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We make our way to Union Street. The place has valet parking, which is good, because I’m suddenly starving too, and the thought of looking for parking is enough to make me growl. I hand over the keys, and we head inside the restaurant.
No one recognizes us. Maybe that’s because the video’s been out for weeks. Maybe we’re old news, and people are more interested in real housewives or the latest Hollywood scandal or some politician who can’t keep his dick in his pants. Maybe it’s because Alix and I are dressed like big-firm lawyers. I don’t know why we aren’t noticed, and I don’t care.
We eat a normal dinner in a normal restaurant like normal people. I have to remind the waiter I wanted Dewar’s, not Grey Goose, but he gets it right the second time. Alix’s salad dressing isn’t served on the side. My rare steak is closer to medium, but who really gives a fuck?
It takes almost two hours to work through appetizers, entrées, and desserts, and for once I’m not thinking about torture-porn videos, or billionaire tax schemes, or anyone anywhere named Herzog.
We talk about whether the guy outside, the one walking his dog, is wearing a toupée or if he’s got the worst haircut in the world. We tell each other our dream meals—I never knew she had a thing for white chocolate bread pudding. We debate the funniest movie of all time, and how it’s actually impossible that she’s never watchedMonty Python and the Holy Grail.
So it’s a complete surprise when my phone rings as I’m tipping the valet. It’s Throck. “Just a second,” I tell him, as I gun the engine and turn down a side street. I block a fire hydrant and put the car in Park.
“Okay,” I say. “You’re on speaker. Alix is with me.”
If he’s concerned about attorney-client privilege this time, he doesn’t make a complaint. Instead, he says, “I have very good news.”
“We’re listening,” I say.
I don’t realize I’ve taken Alix’s hand until Throck wraps things up, hundreds of pauses and fifteen minutes later. “What guarantee do we have that the prosecutors won’t change their minds?” I ask.
“Well, technically…double jeopardy hasn’t…attached because no claim has been made.”
“How long do they have to come after us?”
“There’s no statute of limitation on murder… And we have to assume…that’s what the charge would be.”
“So we live with this hanging over our heads forever?”
“Technically…well…yes… Although I have to say…. With Ms. Rodriguez off the case…. The prosecutor who phoned me…couldn’t make any promises…but he seemed to think the office…has lost all interest in this case…. Higher-ups don’t want the risk…. It’s too high profile…. So much confusing technology…no jury will ever understand….”
It’s the longest statement Throck has ever made. But it’s worth paying for, just to know Alix and I are clear for the foreseeable future.
Throck has more. Carver’s making a formal announcement tomorrow morning. Alix and I should be available for a press conference tomorrow afternoon. We do that, and the fucking paparazzi should finally look for fresh blood somewhere else.
I end the call and sit back in my seat. Until this moment, I didn’t realize how much the case was hanging over me. I can only imagine Alix felt it even more. I was only on the hook as an accessory. She was always the main target.
Once the phone is dark, I raise our joined hands. My lips brush across her knuckles. I catch a whiff of something that smells like baby powder, and I realize it’s the makeup she used to hide the bruises on her wrists.
“Hey,” I say. “You were incredible today.”
Her smile is exhausted.
I tighten my grip on her fingers. “It still pisses me off, though, that Carver won’t pay for what he did.”
She twitches one shoulder. “He’ll face pressure for letting us off the hook. And who knows what the freeport will need before his term is up?”
With my free hand, I brush a curl from her cheek. “He may have political fallout. But that’s nothing compared to what you’ve dealt with.”
There’s that tiny smile again. “We can’t change the past.”
She’s right. I know she is. But I have to say, “You know if there was any way I could go back in time… If I could redo that night… If I could keep you tied to my bed instead of—”
“You and your ties,” she says, but the joke sounds faint.
“I would have kept you safe. Herzog would have taken someone else…”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why the fuck not?” I’m angry—not with her, but with the madman who stole her from me.
