I don’t get the uncomfortable “I’m interested in you” vibe, so I gesture for him to sit. Dan’s a good guy. He’s one of the locals who made good and did something with his life.

“I’m sorry I haven’t stopped by since you moved back to Shelton,” I say.

Dan rolls his shoulders a little. “My return was inevitable. Sawdust runs in my veins, you know.”

“Same here,” I say. “Anyway, welcome back home.”

Diane sees that Dan has moved and brings his food. She gives me a little wink. She’s completely wrong about Water Boy and me, but I don’t say anything. My omelet arrives too.

“You must be relieved about the Sophie Warner case,” he says.

I can’t tell if he’s making a dig about the Rinehart case not being solved or if he’s being kind. I choose to think he’s being kind, because that’s the kid I remember.

I swallow a bite of my omelet and consider the raspberry jam.

“I am always glad when things end with a solid conviction,” I say.

He looks at me, then around the restaurant.

“What is it, Dan?”

I notice sweat on his brow, and while it could be the hot sauce he’s doused his eggs with, it seems as if anyone who had a penchant for doing that would be used to it.

“Attorney-client stuff,” he says. “I hate that rule.”

I smear jam on my toast and give him a moment to think about what he really wants to say. I’m on the edge of my seat, but I don’t show it. Dan’s holding something, and it’s like a ball made of razor blades that he wants to hand off.

Quickly.

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s not my favorite legal privilege. I understand it, though. I see the need for it, but I see the abuse too.”

“Right,” he says, staring down at the big yellow eyes of the eggs on his plate.

I push a little. “Dan, come on, I’ve known you since we were kids.”

It’s true, though a stretch. I took my position on Dan Belding Jr. from my brother. I didn’t mock him. I would never do that to anyone. But, admittedly, I laughed at the water-boy jokes.

Dan has egg yolk in the corners of his mouth, but I don’t say anything. I try not to look at it.

“All right,” he says, setting down his fork. “I don’t think I’m really violating much.”

“That’s good,” I say.

He doesn’t break his gaze from mine. It’s a penetrating, unflinching stare.

“One of our classmates came to me after his wife died,” he says.

I don’t need to ask who he’s talking about. And I can see that we’re playing a game, so I go along with it.