As a prosecutor, I dealt with countless people who suffered from split-second breaks of fate, and most never stopped wondering: What could I have done to avoid that? If only I’d locked my car doors, if only I’d turned left instead of right, if only I’d skipped that last drink, if only I’d listened to my instinct and given that guy a fake phone number, if only I’d remembered my pepper spray or bought that gun I looked at in the sporting goods store . . .

Hindsight is always 20/20, foresight rarely better than a blur.

The shock of Will Devine’s death was very much with us as I rejoined my family in City Hall after the conference in Judge Elder’s chambers. As it turned out, one of Tim’s guys had rounded up Serenity from the general melee after the courtroom stampede, and we found her with Mia, Annie, and my mother in the lounge down the hall from my office. Serenity wanted to be on the street covering the aftermath of the murder, but Tim persuaded her that she should stick with us for the time being. Although she and I are still playing the role of platonic friends in Annie’s presence, Serenity seems to sense that something has seriously rattled me—something beyond the murder of Will Devine. Her eyes cut to mine repeatedly, silently asking questions, so often that I motion for her to wait until we get home.

On the ground floor of City Hall, we divide into two groups. While Annie, Mia, Serenity, and I take the Yukon back to my Washington Street house, Mom and Jenny will be escorted to my parents’ house to get “some things” my mother forgot to pack when she first got back to town for the trial. (My gut tells me these “things” probably fall into the benzodiazepine category.)

Emulating our courthouse procedure, we make a fast transfer from the side door of City Hall to the vehicle, and breathe sighs of relief only when the armored doors slam shut with reassuring thuds. Tim Weathers sits in the second row with Annie and me, while his second-in-command, Joe Russell, covers the third seat with Mia and Serenity. The air-conditioning raises the hair on my arms. As Annie leans close to get warm, the driver hands my .38 over the front seat, and I slip it back into my ankle holster.

“Ease off on the air,” Tim says as acceleration presses us back into the leather seats.

“Thanks,” I say, slipping my arm around Annie’s shoulders. “You guys did a great job back there, covering everybody.”

Tim winces; I’m sure he’s second-guessing every move he made, and even wondering if he could have taken out Snake Knox if he’d somehow been a little better, a little faster.

“At least our crew’s okay,” he concedes, but his eyes add a postscript: We’re up against some dangerous motherfuckers, my friend . . .