“And?” Barry waited for more, testing my competence. And patience.

“I asked who he thought may be involved, who was violent enough to perpetrate the hate crimes pictured on his walls, and why he had the pictures if he didn’t do it. He said he didn’t know who was violent enough, claimed he wasn’t close to many people. He maintained the only thing he’s guilty of is being a fan of the handiwork because he believes in their racial cause . . . which is why he kept the photos and taped them up in his living room. My gut churned the whole time I met with him, Bar. Something is so off here. I hate the taste of this case.”

I took a long breath. “Oh, I also asked if he was in a relationship, and he said he had an on-again/off-again thing going. When I asked if I could question her and politely asked for her name, he clammed up. Said he was done for the day.”

“So, nobody? No other leads in his defense?”

“He made out like he was a loner, other than hanging in bars and sleeping around with this part-time mystery woman. I don’t know . . . something doesn’t add up. If he didn’t do it, he’s covering for someone.”

“Who do men cover for?” Barry asked, looking up from his notes.

“Women, but he’s not budging about sharing.”

“Power of pussy,” Barry said with a smirk.

My gaze glued to my notes, I abruptly changed the subject. “Now, what do we need to do this week?”

We spent the next twenty minutes strategizing, going over the rest of my notes from visiting our client in jail. I’d spent some time chatting with the guards and learning what our client had been up to on the inside, and that too had left me feeling irked. I was told he’d gotten in tight with some of the other white supremacists in the jail population, and I didn’t like how much swagger he seemed to have developed since then. I needed to spend some time later in the week investigating what was going on with that.

“Pretty sure he’s going to post bail,” Barry said. “The judge didn’t deny it, and I think his neighbors started a defense fund for him, which is crazy since he’s relying on public defense. You’re probably wondering why wouldn’t they pay for some hot-shot attorney instead? Believe me, I’ve seen it all—”

“Unless he has some other grand plan?” I interrupted him, anxious to get the whole case wrapped up and finished.

Wishful thinking.

“No, I don’t think so, just thinking aloud. He did live in the crappy apartment and had no job, so he really may not be able to afford anything else. I don’t think anyone wants to take it on pro bono. They know the police must have some tight evidence. But still, the whole thing reeks of something foul, but we’ll do what we’re paid to. Provide a fair defense.”

“But why does he want us?” I asked. “I think you’re on to something,”

“Eh, I’ve seen these types of pricks. They think they’re going to get a made-for-TV movie or whatever, and wait around for some fancy defense attorney to take their case pro bono. He’s biding his time, fixing his story, making friends and cleaning out his enemies. In other words, glossing shit up, Aly. He thinks he’s going to be a movie star, letting everyone in America hear his gospel.” Barry rolled his eyes and turned back to his newspaper, dismissing both my train of thought and me with a chin lift.

Walking back to my office, I debated mentioning my concern to Barry, but decided against it. I was competent enough to handle this on my own. As I slid into my desk chair, my foot bumped against the hydrangea. Its scent reminded me of the man who sent it, sending waves of an unfamiliar feeling up and down my spine. Want? Need? Hunger?

God, Aly. You’re losing it.

Jake Wrigley was one step above a criminal, and I was a public defender who believed in justice. He drove a fancy car, and spent Christmas in jail for a bar fight. Honest to God, something was messed up there. But what did he mean when he said, “The girl’s not around anymore”?

And what did that have to do with me? And my legs?

The way he looked at me that night in jail, I felt like he was a giant mountain lion and I was his prey. A kitten falling for a big cat, and I was pretty sure that didn’t end well. Yet I couldn’t stop myself from Googling “Jake Wrigley and Fizzle Fitness” under the pretense of getting a phone number and leaving a message to thank him for the hydrangea.

What I didn’t expect was to have several pages of results come up on Fizzle Fitness. Like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, I couldn’t stop from clicking on each and every link. There were two locations plus a third on the way, and review after review about how Fizzle was the “it” place to work out.

Apparently they had state-of-the-art locker rooms and equipment, the best staff, and the hottest fitness instructors. Is that even a thing? Yelp loved Fizzle, the Pitt students claimed it was the place to be seen, and even out in the suburbs, the stay-at-home moms couldn’t get enough of their superstar trainer, Anthony. Photos of “Toned Tony’s” wicked gleaming smile and bulging biceps littered the page.

Geez, their Facebook page had some thirty thousand likes. Did everyone in Pittsburgh work out at Fizzle except for me? I’d heard of it years ago, but it was like a cult or something now.

I scrolled through the ABOUT US page on their website.

Owner Jake Wrigley, a highly regarded baseball player while studying sports management at the University of Pittsburgh, has always been into fitness.

That pretty much jibed with what he’d told me. What he didn’t say was that he employed a half dozen trainers at each location, plus a fabulously fit and peppy front desk staff, and a small army of spinning, yoga, and Zumba instructors. Bess Wrigley was listed as the company’s web developer, and I was curious how she was related to the man in question. I felt like I’d heard her name before.

Then right there smiling at me from the center of one page was a photo of the ever-present bubbly blond cheerleader, Camper Shure, their marketing director. The girl’s photo mocked me, her affluence and perkiness evident in her perfectly straight white smile. Her eyes told me she was a satisfied woman; by her boss, no less. But he claimed she was “no more.”

My God! I dropped my head into my hands. How could he be ogling my legs when he spent all day around fit, gorgeous women? I ran stairs and jogged around the track. I didn’t do Zumba or even know how to work an elliptical.

My manners urging me to call and say thank-you warred with my insecurities. There was no way I could compete with the beauties who paraded through his life, day in and day out, and I didn’t even know if I wanted to. I felt myself reaching for my cell phone despite my heart pounding out a staccato beat against my silk blouse, and my head aching from thinking too hard.

“Fizzle Fitness, city location,” a perky voice said. “Are you ready to get pumped today?”

I imagined it was the tall, lanky one with shiny, straight brown hair I’d seen in the website photos who answered the phone.

“Hello, I was hoping to leave a voice mail for Mr. Wrigley.”

“Um, hold on one sec!” Ms. Pep-in-her-step said.

I sat there listening to the Katy Perry blaring in my ears while I was on hold, chiding myself for being an idiot, and urging myself to hit END CALL.

Peppy Girl came back on the line. “Mr. Wrigley doesn’t use his voice mail, and he’s over at the new site. Is this important? Can I help you?”

“It’s no big deal, perhaps I’ll try again—”

“Oh, wait!” she blurted, interrupting me, then it sounded as if she put her hand over the phone, but I could still hear her clearly. “Jake! Phone’s for you, wanted to leave you a message. I didn’t tell her you didn’t know how to work your voice mail or even set it up.” She laughed, her voice going all breathy, and even through the phone I could tell she was flirting with her boss.