As the ferry slowed, Michael got up and collected his papers, putting the deposition back in the black lambskin briefcase. He hadn’t even looked at it. Merging into the crowd, he made his way down the stairs to the car deck. In minutes, he was driving off the ferry and pulling up to the Smith Tower, once the tallest building west of New York and now an aging, gothic footnote to a city on the rise.

At Zarkades, Antham, and Zarkades, on the ninth floor, everything was old—floors, windows in need of repair, too many layers of paint—but, like the building itself, there was history here, and beauty. A wall of windows overlooked Elliott Bay and the great orange cranes that loaded containers onto tankers. Some of the biggest and most important criminal trials in the past twenty years had been defended by Theo Zarkades, from these very offices. At gatherings of the bar association, other lawyers still spoke of his father’s ability to persuade a jury with something close to awe.

“Hey, Michael,” the receptionist said, smiling up at him.

He waved and kept walking, past the earnest paralegals, tired legal secretaries, and ambitious young associates. Everyone smiled at him, and he smiled back. At the corner office—previously his father’s and now his—he stopped to talk to his secretary. “Good morning, Ann.”

“Good morning, Michael. Bill Antham wanted to see you.”

“Okay. Tell him I’m in.”

“You want some coffee?”

“Yes, thanks.”

He went into his office, the largest one in the firm. A huge window looked out over Elliott Bay; that was really the star of the room, the view. Other than that, the office was ordinary—bookcases filled with law books, a wooden floor scarred by decades of wear, a pair of overstuffed chairs, a black suede sofa. A single family photo sat next to his computer, the only personal touch in the space.

He tossed his briefcase onto the desk and went to the window, staring out at the city his father had loved. In the glass, he saw a ghostly image of himself—wavy black hair, strong, squared jaw, dark eyes. The image of his father as a younger man. But had his father ever felt so tired and drained?

Behind him, there was a knock, and then the door opened. In walked Bill Antham, the only other partner in the firm, once his father’s best friend. In the months since Dad’s death, Bill had aged, too. Maybe they all had.

“Hey, Michael,” he said, limping forward, reminding Michael with each step that he was well past retirement age. In the last year, he’d gotten two new knees.

“Have a seat, Bill,” Michael said, indicating the chair closest to the desk.

“Thanks.” He sat down. “I need a favor.”

Michael returned to his desk. “Sure, Bill. What can I do for you?”

“I was in court yesterday, and I got tapped by Judge Runyon.”

Michael sighed and sat down. It was common for criminal defense attorneys to be assigned cases by the court—it was the old if you require an attorney and cannot afford one bit. Judges often assigned a case to whatever lawyer happened to be there when it came up. “What’s the case?”

“A man killed his wife. Allegedly. He barricaded himself in his house and shot her in the head. SWAT team dragged him out before he could kill himself. TV filmed a bunch of it.”

A guilty client who had been caught on TV. Perfect. “And you want me to handle the case for you.”

“I wouldn’t ask … but Nancy and I are leaving for Mexico in two weeks.”

“Of course,” Michael said. “No problem.”

Bill’s gaze moved around the room. “I still expect to find him in here,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Michael said.

They looked at each other for a moment, both remembering the man who had made such an impact on their lives. Then Bill stood, thanked Michael again, and left.

After that, Michael dove into his work, letting it consume him. He spent hours buried in depositions and police reports and briefs. He had always had a strong work ethic and an even stronger sense of duty. In the rising tide of grief, work had become his life ring.

At three o’clock, Ann buzzed him on the intercom. “Michael? Jolene is on line one.”

“Thanks, Ann.”

“You did remember that it’s her birthday today, right?”

Shit.

He pushed back from his desk and grabbed the phone. “Hey, Jo. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

She didn’t scold him for forgetting, although she knew he had. Jolene had the tightest grip on her emotions of anyone he’d ever seen, and she never ever let herself get mad. He sometimes wondered if a good fight would help their marriage, but it took two to fight. “I’ll make it up to you. How about dinner at that place above the marina? The new place?”

Before she could offer some resistance (which she always did if something wasn’t her idea), he said, “Betsy is old enough to watch Lulu for two hours. We’ll only be a mile away from home.”

It was an argument that had been going on for almost a year now. Michael thought a twelve-year-old could babysit; Jolene disagreed. As with everything in their life, Jolene’s vote was the one that counted. He was used to it … and sick of it.

“I know how busy you are with the Woerner case,” she said. “How about if I feed the girls early and settle them upstairs with a movie and then make us a nice dinner? Or I could pick up takeout from the bistro; we love their food.”

“Are you sure?”

“What matters is that we’re together,” she said easily.

“Okay,” Michael said. “I’ll be home by eight.”

Before he hung up the phone, he was thinking of something else.

Two

That evening, Jolene chose her clothes carefully. She and Michael hadn’t had dinner alone, just the two of them, in forever, and she wanted this evening to be perfect. Romantic. After feeding the girls, she bathed in scented water, shaved, slathered her skin with a citrus-scented lotion, and then slipped into a pair of comfortable jeans and a black boatnecked sweater.

Downstairs, she found Betsy seated at the coffee table, doing homework, while Lulu was on the sofa, wrapped up in her favorite yellow “blankee,” watching The Little Mermaid. The remnants of their impromptu birthday party were still on the dining room table—the cake, with its candle holes; the pink journal Betsy had given Jolene; the sparkly barrette that had been Lulu’s gift; and a pile of wrinkled paper and discarded bows.

“She’s not the boss of me,” Lulu said when Jolene walked into the room.

“Tell her to shut up, Mom. I’m trying to do homework,” Betsy responded. “She’s singing too loud.”

And it started. Their voices climbed up and over each other, rising in volume.

“She is not the boss of me,” Lulu said again, more adamantly. “Tell her.”

Betsy rolled her eyes and left the room, stomping up the stairs.

Jolene felt a wave of exhaustion. She hadn’t known how tiring it could be to parent a preteen. How much eye rolling could one girl do? If Jolene had tried that, her father would have smacked her across the room.

Lulu ran over to the toy box in the corner of the room and rummaged around inside it. Finding the kitten-ears headband that had been a part of last year’s Halloween costume, she put it on and turned around.

Jolene couldn’t help smiling. There stood her four-year-old daughter, wearing gray cat ears that were beginning to look worn in places, with her hands on her hips. The sharp little gray triangles framed Lulu’s flushed face and made her look even more elfin than usual. For no reason that anyone could explain, Lulu thought she was invisible when she wore the headband. She made a mewing sound.

Jolene frowned dramatically and looked around. “Oh, no … what happened to my Lucy Lou? Where did she go?” She made a great show of looking around the room, behind the television, under the overstuffed yellow chair, behind the door.

“Here I am, Mommy!” Lulu said with a flourish, giggling.

“There you are,” Jolene said with a sigh. “I was worried.” She picked up Lulu and carried her upstairs. It took Lulu forever to brush her teeth and get into her pajamas, and Jolene waited patiently, knowing her youngest had a strong independent streak. When Lulu was finally ready, Jolene climbed into bed beside her, pulled her close, and reached for Where the Wild Things Are. By the time she said, “the end,” Lulu was almost asleep.

She kissed Lulu’s cheek. “’Night, Kitten.”

“’Night, Mommy,” Lulu murmured sleepily.

Then Jolene walked down the hall to Betsy’s room, knocked, and went inside.

Betsy was sitting up in bed, with her social studies book open in her lap. Her corn silk blond hair fell in fusilli curls along her bare, skinny arms. Someday Betsy would prize her porcelain skin and blond hair and brown eyes, but not now, when straight hair was all the rage and pimples had ruined her complexion.

Jolene went to her daughter’s bed and sat down on the edge. “You could be nicer to your sister.”

“She’s a pain.”

“So are you.” Jolene saw how Betsy’s eyes widened, and she smiled gently. “And so am I. Families are like that. And besides, I know what this is really about.”

“You do?”

“I saw how Sierra and Zoe treated you this morning at school.”

“You’re always spying on me,” she said, but her voice broke.

“I watched you walk into school. That’s hardly spying. You three were best friends last year. What happened?”

“Nothing,” she said mulishly, pressing her lips together, hiding her braces.

“I can help, you know. I was twelve once, too.”

Betsy gave her the you-must-be-crazy look that had become familiar in the last year. “Doubtful.”

“Maybe you should hang out with Seth after school tomorrow. Remember how much fun you used to have?”

“Seth’s weird. Everyone thinks so.”

“Elizabeth Andrea, don’t you dare act like a mean girl. Seth Flynn is not weird. He’s my best friend’s son. So what if he likes to wear his hair long and if he’s … quiet. He’s your friend. You should remember that. You might need him one day.”

“Whatever.”

Jolene sighed. She’d seen this movie before; no matter how often she asked, Betsy wouldn’t say anything more. Whatever meant the end. “Okay.” She leaned forward and kissed Betsy’s forehead. “I love you to the moon and back.”

The words were the slogan of this family, their love distilled into a single sentence. Say it back to me, Bets.

Jolene waited a moment longer than she intended and was immediately mad at herself for hoping. Again. Motherhood in the preteen years was a series of paper-cut disappointments. “Okay,” she said at last, standing up.

“How come Dad’s not home yet? It’s your birthday.”

“He’ll be here any minute. You know how busy he is these days.”

“Will he come up to say good night to me?”

“Of course.”