Page 92 of The Right to Remain

“Never. But most women go to a shorter style sooner or later. It’s part of growing up. Notice I didn’t say ‘getting old.’”

“I guess that’s true.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Yes. I like it.”

“I wanted you to love it.”

Righley stood on the bar stool. “I love it!”

“I loveit too,” said Jack, as he lowered Righley back into the seat. “It’s just going to take some getting used to.”

“I’m already used to it,” said Andie. Then she swiped at her hair, the way she would when it was long, but there was nothing on her shoulder.

“You missed!” said Righley, and Jack snorted with laughter.

“Okay, it might take a little time,” said Andie, smiling. Then she checked the clock on the wall. “It’s someone’s bedtime.”

Righley groaned, but Andie promised to lie in the bed with her until she fell asleep, so she went peacefully. Jack grabbed a few beers from the refrigerator, put them in a bucket of ice, and stepped outside to relax in an Adirondack chair on the patio. Max went with him. Their little house on Key Biscayne had virtually no front yard, and the back wasn’t much either, except that they lived on the waterfront, which meant that the entire bay was their backyard. At night the gentle waves glistened in the moonlight, and the lights of Miami Beach twinkled in the distance. Jack wouldn’t have traded it for anything. Lawyer by day, “Key Rat” by night. He was chilling and on his second bottle of beer when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. The incoming number was no cause for celebration, but he couldn’t ignore it. Julianna Weller was on the line.

“To what do I owe the honor of a Friday evening call from the prosecution?” asked Jack.

“Helena Pollard is selling her house.”

“Sorry, but I’m happy where I live,” said Jack, stealing one more glance at the bay.

The attempted humor fell flat.

“The realtor is planning to stage the property on Monday. Movers are coming this weekend, the walls are getting a new coat of paint, and the floors will be polished. If the defense wants to take photographs orvideo, or if you just want to look around and take measurements, I’m giving you the courtesy of one last opportunity to inspect the house as it was on the night of Owen Pollard’s death. Are you interested?”

“When can I get in?”

“I can have someone from my office meet you there tomorrow at eight a.m. You need to be out by nine.”

“Thanks,” said Jack. “I’ll be there.”

Chapter 33

Jack picked up Theo on the way to the Pollard residence. His regular photographer was unavailable on short notice, and Theo was as good as anyone in a pinch. In theory.

“I want just a few specific photographs,” said Jack, handing him a list.

“What, no selfies? I take great ones. It’s the LeBron James wingspan.” He jutted his arm out the passenger-side window and snapped one as they passed a pack of Saturday morning cyclists who had turned the parkway into the Tour de France.

“The list, Theo. Stick to it.”

The Pollards lived on a quiet, tree-lined street in an older neighborhood where, as a kid, Jack would ride his bike on his way to the Dairy Queen. Most of the old ranch-style houses had been razed and replaced by the latest architectural rage in South Florida, giant concrete-and-glass cubes with flat roofs and all the personality of an office building. Others, like the Pollards’, had been renovated to add a second story, leaving a decent-sized yard.

Jack parked on the street, where they waited for the prosecutor to arrive.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” asked Theo.

His tone seemed uncharacteristically serious. “Sure you can,” said Jack.

“If there was something I needed to tell you but asked you to swear on your life that you would never tell Andie, what would you do?”

It was a complicated question from someone who had literallytrusted Jack with his life and was his most trusted friend ever since. Jack wanted to give a thoughtful answer. “I think it would depend,” said Jack.