies kicked and teased and punched and pinched, all behaviors meant to force someone back where he belonged. It was at the hands of his tormentors that Peter learned how to fight back.

In the high chair, Sam started to fuss. Selena pulled him out and into her arms. “No one’s ever done this,” she said. “There is no bullied victim syndrome.”

Jordan reached for Sam’s jar of vanilla custard and scraped out the leftovers with his forefinger. “There is now,” he said, and he savored the last of the sweet.

Patrick sat at his office computer in the dark, moving a cursor through the video game created by Peter Houghton.

You started by picking a character-one of three boys: the spelling bee champ, the math genius, the computer nerd. One was small and thin, with acne. One wore glasses. One was grossly overweight.

You did not come equipped with a weapon. Instead, you had to go to various rooms of the school and use your wits: the teachers’ lounge had vodka, to make hand grenades. The boiler room had a bazooka. The science lab had burning acid. The English classroom had heavy books. The math room had compasses for stabbing and metal rulers for slicing. The computer room had wires, for garrotes. The wood shop had chain saws. The home arts class had blenders and knitting needles. The art room had a kiln. You could combine materials to make combo assault weapons: flaming bullets from the bazooka and vodka, acid daggers from the chemicals and compasses, snares from the computer wires and the heavy books.

Patrick maneuvered the cursor through hallways and up staircases, through locker rooms and into the janitor’s office. It struck him, as he was turning virtual corners, that he’d walked this map before. It was the floor plan of Sterling High.

The object of the game was to aim for the jocks, the bullies, and the popular kids. Each was worth a certain amount of points. Kill two at once, you got triple the points. However, you could be wounded, too. You might be sucker-punched, slammed into a wall, shoved in a locker.

If you accrued 100,000 points, you got a shotgun. If you reached 500,000 points, you received a machine gun. Cross a million, and you’d find yourself straddling a nuclear missile.

Patrick watched a virtual door fly open. Freeze, his speakers cried, and a phalanx of policemen in SWAT jackets stormed onto the screen. He positioned his hand on the arrow keys again, readying himself. Twice now, he’d gotten this far and had been killed or had killed himself-which meant losing.

This time, though, he raised his virtual machine gun and watched the officers fall in a spray of bright blood.

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE WON HIDE-N-SHRIEK! the screen read.

DO YOU WANT TO PLAY AGAIN?

On the tenth day after the shooting at Sterling High, Jordan sat in his Volvo in the parking lot of the district courthouse. As he’d expected, there were white news vans everywhere, their satellites pointed to the sky like the faces of sunflowers. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the Wiggles CD, which was doing its effortless job of keeping Sam from throwing a fit in the backseat.

Selena had already slipped into the court undeterred-no one in the media would recognize her as anyone connected to this case. As she approached the car again, Jordan got out and took the piece of paper she offered him. “Great,” he said.

“See you later.” She bent down to unbuckle Sam from the car seat as Jordan headed into the courthouse. As soon as one reporter saw him, there was a domino effect-flashbulbs burst like a string of fireworks; microphones were thrust in front of him. He pushed them away with one outstretched arm, muttered “No comment,” and hustled inside.

Peter had already been brought to the holding cell of the sheriff’s office, awaiting his appearance in court. He was pacing in a small circle, talking to himself, when Jordan was brought into the cell. “So today’s the day,” Peter said, a little nervous, a little breathless.

“Funny you should mention that,” Jordan said. “Do you remember why we’re here today?”

“Is this some kind of test?”

Jordan just stared at him.

“A probable cause hearing,” Peter said. “That’s what you told me last week.”

“Well. What I didn’t tell you is that we’re going to waive it.”

“Waive it?” Peter said. “What does that mean?”

“It means we fold before the hand’s even played,” Jordan replied. He handed Peter the piece of paper Selena had brought him in the car. “Sign it.”

Peter shook his head. “I want a new lawyer.”

“Anyone worth their salt is going to tell you the same thing-”

“What? To give up without even trying? You said-”

“I said I’d give you the best defense I can,” Jordan interrupted. “There’s already probable cause to believe that you committed a crime, since there are hundreds of witnesses claiming to have seen you shooting in the school that day. The issue isn’t whether or not you did it, Peter, it’s why you did it. Having a probable cause hearing today means they score a lot of points, and we score none-it would just be a way for the prosecution to release evidence to the media and the public before they get a chance to hear our side of the story.” He thrust the paper at Peter again. “Sign it.”

Peter met his gaze, fuming. Then he took the paper from Jordan, and a pen. “This sucks,” he said as he scrawled his signature.

“It would suck more if we did the probable cause hearing.” Jordan took the paper and left the cell, heading out of the sheriff’s office to give the waiver to the clerk. “I’ll see you in there.”

By the time he reached the courtroom, it was packed to the rafters. The media that had been allowed in stood in the back row, their cameras ready. Jordan sought out Selena-she was juggling Sam in the middle of the third row behind the prosecution’s table. So? she asked, a shorthand lift of her brows.

Jordan nodded the slightest bit. Done.

The judge presiding was inconsequential to him: someone who would rubber-stamp this process and turn it over to the court where Jordan would have to put on his dog-and-pony show. The Honorable David Iannucci: what Jordan remembered about him was that he had hair plugs, and when you appeared before him you had to do your absolute best to keep your eyes trained on his ferret-face instead of on the seeded line of his scalp.