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.