“A Supreme Court justice—God help us all.”

Stanton smirks. “What is the name of the boy Riley has a crush on these days?”

I frown. “Preston Drabblesmith.”

And he’s an actual kid—not a character from Harry Potter.

Stanton comes around and smacks my arm. “Congratulations, Jake. You already are a family man.”

I think about his words, their questions, while Brent and Sofia smile like idiots—and I get what he’s saying. It’s just . . . “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Stanton rubs his chin. “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret—none of us know what the hell we’re doin’. You think I knew what I was doin’ when they put a baby girl in my seventeen-year-old arms? Shit, man, I didn’t stop shaking for three days.”

“You think Chelsea knew what she was doing when she rushed here from California to raise those kids?” Sofia adds.

“All you really have to do is love them,” Stanton says. “That’s the biggest thing. After that, the rest . . . just falls into place.”

“Besides,” Brent says, “do you actually think there’s anyone out there who will bust his ass as hard as you will to make them happy?”

And that’s the easiest question of all.

Fuck no.

So . . . what the hell am I still doing sitting here?

I stand up. I leave the briefcase, the paperwork. Screw it all. “I’ve gotta go.”

But just as they’re all smiling, smacking my back, and rushing me toward the door, my boss, Jonas Adams, walks through it.

“Good evening, everyone.”

There’s greetings all around. And not a little shock—because Jonas Adams, founding partner, doesn’t come to his associates’ offices. Not ever.

He clears his throat. “There’s been an incident, Mr. Becker. Mrs. Holten has, unfortunately, taken a fall down a flight of stairs.”

The excitement and anticipation that was bursting out of me just seconds ago shrivels on the vine. My eyes close and I swallow hard, and there’s not a sound in the room, except for my question.

“Is she alive?”

Adams takes off his glasses and cleans them with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Oh yes, Sabrina is alive, just a bit bruised. The police have arrested Senator Holten, so I’ll need you to head down to the precinct, assist him with any interrogations they may attempt, arrange for bail—”

“No.”

The one syllable is so clear and sounds so right on my lips. Almost as right as Chelsea’s name. I know the kind of man I am—and I know what I can do. And more important, what I won’t fucking do. Ever again.

“I won’t do that, Mr. Adams.”

His eyes squint, like he can’t see me clearly. “May I ask why not?”

“Because he’s guilty.”

“Has he confessed as much to you?”

“No. But I know he hurts his wife.”

Adams’s cheeks bloom angry red and his chest puffs out. I’ve wondered if Jonas is really that blind or just willfully ignorant. Either way, doesn’t matter.

“William Holten is a client of this firm, and more than that, he has been my friend for over forty years. He deserves a defense.”

“Not from me.” I shake my head, staring him down.

Adams’s lips tighten into a nasty little bow. “Mr. Becker, you should think very carefully about your next words, because they will determine your fut—”

“I quit.”

“Jake.” My name rushes from Stanton’s mouth in a hushed warning. But I don’t need one.

“My resignation will be on your desk in the morning, Mr. Adams. He’s your friend—you defend the piece of shit.”

Adams lift his nose. “Consider your resignation accepted.” He walks out.

And a weight vanishes off my shoulders.

Authority really never was my thing.

“Jake, what did you do?” Sofia asks, her eyes narrowing with concern.

I kiss her cheek. “The right thing.”

I smack Brent’s arm and shake Stanton’s hand, grinning like Ebenezer fucking Scrooge on Christmas morning. “And it was really easy.”

I head for the door. “I’ll talk to you guys later. Thank you—I don’t know how long it would’ve taken me to pull my head out of my ass without the three of you.”

“There’s a visual I really didn’t need,” Sofia says, and I laugh.

Stanton says, “Well, go get her, man.”

And that’s just what I plan to do.

• • •

Before I drive to Chelsea’s, I make a quick stop at the US attorney’s office. I take the elevator to Tom Caldwell’s office—he’s at his desk like I figured he’d be.

I lean against his doorway, scanning the room. “This is a really small office. I knew they were small—but this is like, you’ll-get-charged-with-animal-cruelty-if-you-put-a-dog-in-here kind of small.”

“Is there a reason you’re here, other than to compare office sizes, Becker?”

I nod. “Did you hear about Holten?”

“Course I heard—I’ll be the one prosecuting the son of a bitch. Why aren’t you down at the police station, protecting his delicate feelings from invasive questions?” I’d have to be deaf not to hear the scathing sarcasm.

“I dropped the case.”