Reid looked at him.
“She won a no-body case,” Deck said. “The state didn’t prove it. That should’ve been the end of it.” His mouth flattened. “Instead, they decided there had to be another reason she won. Easier to believe she slept with the prosecutor than believe she was smarter than every man in that courtroom.”
Reid went very still.
“Those damn witch hunters followed her for months,” Deck continued. “Every interview. Every headline. Every time she stepped outside. Peterson let it happen because standing beside her was bad for his career.”
Reid looked down the block toward Eleanor. She was almost to her car now, shoulders straight, spine rigid, walking like she could outrun it.
“She did her job,” Deck said. “That’s all she did.”
“I know,” Reid said softly. His eyes never left her. “And now they’ve followed her here.”
He handed Deck the file.
“Pretrial motions. Tomorrow.”
Deck looked at him. “You going after her?”
Reid’s gaze stayed on Eleanor until she disappeared into traffic.
“No,” he said after a beat. “Not now.”
He knew pride when he saw it. Knew what it cost her to let anyone close when she was hurt. If he followed her now, she’d put that cool, perfect mask back in place and shut the door in his face.
But tonight was another matter.
By evening, when the courthouse gossip had quieted, and the cameras had gone home, and she was alone with it?—
He intended to be standing on her porch.
12
Eleanor’s House — Early Evening
The white brick ranch sat quietly beneath a fading sky.
Inside, the house felt too still.
Her heels lay abandoned in the foyer. Blazer draped over the sofa. She’d washed her face twice, but the redness lingered.
The knock came after seven.
“Deck,” she called, voice thin but steady, “I’m fine. You don’t have to babysit me.”
Another knock.
Softer.
She opened the door.
Reid stood there.
Dark jeans. Navy shirt. No briefcase.
“Oh.”
His eyes searched her face.
