SIX

SIX

FINALLY, AS I STAND before my vanity, toothbrush working, I'm ready to put this ridiculous day behind us. The dog alone — did she leave and return through a closed gate? Was she in our yard all along in the bushes and we missed her? Or did someone take her and return her?

Not to mention the fire and the coffeepot and lunch box and court ID —

My phone buzzes with a text message. The message is from an old acquaintance, a coworker, Howard Shimkus. Well, not so much a coworker as one of the senior partners and top trial lawyers at Millard Halloway in Chicago. The text reads:

Today's the day. 15th anniversary!

Oh. That's right. Fifteen years ago. I'd rather forget. I usually do forget, actually, my previous life a more distant memory every year, but then Howard sends me a text on this date, the day before Halloween, as if it's an annual tradition.

He is correct that today is the day, though the whole thing became public news the following morning, leading the press to label it the Halloween Massacre. Three witnesses in total, all scheduled to testify against mob boss Michael Cagnina at his upcoming racketeering trial.

A debt collector — an enforcer for Cagnina.

A racetrack owner who had helped Cagnina launder money and run a gambling ring.

And Howard's and my client Silas Renfrow, Michael Cagnina's top assassin.

All three — along with half a dozen federal marshals — found burned beyond recognition, nothing but torched skeletons, inside the detention center where they were being kept as protected witnesses.

Now close to seventy years old, Howard is in the twilight of his career as one of the top white-shoe defense lawyers in Chicago, and here I am, far removed from those high-powered cases, back living in the town where I was born, chasing deadbeat husbands, handling adoptions and divorces. I am long forgotten to Howard, yet he thinks of me this one time every year.

Maybe that's because I'm the only other person who knows the truth.

"Who's that on the phone?" David asks, grabbing some dental floss.

I scoop away my phone. "Nobody," I say. "Just a nervous client."