“It’s six-thirty in the morning!” Lightner suddenly realizes. “Who calls somebody at six-thirty in the morning? On a Saturday?”

“I do, Joel. You were saying about your report?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“The report says I’m an asshole? I already knew that.”

Joel doesn’t sound amused. I hear the sound of glasses unfolding and making their way onto his nose. “He . . . fuck . . . I e-mailed this to you, but I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you, so I’ll just read it to you at six-fucking-thirty in the morning.” A loud sigh. Poor guy, he was sleeping. “Right, address checks out, employment checks out, no criminal record with a full workup, credit cards, checking account, never married, no kids, one brother, went to Princeton High but doesn’t look like he graduated, and he’s been a grease monkey ever since.”

He makes yet another morning noise. A new one. He may have broken wind.

“Did our grease monkey look like a serial killer to your guy?” I ask. “A butcher of women? A sociopath?”

“He didn’t say. Can I go back to sleep now?”

So James checked out. He is who he said he is. So far, everything he’s told me that I can confirm has been the truth. Maybe I was getting worked up for nothing.

“Sweet dreams, sugar pie,” I say, punching out the phone.

23.

Jason

Saturday, June 15

“Hey there.” Alexa shows up at my door ready to go in an ice-blue running shirt that matches her eyes, black shorts, and Nikes. What’s not to like about a sexy woman in athletic clothes?

I keep my tongue in my mouth and say, “Hey. Want to come in?”

“Sure.”

I grab the new running shoes I purchased at Runner’s High and lace them up. “That was fun last night,” I say.

“Good. I thought so, too.”

I focus on my shoes and wait for a shoe of another kind to drop. But it doesn’t. I look up at her. “Hey, sorry I bolted like that last night.”

“No worries.” She waves me off. “Nice house,” she says.

There’s not much to see in the foyer. I live in a typical city town house, at least in this neighborhood: narrow and vertical, three stories. Other than a small back room, the only things on the ground level are the foyer and staircase. Which, for the record, was murder when I had one knee that didn’t work.

“You want a tour, or do you want to hit it?”

“Let’s hit it,” she says. “I can have a tour later. If you play your cards right.”

Nice. Dangle a carrot in front of the man. Well played.

“Remember, all I can do is walk,” I remind her.

“I’ll try to slow down for you.”

Nice again. This one is going to keep me on my toes.

We head east and then cut up north to Ash, which will take us to the lakefront. It’s not quite as hot today, and the brisk lake winds provide even more relief. The sun is high, the birds are chirping, I’m getting a good sweat, the beach is filled with volleyball players, the promenade with runners and bikers and skateboarders, my knee doesn’t hurt at all, and I’m walking with a woman who gives men whiplash. The world is in balance. For another ninety minutes, that is.

“You thought I’d be pissed off that you left last night,” she says to me between breaths. We’re doing a decent pace for a walk.

“I wasn’t sure. I said I’d stay and I didn’t.”

“I don’t smother people,” she says. “That’s not how I roll.”

“That’s not how you roll, huh?”

“Not how I roll.” She’s rolling along quite well right now, I have to say. I’m tempted to tell her to slow down, but then I’d be admitting I can’t keep up, and that’s not how I roll.

We stop about two miles down, close to where we started our walk along the beach last night. We sit for a moment on one of the steps down to the beach.

“Is this okay for you?” she asks.

“Sure, great.”

“Don’t be a guy. You had knee surgery. It’s okay to say it hurts or we need to slow down or whatever.”

Actually, it feels better than I expected, so I get up and start the walk back home. She hops back up and joins me again.

“You are such a guy,” she says.

I’d argue if I could. The hike back is just as enjoyable. I miss adrenaline and sweat as much as I miss mobility. It’s nice to know I’ve turned a corner.

When we get back to my town house, we walk in silently and head up the stairs. The tour isn’t much of one. We skip the second floor, a typical open-floor layout of kitchen and great room, and head straight up to the bedroom. She smells like sweat, and her moist, salty skin tastes like it. I ease her out of her running shirt and shorts, leaving only a running bra and undies. All good. She goes to work on me and we saddle up for round two.

It’s better than the first time, as I expected, more familiar and decisive, less hesitant, and I let out a loud moan into her mouth, our teeth clacking, when it’s over. We lie exhausted, panting like animals, for a long time before she suggests a shower is in order. At first, I take it as an insult, but then I realize she’s talking about a shower for two.

When we have carefully ensured each other’s cleanliness—and that would include round number three, thank you—we collapse on the bed. We lie there quietly for a time, Alexa’s breathing dissolving into faint, rhythmic sighs. I ease my arm out from under her and walk to the bathroom. I open the cabinet beneath the sink, reach for the box of allergy medicine, and pop out a pill and chew it up. Then I cup some water out of the sink to swallow the granular remnants.

I rejoin her, trying to ease back into our position, but I awaken her. She adjusts herself so her head is on my chest, her fingers drawing on my abdomen. I close my eyes, and within minutes, the euphoria spreads through my veins.

“So you’re an old-fashioned girl,” I say. I’m wondering in what era they did some of the things we did in that shower.

“I am old-fashioned,” she says into my chest. “I want my man to be happy.”

“So I’m your man, am I?”

“If you’re okay with that. But if you aren’t, no problem. No pressure. Really.” She remains motionless, like she’s holding her breath.

I run my fingers over her back. My eyes dance beneath my eyelids. I am swimming in goodness.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m more than okay.”

24.

Shauna

Sunday, June 16

I fish around my desk looking for the transcript. “Where’s the Flynn dep?” I ask.

Bradley John is on the couch in my office reviewing another deposition. He’s been with us over a year now, and is four-plus years removed from law school. He may look like a teenage rock star with that goofy hair, but he works as hard as anyone I know. He works as hard as me.

“I have it on the system,” he says, gesturing to the laptop computer resting beside him. He looks up at me. “But you want a hard copy.”

He knows me well by now. Technology has created a sea change in the practice of law, but when I’m preparing for trial by reviewing deposition transcripts, I want them in my hand, with my notes scribbled in the margins and Post-it tabs sticking out everywhere.

“Jason would have a copy,” I say. I push myself out of my chair. My trial is about three weeks away, and I’m pretty much there in terms of the big-picture prep, but now we’re getting down to the microscopic level, the nuance. “And where is our Mr. Kolarich, I wonder?” I say aloud. Jason hasn’t been in the whole weekend. I know what he’d say: We have plenty of time. But I make mistakes when I rush things, and he probably does, too. We aren’t flying by the seat of our pants in this trial. Rory Arangold’s company is depending on it.