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TWENTY-THREE

ANOTHER CONFERENCE ROOM FOR Rob Jacobson and me. Flashing back to the first trial, at the courthouse in Riverhead, I can’t remember a single time I felt better about things when walking out of a room like this than when I walked in.

“We need to make this quick,” I say to him. “I’m jet-lagged, I need a hot bath, and then I need a hot meal with the man of my dreams.”

“Dr. Dolittle,” Jacobson says.

“Funny,” I say, “since Ben thinks I’m the one who talks to the animals.”

“Ouch,” Jacobson says. “And here I thought I still had a chance to be the man of your dreams.”

“Only in your dreams,” I say. “Now please focus, Rob. What about Brigid?”

He hesitates, somehow looking at everything in the room except me.

“There’s no easy way for me to tell you this,” he says finally. Still not looking at me. “But we’re seeing each other again. She wanted me to be the one to tell you. And to tell you at the same time the subject is not up for discussion.”

I’m not sure what he thinks my reaction will be. I’m not disappointed in him. There’s nothing more he can do to disappoint me. I am disappointed in my sister. She’s shown shockingly bad taste. What’s more, she knows this man’s history with women, the younger the better.

That she won’t even discuss this with me feels like catching a break.

“Aren’t you going to say something?”

I put my hands on the table between us and push off it. It takes all the strength I have left in me to get to my feet.

“Just do me one favor.”

“Anything,” he says.

“Try not to hurt her.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean with the ankle monitor, dumb-ass,” I say with a twinkle, and head out.

A probation officer is standing just outside the door.

“He’s all yours,” I say.

I’m about to cross Main Street when I see Dr. Ben. I come to a dead stop. He’s talking to someone whose back is to me.

Guy in a hoodie.

My breath comes out of me like air coming out of a punctured tire, remembering the last time I exited the courthouse and saw a hoodie just like this one.

Despite being as worn out as I am, I’m running across Main, toward the parking lot and Ben’s Range Rover.

As I get to the car, the guy turns around, pulls the hood from his head, sticks out his hand.

“Hi, I’m Edmund McKenzie,” he says. “I wanted to meet the asshole who’s still defending Rob Jacobson.”

“I heard you were missing,” I said.

“Who told you that?” McKenzie says.

Ben steps away from the Range Rover. “Problem?” he asks.

“I’ve got this,” I tell him, motioning with my hand that he’s to stay where he is. To McKenzie I say, “Get out of my way.”

He puts up his hands. “No problem,” he says. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

He still hasn’t moved.

“Have you ever been raped?” he asks.

He winks at me. Then he walks away. I can hear him whistling.