Chapter 43

It started on Monday.

No announcement. No conversation about it. Just — Becky came in on Monday morning and left her office door all the way open and at ten she came out with two files and set one on Freen’s desk.

“The expert witness final prep,” she said. “I need your notes by three.”

“You’ll have them by two,” Freen said.

Becky looked at her for a moment. Then she went back into her office.

The door stayed open.

—

It was not forgiveness.

Becky knew this and she thought Freen knew it too. Forgiveness was a thing that came after the working-through and she had not finished working through it. The anger was still there — quieter now, settled into something more manageable, but there.

But the distance had stopped working.

She had maintained it for a week and it had cost her three days of progress on the closing argument and two nights of not sleeping and a lunch with Irin that had ended with you’re still angry at yourself which she was still thinking about.

The distance was costing more than it was giving.

Six days until closing arguments. She did not have the resources to spend on distance.

She told herself this on Sunday night and believed most of it.

—

On Monday evening they both stayed late.

This happened without either of them deciding it should. Becky was working on the closing argument. Freen was at her desk. The office emptied around them and it was just the two of them and the lamps and the city outside doing its Monday thing.

At seven Becky came to her office door.

“Have you eaten,” she said.

Freen looked up. “No.”

“There’s a place that delivers until nine. Thai.”

“The one across the street?”

“No. Better one.” Becky picked up her phone. “What do you want.”

Freen thought about it. “Whatever you’re ordering.”

Becky looked at her for a half second. Then she ordered.

—

The food arrived at seven forty-five.

They ate at the conference table — not the floor, not a Sunday, just the table with the overhead lights on and the files pushed to one end and the takeout containers between them. Normal. Practical.

“The closing argument,” Becky said. “The last section.”

“What about it.”

“I’ve been stuck on the final turn for a week.” She opened the container. “Walk me through what you hear when I read it.”

“Read it then.”

Becky read it. The whole last section, out loud, the way she had done before — before the courtyard, before the parking garage, before everything that had shifted. Her voice in the quiet office, the argument building the way it was supposed to build.

She stopped at the end.

Freen was quiet for a moment.

“The second to last paragraph,” Freen said. “You change register.”

“What do you mean.”

“The whole section is — human. Direct. You’re talking to the judge like a person. Then the second to last paragraph goes formal again.” She paused. “It’s like you stopped trusting it.”

Becky looked at the printed page.

“I wrote that paragraph on Wednesday,” she said.

Wednesday. The day after the courtyard.

She looked at the paragraph.

“You’re right,” she said.

She picked up her pen and crossed it out.

“What replaces it,” Freen said.

“I don’t know yet.” Becky looked at the blank space. “What do you think it needs.”

Freen was quiet for a moment. “The same thing the rest of it has,” she said. “You’re not arguing in that section. You’re asking.”

Becky looked at her.

“The evidence is done,” Freen said. “You’ve built the whole case. The last section isn’t more argument. It’s — asking the judge to see what you’ve shown him.”

Becky looked at the page.

She picked up her pen.

She wrote four sentences.

She read them back.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “That’s it.”

—

They worked after the food.

Becky at her desk, Freen at hers. The comfortable silence that had been gone for a week and was back now — different from before, not the professional silence or the managed distance, something more honest than either of those.

At nine Becky looked up from her screen.

Freen was looking at her.

Not the operational look. Not the careful professional look. Just — looking. The way she had looked in the car in the Tuesday evening traffic after the parking garage. All the way through.

Becky looked back.

Neither of them looked away.

The office held them in its quiet. The lamp on the desk between them. The city outside doing its nine o’clock thing. The closing argument on Becky’s screen, four sentences that were finally right.

The moment stretched.

Then Becky’s phone rang.

She looked at the screen. Charlotte. She answered it.

“Yes.” A pause. “I know what time it is.” Another pause. “Charlotte I’m at the office, I’m fine.” She listened. “Yes. I’ll leave soon.” She ended the call.

She looked at her screen.

Freen was looking at her desk.

Neither of them said anything about the moment. It sat in the room with them — present, acknowledged in the way that things were acknowledged when neither person named them but both people knew.

“Charlotte wants you to stay somewhere else this week,” Freen said. Not looking up from her desk.

Becky was very still. “Why.”

“Surat moved the timeline. The next six days are — the risk to your apartment is higher than we’d like.”

Becky absorbed this. “Where.”

“Charlotte’s. She has the space and the building has better security and—” Freen paused. “And I can cover that route more easily.”

“You’ve already planned this.”

“Yes.”

Becky looked at her screen. At the closing argument. At the four sentences that were right.

“When were you going to tell me,” she said.

“Tonight.”

“Before or after the phone rang.”

Freen looked at her. “Before.”

Becky held her gaze.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay you’ll stay at Charlotte’s.”

“Okay I’ll stay at Charlotte’s.” She paused. “And okay you were going to tell me.”

Freen said nothing.

“Were you,” Becky said.

“Yes,” Freen said. “I was.”

Becky looked at her for a moment. Then she looked at her screen and saved the closing argument and closed it.

“I have a question,” she said.

“Okay.”

“The water glass. Last week. The lunch cards.”

Freen looked at her.

“Before the courtyard,” Becky said. “Before I knew anything. You were still doing those things.”

“Yes,” Freen said.

“Why.”

Freen was quiet for a moment.

“Because you work too hard to remember to drink water,” she said. “And because you can’t eat fish and nobody was accounting for that.” She paused. “And because—” She stopped.

“Because,” Becky said.

Freen looked at her. “Because it stopped being just a mission.”

The office was quiet.

“When,” Becky said.

Freen thought about it. “Early,” she said. “Earlier than I was ready for.”

Becky held her gaze.

“I’m still angry,” she said.

“I know.”

“At you. At Charlotte. At myself.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t finished being angry.”

“I know,” Freen said. “You don’t have to.”

Becky looked at her for a long moment.

Then she picked up her bag and her jacket and stood.

“Walk me to the lift,” she said.

Freen stood.

They walked out together through the dark outer office — the desks empty, the screens dark, the building quiet. At the lift Becky pressed the button. They stood side by side waiting.

“The question you almost asked,” Becky said. “In the office last week. Before the parking garage.”

Freen looked at the lift doors.

“What was it,” Becky said.

The lift arrived. The doors opened.

Freen looked at her.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to say it yet,” she said.

Becky held the doors open. She looked at Freen.

“Okay,” she said. “When you’re ready.”

She stepped into the lift. The doors closed.

Freen stood in the lobby and looked at the closed doors.

She stood there for a while.