I can’t bring myself to read any of the mail, especially the sympathy cards. They’re only a comfort to people who don’t know anyone who died.

I poke at a pink card on the top of the mail, and the tower topples over. It fans out across my desk, revealing at its center a bulky manila envelope bearing my name scrawled in pen.

Odd.

Miss Pershing’s sheared the top off the envelope, and so neatly that there’s barely any tearing. I open it. Inside is a piece of blue notepaper which saysFROM THE DESK OF JACKIE O at the top and reads:

Mary-

I cleaned out Brent’s desk. Thank you for everything, and for being so good to Brent. You may need this.

Love, Jack

Stuck in the envelope is Brent’s rubber-band gun. I smile, and am trying not to cry, when I remember the notes.

The notes! Brent kept them for me. Where are they?

I ransack my desk, but they’re not there. I rush out to Miss Pershing’s desk, and she watches, aghast, as I slam through the drawers. They’re all empty except for typing paper and Stalling letter-head.

Where are the notes? Brent would have put them someplace safe. He took care of me.

I run back to my office and call Jack, but he’s not at home. I leave a message, asking him to call back. I feel panicked. It doesn’t make sense that Jack would take them, but maybe he’ll know where they are. I still have my hand on the telephone receiver when it rings, jangling in my palm.

“DiNunzio?” barks Starankovic. His voice has a Monday-morning-I’m-refreshed punch to it. “You changed your number? I had to go through the switchboard.”

“I’m sorry-”

“When are the interviews?”

I cringe. I’d totally forgotten. “My secretary-”

“Don’t blame it on him, DiNunzio. Set ’em up today or I file the motion.”

“Bernie-”

Click.

I hang up the phone by the pile of disordered mail. I should straighten it up. It’s the Next Thing to do and I should do it. Dictate, return phone calls, back-fuck. I pick up an envelope, a white hand-delivery from Thomas, Main amp; Chandler, the third firm in the holy trinity. It must be a response to a motion I filed last week. Last week, when Brent was telling me to call the cops.

What did the Mike-voice say?I tried. I tried.

I put the envelope back down, feeling empty inside. Hollow. Aching. Exactly how I felt after Mike died, and how I was beginning not to feel before Brent was killed. I let the leaden sensation leech into my bones, into my soul. A little white pillowcase of a soul that turned black the instant of my birth, and even blacker when the men I love were killed on my account.

Suddenly, someone is clearing his throat directly above me. I look up into the bland visage of Martin H. Chatham IV.

“How do you tolerate it?” he says, with as much emotion as I’ve ever heard from him.

“Stand what?”

“That blasted clock!” Martin sits down in one of the Stalling-issue chairs in front of my desk and crosses his legs.

I look over my shoulder. 9:15. “You get used to it. Sort of.”

“I don’t see how. But you’ll be vacating this office after June,n’est-ce pas? When we make our new litigation partners.” His tone is oh-so-controlled, but I’m in no mood to fence.

“I hope so.”

“Come on, Mary. We both know you’re on track.”

“I am? I guess I haven’t thought about it lately.”

Martin’s face changes, as if he’s remembered his manners. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry about your secretary.”

“Thank you.”

“Damn drunk drivers. It’s a terrible way to go.”

I flash on the car as it explodes into Brent’s body. And Mike’s. I feel stunned.

Martin tosses some papers onto my desk. “Here are a couple of deposition notices inHarbison’s. They’re for the two supervisors, Breslin and Grayboyes.”

I should call him on it, but I feel upset, off balance. I bear down and say the Next Thing. “I talked to Starankovic. It’s taken care of.”

He looks mildly surprised. “Did you postpone them?”

“Yes. Starankovic wants to take some employee interviews. I told him I’d think about it.”

“I know you. You won’t let him do that.”

“I won’t?”

“You? Voluntarily expose your employees to interviews with the enemy, without benefit of counsel? So that they can say anything? It goes against all those hot-blooded instincts of yours, even if there is precedent for it.”

“He’s going to file a motion if we don’t consent.”

“Bah! Is the man a glutton for punishment?” Martin can always tap into the our-team-kicked-ass mentality that flows like blood at Stalling.

“He might win it. Even if he doesn’t, it’ll cost Harbison’s more to fight the motion than it will to let him do the interviews.”

“Money’s no object, Mary, when it’s the client’s.”

I don’t bother forcing a smile.

“By the by, I understand you’ll be handling the new age case for Harbison’s. The plaintiff’s named Hart, right?” He gets up, tugging at suspenders needlepointed with flying owls.

“Right.”

“Sam wasn’t sure you were ready, but I told him it was time we gave you a case of your own. If you need a hand, let me know. I’ll keep it to myself,” he says with a wink.

He’s about to leave when Ned suddenly sticks his head in the doorway. His jacket is off and one hand is hidden behind his back. “Mary?” he says, in the split second before he spots Martin.

“Young Waters!” Martin booms. “What brings you up to this neck of the woods?”

“I thought I’d stop in to see Mary.” Ned beams at me from the doorway. His smile says, We’re lovers now.

I can’t help but return the smile. I feel it too. Bonded to him invisibly, by virtue of the fact that he’s been that close. When there’s not many who have.

Martin tugs at Ned’s shirtsleeve like an insistent child. “Haven’t seen much of you lately at the club.”

“No. I haven’t been there.”

“Working hard or hardly working?”

“I just haven’t had a chance to sail much yet this spring.”

“Too bad. I got out on Sunday. Had a beautiful day, a beautiful day. You’re welcome along anytime. Alida would love another lesson,” he says, with measurable warmth. His hand rests on Ned’s shoulder. “She’s darn good for a sixteen-year-old, don’t you agree?”

“She’s good,” Ned says.

Martin turns to me. “Waters here taught Alida more in one afternoon than that school in Annapolis did all last summer.” He slaps Ned on the back. “How about this Sunday, my man? What are you doing this weekend? Why don’t you head over for brunch? We’ll spend all afternoon on the water. What do you say?”

“Uh, I’m busy.” Ned flashes me a grin. His eyes are bright, and his look is undisguised. “I have big plans.”

Martin looks from Ned to me. His smile fades slowly. “Do my eyes deceive me?”

“It depends on what they’re telling you,” Ned says, with a laugh.

“Ned-” I’m not sure how to finish the sentence. I don’t want Ned telling Martin about us. Not when I’m about to break us up, at least temporarily.

“What?” Ned asks, smiling. “Don’t you want to tell the world? I do.”

Martin looks back and forth between us again. “Say it ain’t so, Joe,” he says.

I’m not sure I like Martin’s tone. Neither does Ned, who bristles. “Something wrong, Martin?”

“With you and DiNunzio?” Martin asks. “Of course not. I’m surprised, that’s all.”

“So am I,” Ned answers lightly. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

I shoot Ned a warning glance.

Martin pats Ned’s shoulder. “Don’t take offense, Waters.”

“None taken,” Ned says abruptly, brushing past Martin to me. “Now if you’ll excuse us.” He whips his hand out from behind his back, but it’s covered by a gray wool jacket. The jacket conceals something huge, almost as big as his arm.

Martin clears his throat behind Ned. “Well. It looks like you won’t be needing me.”

“I can handle it from here,” Ned calls back, and Martin closes the door. Ned beams at me. “Guess what the bulge is. And it’s not that I’m happy to see you, even though I am happy to see you.”