There was nothing else to say. We’d already burned through all the moral questions, all the what-the-hell-were-you-thinking rounds. Now there was just the drive.
“They know,” I said quietly.
Alek’s hands tightened on the wheel. “They suspect. That’s different.”
“I covered up a murder, Alek.”
“You protected yourself. Your daughter. And they don’t have proof. You didn’t file anything. You didn’t doctor a report. You didn’t lie to law enforcement—”
“What if today is the day they flip the script?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, more softly than I expected: “Then we make them regret ever trying.”
Boston blurred past the windows in pale winter gray, all salt-stained roads and bare trees and the occasional string of stubborn Christmas lights still clinging to iron fences. The DOJ office was downtown, sterile and looming in a way that felt personal. When Alek pulled into the underground garage, he killed the engine and looked over at me.
“You ready?”
“Never.”
“Okay. Well, fake it.”
“Got it.”
He reached over, squeezed my hand once, then let go. “Don’t volunteer anything. Don’t get defensive. Let me do the heavy lifting.”
“Thank you, counsel. I know how this works. I did pass the bar.”
“You were top ten, if I recall.”
“Eighth.”
“Overachiever,” he said. I almost smiled. Almost. “But look, right now you’re the target. Let me be the shield. Even if I wasn’t top ten, I know what I’m doing.”
“You were twelfth. You did okay.”
“Thanks, mom. Okay. Ready to fake it?”
“Yeah,” I said.
Then I opened the door and stepped out into the cold.
Alek and I rode the elevator up in silence, his jaw clenched, my pulse fluttering in the hollow of my throat like something trying to get out. The DOJ’s Boston office was modern and bright, but it still smelled faintly of antiseptic and fear—like hospitals, courthouses, funeral homes. Places where people waited forbad news dressed in their best lies. When the doors opened, a receptionist with a tight bun and a tighter smile greeted us. “How can I help you?”
“I’m DA Ruby Marquez. I’m here to see Ms. Darnell.”
“Of course, ma’am. I’ll let her know.”
She picked up the phone and dialed a number. After speaking quietly into the receiver, she flashed us a big smile. “Special Counsel Darnell will be with you shortly. Please have a seat.”
We were early. Of course we were early.
I sat in one of the sterile lobby chairs, hands folded in my lap like I was waiting for judgment. Alek stayed standing, pacing in slow, measured lines like a man trying to map out every possible move before the game began.
Five minutes later, the door opened, and I recognized her immediately. “Go ahead, please,” the receptionist said. “We have the conference room all set up for you.”
Lucy Darnell looked exactly like the pictures I’d found—elegant, ageless, and calm in a way that made me nervous. Her hair was salt-and-pepper sharp, pulled back into a twist. Her gray suit fit like armor, and the smile she offered me was the kind that meant nothing.
“Ms. Marquez.” She extended her hand. “Thank you for agreeing to come in.”
