never did have much game. He asked her what book she had been reading when he spotted her at the pier. She told him Eight Days to Die .
Okay, he responded. I may need to verify that you’re actually real, and this isn’t Charlotte punking me. Eight Days to Die is far and away my favorite book from last year. What are the odds of that? I’ve stopped recommending it to people, because they insist that a person with only eight days to live is “too sad,” but it’s one of those clean, simple novels that proves heartbreaking stories can be life affirming.
Oh dear. Einer wasn’t kidding about the diabetes. Really, Jack? A published author and you can’t do better than that? The next time Melissa pushed me to try online dating again, I’d have to remind her of why I quit in the first place.
Another text message popped up at the top of the screen: Is my dad under arrest or not? Not knowing is driving me crazy .
Followed by, P.S. This is Buckley Harris.
How in the world could she even text that fast? I wouldn’t be giving my cell phone number to any more teenagers.
I scrolled to the final addition to the e-mail chain, Jack’s response to Madeline’s invitation to meet in person: See you there.
I had to smile at his response, so spontaneous and unquestioning. Some of my best times with Jack had been spur-of-the-moment ventures.
My thoughts about the past were interrupted by yet another textmessage. If you’re trying to protect me . . . DON’T! I can handle it. Just tell me what is going on!!!!
So many exclamation points. I texted a quick response: Cautiously optimistic that we’ll have your dad home soon. Be patient. I promise to call when I know more.
I had just hit Send when my cell phone rang. Buckley, I assumed, demanding more detail. But the number on the screen was the outgoing number for the district attorney’s office.
It was ADA Scott Temple. “The lab called. Two hours, just as they promised. Jack Harris’s hands are clear, at least of GSR.”
Even though I’d been expecting this, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. “That’s great.” I assured him that Jack would not leave the jurisdiction while they continued to investigate, and began piling on ways of backing up the promise: turning over his passport, electronic monitoring, the works.
“Save all that for the bail hearing, Olivia. Boyle’s processing him now for transport.”
“Then why have I been stewing on a bench here all day? Is this some kind of joke? What was the whole point of waiting for the GSR testing?”
So much smugness and indignation. It was a posture I struck well. Outrage can work wonders to shame people when you’re right, and they’re wrong.
But here’s the thing: you better be right.
“Look, Olivia, it’s not my business, but you called me for a reason. I respect you, and I listen to you when you stick your neck out. But you’re wrong on Harris. I don’t blame you. The Penn Station widower thing may have clouded your judgment.”
“My judgment’s just fine.” Even I knew I sounded defensive.
“His hands were clean, but we tested his shirt, too. The GSR test came back positive. Sorry, Olivia. Your guy’s guilty. He played you.”
Chapter 6
I STILL HAD my phone in hand as I marched through the squad, calling out for Detective Boyle. A younger female detective rolled back her chair and rose to meet me in the middle of the room. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can’t just be storming through here.”
Boyle appeared at the back of the squad room, his hands pressed on either side of the doorway leading to the hall containing the interrogation rooms. He was intentionally blocking my view.
“Ramos is right, Counselor. This is our house, not yours.”
I saw the movement of officers in uniform behind him. The white cotton of a T-shirt. It was Jack. They were moving him.
“I need to talk to my client. You are interfering with his right to counsel.”
“Nice try, but I know a little bit about the law. We
Okay, he responded. I may need to verify that you’re actually real, and this isn’t Charlotte punking me. Eight Days to Die is far and away my favorite book from last year. What are the odds of that? I’ve stopped recommending it to people, because they insist that a person with only eight days to live is “too sad,” but it’s one of those clean, simple novels that proves heartbreaking stories can be life affirming.
Oh dear. Einer wasn’t kidding about the diabetes. Really, Jack? A published author and you can’t do better than that? The next time Melissa pushed me to try online dating again, I’d have to remind her of why I quit in the first place.
Another text message popped up at the top of the screen: Is my dad under arrest or not? Not knowing is driving me crazy .
Followed by, P.S. This is Buckley Harris.
How in the world could she even text that fast? I wouldn’t be giving my cell phone number to any more teenagers.
I scrolled to the final addition to the e-mail chain, Jack’s response to Madeline’s invitation to meet in person: See you there.
I had to smile at his response, so spontaneous and unquestioning. Some of my best times with Jack had been spur-of-the-moment ventures.
My thoughts about the past were interrupted by yet another textmessage. If you’re trying to protect me . . . DON’T! I can handle it. Just tell me what is going on!!!!
So many exclamation points. I texted a quick response: Cautiously optimistic that we’ll have your dad home soon. Be patient. I promise to call when I know more.
I had just hit Send when my cell phone rang. Buckley, I assumed, demanding more detail. But the number on the screen was the outgoing number for the district attorney’s office.
It was ADA Scott Temple. “The lab called. Two hours, just as they promised. Jack Harris’s hands are clear, at least of GSR.”
Even though I’d been expecting this, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. “That’s great.” I assured him that Jack would not leave the jurisdiction while they continued to investigate, and began piling on ways of backing up the promise: turning over his passport, electronic monitoring, the works.
“Save all that for the bail hearing, Olivia. Boyle’s processing him now for transport.”
“Then why have I been stewing on a bench here all day? Is this some kind of joke? What was the whole point of waiting for the GSR testing?”
So much smugness and indignation. It was a posture I struck well. Outrage can work wonders to shame people when you’re right, and they’re wrong.
But here’s the thing: you better be right.
“Look, Olivia, it’s not my business, but you called me for a reason. I respect you, and I listen to you when you stick your neck out. But you’re wrong on Harris. I don’t blame you. The Penn Station widower thing may have clouded your judgment.”
“My judgment’s just fine.” Even I knew I sounded defensive.
“His hands were clean, but we tested his shirt, too. The GSR test came back positive. Sorry, Olivia. Your guy’s guilty. He played you.”
Chapter 6
I STILL HAD my phone in hand as I marched through the squad, calling out for Detective Boyle. A younger female detective rolled back her chair and rose to meet me in the middle of the room. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can’t just be storming through here.”
Boyle appeared at the back of the squad room, his hands pressed on either side of the doorway leading to the hall containing the interrogation rooms. He was intentionally blocking my view.
“Ramos is right, Counselor. This is our house, not yours.”
I saw the movement of officers in uniform behind him. The white cotton of a T-shirt. It was Jack. They were moving him.
“I need to talk to my client. You are interfering with his right to counsel.”
“Nice try, but I know a little bit about the law. We
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