The Ex(27)

“Fine, I get it. He took some tough breaks. But again, not your fault.”

“Of course it is, Don. Simple cause and effect. A to B to C. Jack at our apartment. Jack calls Owen. Owen spends hours consoling him at a bar. Owen drives home and dies. Jack goes crazy.”

“And then Jack gets better, marries a woman, becomes a successful writer, has a child. He got a fresh start. You don’t owe him anything.”

According to profiles I had read, Molly had supported Jack so he could stop teaching and finish his first novel. Jack was so grateful that he dedicated the book to her and began volunteering to teach writing workshops to troubled kids as a tribute to his teacher wife. She was the supportive woman I had never been, and, with her, he thrived.

But he didn’t have Molly anymore. She was killed, and now Jack was accused of murdering the man he felt was responsible.

“Don, you’ve been telling me to get to the point. The point is, I’m taking this case. I’m a partner, not your employee. I choose my own clients—”

I heard a woman two tables over call out, “Hey, turn that up! It’s about the shooting.”

I watched as Melissa pointed the remote control at the television hanging in the corner above the bar. On the screen, the police commissioner took his place at the lectern while the mayor stood sternly at his side.

He delivered the kind of comforting preamble the public had come to expect after a mass shooting. There had been so many, I wondered if police departments shared notes.

“We know members of the public have been eager for details, and we have asked for your patience as teams of officers and detectives have been working on multiple fronts, both to notify and to support victims’ families and also investigate the case and identify and capture the person or persons responsible. Tonight, I can report that, as we already stated earlier today, shots were fired shortly after seven AM. Three people were shot. Two of the victims were deceased by the time emergency vehicles arrived at the scene, and, unfortunately, just an hour ago, the third victim also succumbed to injuries. We can also release the names of the three victims: Tracy Frankel, age twenty; Clifton Hunter, age forty-one; and Malcolm Neeley, age fifty-seven.”

The commissioner cleared his throat as murmurs spread across the briefing room at the mention of Neeley’s name. “I can also report that we have arrested a suspect in connection with the fatal shootings. His name is Jackson Harris, he is forty-four years old, and is a resident of Manhattan. All evidence is that the perpetrator acted alone, and there is no remaining threat to the people of New York City.”

As the commissioner turned from the lectern, the press erupted into a barrage of questions. “Is that Jack Harris the writer?” “Was this retaliation for the Penn Station shooting?”

Around us in the restaurant, fellow diners expressed similar thoughts. I heard a woman behind me say, “Holy shit, guess that kid’s father should have paid up on the lawsuit.” Within moments, the consensus at the table next to us was that Jack “must have snapped.” There was that word again. There were tsk sounds, as if to say, “That poor guy, what a tragedy.”

A three-minute statement by the police commissioner, and already, I could feel its impact: the entire city was sure that Jack did it.

I downed the rest of my martini. “Are you going to say you told me so?”

Don’s wince was barely perceptible, but I could tell I had managed to hurt his feelings. “Of course not. You’re not my underling anymore, and you’re an excellent defense lawyer. You’ve earned the right to make your own decisions.”

“Don, I’ll understand if you don’t want any part of it.”

“That’s not how we operate. Not ever.”

That wasn’t technically true. Three years ago, Don used a claim of battered woman syndrome to defend a woman accused of child neglect. I refused to help him, and never explained why.

“We’d be even if you want to back out on this one—”

“No. I won’t hear of it. If you’re taking the case, we’re taking the case. We stand by each other. We’re partners.”

No one had ever said that to me before.


RYAN TEXTED ME A LITTLE after ten o’clock. Where are you? Nightcap?

Bed, I typed.

Not like you.

My thumb hovered over the screen. Who was Ryan to tell me what was like me?

Another message popped up. Are you alone?

Great, the guy who was next to me in this bed eleven hours ago assumed it was more likely that I was here with someone else than hitting the sack at a reasonable hour on a weeknight.

Did your wife get home okay? Bitchy, but I hit Send anyway.

Flight canceled. Not back until tomorrow.

At thirty-five, Ryan was eight years my junior. In what felt like a previous life, I was his supervising lawyer at Preston & Cartwright when he was a mere summer associate. I never gave him another thought once he flew the nest with all the other baby birds. Then two years ago, I got a voice mail. He wasn’t making partner and had no idea what he was supposed to do. “You probably don’t even remember me, but I just need someone to tell me it’s going to be okay.”

We met for drinks, a lot of them. It wasn’t until the next morning, as he twirled my hair like it was the most fascinating substance he had ever encountered, that he told me about his wife, Anne. He said he’d known when he married her that they were making a mistake. “I just couldn’t bring myself to hurt her. She did nothing wrong. And then we had Brandon. And now I’ve done this. I’ve hurt all of us.”