The Ex(64)

Judge Amador was waving a hand, telling me not to get ahead of myself. I didn’t tell him that my comments were intended for an entirely different audience.

Temple glared at me while the judge signed the subpoena I had prepared. He barely waited for Amador to step from the bench before turning to leave. “Just like I said, Olivia, it’s in your nature. You’re a goddamn scorpion.”

When I walked out of the courtroom, I saw Jan Myers from Eyewitness News sitting on a bench just outside the door, tucking a small recorder into her purse.

She smiled at me as I passed.


JACK DIDN’T BOTHER WITH A greeting when he opened his apartment door.

“We talked about this, Olivia. Malcolm Neeley was a horrible person, but I don’t want to vilify the other shooting victims.”

Jan Myers had worked quickly, already reporting the shocking news that one of the other waterfront victims had been calling Neeley’s hedge fund in the days prior to the shooting. She was a good journalist. She’d find out about the terms of Neeley’s will and Max’s Princeton disciplinary hearing soon enough. Walking the edge of the gag order, I had told Jan that an after-lunch trip to the fifth floor of the courthouse might be worth her time. She’d owe me next time.

I set my briefcase down and followed Jack into the living room. I explained that we started looking into Tracy only after her phone number appeared in the Sentry Group phone records.

“Jack, remember telling me that in is in, out is out, and you just want to be out? I promised to do everything possible to keep you out. I can’t ignore this kind of evidence.” I was not about to check with him every single time I followed up on a lead.

“That girl is dead, Olivia. Her family is mourning her. And now there are pundits on television speculating about all kinds of scenarios, most of them insinuating that she somehow brought this on herself.” Jack was pacing, and his eyes were darting around the room. I was wishing that the police had cut off his cable in addition to his Internet connection.

“You’ve been telling me ever since you were arrested that something truly bizarre was going on. These phone calls back that up.”

He pressed his face into his palms. “I don’t know how you do this for a living. It’s like the truth doesn’t even matter anymore.”

“Do you want to be in, or do you want to be out? Because if you want to be out, you should be thanking me for the crap I pulled for you today at the courthouse.”


I JOKE THAT I ONLY eat at five restaurants, but the real number is two. Lissa’s, because it’s home, like stopping by the school dining hall. And Maialino because the food is delicious, I can usually score a seat at the bar, and it’s only two blocks from my apartment.

At Lissa’s, I was never alone; I had Melissa, and usually Don, too. And at Maialino, I was alone. And when I was alone, I could sit and think about things like how I’d treated Scott Temple and whether it made me a bad person or a savior.

After an unmistakable hint that some overly perfumed woman move her purse, I assumed an unoccupied buffer seat between two couples and ordered a dry martini. The bartender’s name was Travis. He told me once he was from Kansas. He moved here for some kind of interest in art, I think. As usual, he stopped by every ten minutes or so for some small talk so my iPhone wasn’t my only dinner company.

I had just finished the bucatini and was ordering a replacement for my Barolo when I felt a hand on my back. It was Ryan. Here’s another thing about eating at only two restaurants: it makes you easier to find than the average person. Ryan never dropped by Lissa’s. If he wanted to bump into me under the right circumstances, this was the place.

Ryan, as always, was beautiful. There really was no other word for it. When the gods were handing out genes, they gave him a perfect bundle of smart and sweet and cunning, without any of the pretty-boy smarm. He could take home anyone, probably even the cared-for, coupled-up women next to me. But whenever he looked at me, I felt wanted.

“Hey you.” His hand remained on my back. “I get it. No more texting you in random intervals. But please don’t treat me like I don’t matter.”

I finished my last sip of wine. His wife must be gone again.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked. “I thought you might want to celebrate. I saw your story on the news. You put that prosecutor through the wringer.”

As Travis refilled my glass, I ordered one for Ryan. I didn’t want to be alone.


TWO DAYS LATER, DON, EINER, and I were at Lissa’s. We were desperate for a change of scenery, so Melissa had allowed us to take over her biggest table at the back of the restaurant for a long working lunch.

The discovery that Tracy Frankel had been calling the Sentry Group in the days before the shooting had reinvigorated our efforts. We were even more certain that the police had only skimmed the sur face of what was really going on. With a little more evidence on our side, we might actually be able to get Jack’s case dismissed.

Einer took an enormous bite from his hamburger. “You guys are the experts, but on TV, this is where Viola Davis would be all, I found a hooker who was hired to set my client up. Drop the mic. Season cliffhanger.”

Don and I had already talked about the option of going to Scott Temple with the information we had gotten from Sharon Lawson, but agreed that we weren’t ready yet. Without more evidence, Scott would simply argue that Jack had been the one to hire Sharon to pose as “Madeline,” hoping that the video proof of her existence would work in his defense.