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“You want to make it easier on me? Skip career day.”

And just like that, they were back to the beginning. “I can’t. You know that. I made a commitment. When you make a promise to someone, you follow through. That’s what honor is, and honor—and love—matter more than anything.”

“Yeah, yeah. Be all that you can be.”

“I won’t volunteer next year. How’s that?”

Betsy looked at her. “Promise?”

“I promise.” Jolene tried not to care that she’d finally drawn a reluctant smile out of her daughter by promising
not
to be a part of her life.

*   *   *

Career day was as bad as expected. Betsy had been mortified by Jolene’s appearance at the middle school. Jolene had tried to be as quiet as possible, modulating her voice carefully as she told the kids about the high school to flight school program she’d entered at eighteen. The kids had loved hearing about the missions she flew in state, like last year’s rescue of climbers on Mount Rainier during a blizzard. They questioned her about night-vision goggles and guns and combat training. Jolene tried to underplay everything, including the coolness of flying a Black Hawk, but all the while, she saw Betsy slinking downward in her seat, trying her best to disappear. At the end of the event, Betsy had been the first one out the door. On the other side of the gymnasium, Sierra and Zoe had pointed at Betsy and laughed.

Since then, Betsy had been even more hormonal and moody. She yelled; she cried; she rolled her eyes. She had stopped walking and begun stomping. Everywhere. In and out of rooms, up the stairs. Doors weren’t shut anymore; they were slammed. When the phone rang, she lunged for it. Invariably, she was disappointed when the call turned out to be for someone else. No one was calling her, which for a twelve-year-old was the equivalent of being stranded on an ice floe. Jolene might be overreacting, but she was worried about her daughter. Anything could set her off these days, send her spiraling into depression.

“And today is the first track meet. You know what that means. Potential humiliation. I’m worried,” she said to Michael that morning. He was beside her in bed, reading.

She waited for him to respond, but it quickly became apparent that he had nothing to say, or he wasn’t listening. “Michael?”

“What? Oh. That again. She’s fine, Jolene. Quit trying to control everything.” He put down his newspaper and got out of bed, heading into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Jolene sighed. As usual, she was on her own for family matters. She got out of bed and went for her run.

When she was finished, she took a shower and dressed quickly, tying her wet hair back in a ponytail as she awakened the girls. Downstairs, in the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of coffee and started breakfast. Blueberry pancakes.

“Morning,” Michael said from behind her.

She turned and looked at him.

He smiled, but it was tired and washed out, that smile; it didn’t reach his dark eyes. In fact, it wasn’t his smile at all, really, not the one that had coaxed her so completely into love once upon a time.

For a moment, she was struck by how good-looking he was. His black hair, still without a trace of gray at forty-five, was damp and wavy. He was the kind of man who drew attention; when Michael Zarkades walked into a room, everyone noticed—he knew it and loved it.

“You’ll make the track meet, right? I know how busy you are at work, and normally I get that you can’t come home, but just this once I think it’s important, okay? You know what a daddy’s girl she is,” she said.

Michael paused, the coffee cup inches from his mouth. “How many times are you going to remind me?”

She smiled. “I’m a little obsessive? What a surprise. It’s just that it’s important that you be there. On time. Betsy is fragile these days and I—”

Betsy shrieked “Mom!” and skidded into the kitchen. “Where’s my orange hoodie? I
need
it!”

Lulu ran up beside her, looking sleep-tousled, holding her yellow blanket. “Hoodie, hoodie.”

“Shut
up,
” Betsy screamed.

Lulu’s face crumpled. She shuffled over to the kitchen table and climbed up into her chair.

“I washed your good-luck hoodie, Betsy,” Jolene said. “I knew you’d need it.”

“Oh,” Betsy said, sagging a little in relief.

“Apologize to your sister,” Michael said from his place at the counter.

Betsy mumbled an apology while Jolene went to the laundry room and retrieved the hoodie—a gift from Michael that had become Betsy’s talisman. Jolene knew it wasn’t unrelated—the source of the gift and the magic that went with it. Betsy needed attention from her father, and sometimes the hoodie was all she got.

Betsy snatched the orange-sherbet-colored hoodie from Jolene and put it on.

Jolene saw how pale her daughter was, how shaky. She glanced over at Michael, to see if he’d noticed, but he had gone back to reading the newspaper. He was in the room with them but completely apart. How long had it been that way? she suddenly wondered.

Betsy went to the table and sat down.

Jolene patted Betsy’s shoulder. “I bet you’re excited about the meet. I talked to your coach and he said—”

“You
talked
to my coach?”

Jolene paused, drew her hand back. Obviously she’d gone wrong again. “He said you’d been doing great at practice.”

“Unbelievable.” Betsy shook her head and stared down at the two pancakes on her plate, with their blueberry eyes and syrup mouth.

“I want pancake men,” Lulu yelled, irritated not to be the center of attention.

“It’s natural to be nervous, Bets,” Jolene said. “But I’ve seen you run. You’re the best sprinter on the JV team.”

Betsy glared up at her. “I am
not
the best. You just say that because you’re my mom. It’s, like, a rule or something.”

“The only rule that I have is to love you,” Jolene said, “and I do. And I’m proud of you, Betsy. It’s scary to put yourself out there in life, to take a chance. I’m proud of you for trying. We all are,” she said pointedly, her words aimed at Michael, who stood by the counter, reading his paper. Beside him, tacked to the wall, was Jolene’s calendar that listed everything she needed to do this week, and everywhere she needed to be. TRACK MEET was written in bold red on today’s date.

Betsy followed Jolene’s look. “Will you be at the meet, Dad? It starts at three thirty.”

A silence followed, a waiting. How long did it last? A second? A minute? Jolene prayed that he would look up, flash that charming smile, and make a promise.

“Michael,” she said sharply. She knew how important his job was, and she respected his dedication. She rarely asked him to show up to any family event, but this first track meet mattered.

He looked up, irritated by her tone. “What?”

“Betsy reminded you about her track meet. It’s at three thirty today.”

“Oh, right.” He put down his newspaper and there it was, the smile that had swept so many women, including Jolene, off their feet. He gave it to Betsy, full power, his handsome face crinkling in good humor. “How could I forget my princess’s big day?”

Betsy’s smile overtook her small, pale face, showing off her braces and big, crooked teeth.

He walked over to the table, leaned down, and kissed the top of Betsy’s head and ruffled Lulu’s black hair and kept moving toward the door, grabbing his coat off the back of the chair and his briefcase off the tile counter.

Betsy beamed under his attention. “Did you know—”

He left the house, the door snapping shut behind him, snipping Betsy’s sentence in half.

She slumped forward, a rag doll emptied of stuffing.

“He didn’t hear you,” Jolene said. “You know what it’s like when he has to catch the ferry.”

“He should have his hearing checked,” Betsy said, shoving her plate aside.

Four

Michael stood at his office window, staring out. On this cold, gray day, Seattle simmered beneath a heavy lid of clouds. Rain obscured the view, softened the hard steel edges of the high-rise buildings. Far below, messengers on bicycles darted in and out through traffic like hummingbirds.

Behind him, his intercom buzzed.

He went back to answer it. “Hey, Ann. What’s up?”

“An Edward Keller is on the phone.”

“Do I know him?”

“Not to my knowledge. But he says it’s urgent.”

“Put him through.” Michael sat down behind his desk. Urgent calls from strangers were a fixture of criminal defense.

The phone rang; he picked it up.

“Michael Zarkades,” he said simply.

“Thank you for taking my call, Mr. Zarkades. I understand you’re my son’s court-appointed attorney.”

“Who is your son?”

“Keith Keller. He was arrested for killing his wife.”

The case Judge Runyon had assigned to Bill. “Right, Mr. Keller. I was just getting up to speed on the facts of the case.” He rifled through the piles of papers and folders on his desk, looking for the Keller file. When he found it, he said, “Oh, right. In fact, I have an appointment with your son today at two.”

Two o’clock.

Shit.

The track meet.

“I’m worried about him, sir. He won’t talk to me. I’d like to come in and talk to you, if you don’t mind. You need to know what a good kid he is.”

Murder notwithstanding
. “I’m sure I’ll need to talk to you soon, Mr. Keller,” Michael said. “But I need to speak with my client first. Did you give my secretary your number?”

“I did.”

“Good.”

“Mr. Zarkades? He is a good kid. I don’t know why he did it.”

Michael wished he hadn’t said that last sentence. “I’ll get back to you, Mr. Keller. Thanks.”

Michael hung up the phone and glanced at his watch. It was 12:27. He’d forgotten about this appointment with Keller—he should have cancelled it because of the track meet.

He still could. Or he could go early. It wasn’t like Keller had a full social calendar.

He looked at his watch again. If he left now, he could be at the jail by 12:45, interview his new client, and still make the 2:05 ferry.

*   *   *

The room in the King County jail was dank and dreary. There was no
CSI
two-way mirror on the wall; instead, there was a pair of green, banged-up light fixtures hanging above a desk that had been marked up through years of use and a small metal trash can in the corner. Nothing that could be used as a weapon. The table legs were bolted to the concrete floor.

Michael sat in the chair across the table from his new client, Keith Keller, who was young, with short blond hair and the kind of build that hinted at either steroids or obsessive weight lifting. His cheekbones were sharp and his lips looked like he’d been biting at them.

The wall clock kept a steady record of the minutes that passed in silence.

Well, not silence.

Keith sat as still as a stone, his gray eyes strangely—disturbingly—blank.

They’d been sitting here alone, the two of them, for over thirty-five minutes. Keith hadn’t said a word, but the kid breathed loudly, a rattling, phlegmy kind of breathing.

Michael glanced at the clock, again—1:21—and then down at the paperwork on the wooden table in front of him. All he had so far was the arrest report, and it wasn’t nearly enough upon which to base a defense. According to the police, Keith had gone on a rampage, shooting up everything until his neighbors called for help. When the police arrived, Keith barricaded himself in his house for hours. At some point in all of this, he’d—allegedly—shot his wife in the head. The report indicated that he’d threatened to kill himself before the SWAT team captured him.

It didn’t make sense. Keller was twenty-four and a half years old, with an unblemished record. Unlike most of Michael’s clients, Keller had never been arrested for anything before this, not even shoplifting as a teen. He’d graduated from high school, joined the Marines, and been honorably discharged. Then he’d gotten a job. He had no known gang affiliations, no history of drug abuse.

“I need to understand what happened, Keith.”

Keith stared at the same spot on the wall that had held his attention for three-quarters of the last hour.

And that awful, shuddering breathing.

Michael sighed and looked at his watch. If the kid didn’t want to help himself, that was his business. Michael had to leave right now or he’d miss the ferry—and the start of the track meet. “Fine, Keith. I’m going to ask the court for a psych eval on you. You won’t be competent to stand trial if you can’t participate in your own defense. Would you rather be in a psychiatric hospital than the jail? It’s your choice.”

Still, nothing.

He waited another moment, hoping for a response. Getting nothing from his client, he stood up and gathered his files. “I’m on your side, Keith. Remember that.”

Putting his papers in his briefcase, he closed it up, grabbed the handle, and went toward the door. He was just about to push the button for the guard when Keith spoke.

“Why bother? I’m guilty.”

Michael stopped. Of all the things the kid could have said, that was probably the least productive. A criminal defense attorney didn’t actually want to know that—it limited the defenses he could offer. He turned around slowly, expected to see Keith looking at him, but the kid was staring at his own fingers, as if the secret to immortality lay in the dirty nail beds. “When you say guilty…”

“I shot her in the head.” His voice broke on that. He looked up. Michael had grown used to grief, and he saw it in the young man’s eyes. “Why would you be on my side?”

Shit.

Now he had to explain the attorney-client relationship and the idea of American jurisprudence, the whole innocent-until-proven-guilty thing. He looked down at his watch. 1:37. There was no way he was going to make the start of the track meet, but he could be late, couldn’t he?

He went back to the desk and sat down, pulling a pad and paper out of his briefcase. “Let me explain how this works…”