“Do I want to know the question he was so weirdly keen for you to answer?” He said it quiet and wry, no pressure. Like commiserating.

She softened. A little. “You didn’t hear?”

“No,” he said. “I felt that something was off, but I don’t know how off.”

He liked Gabrielle. They’d had lunch, together with a third-year associate and three paralegals, quite a bit last year, when they’d been part of the support team on the same big case. She was funny and sharp and more than pulled her weight.

“I thought you’d heard but didn’t want to—” She faltered.

“Take on Spence? I don’t, particularly. That said, does someone need to?”

Her eyes went pure acid. “You tell me. It’s hard to know if I’m being ‘oversensitive.’” She was quoting Spencer. He was sure from the inflection.

“Okay,” he said.

She swallowed and pressed her lips together. She didn’t look at him as she said, “He wanted to know if black women could have pink nipples. Or if they were always brown.”

Marshall’s eyebrows went up. Way up. “You’re not being oversensitive.”

She knew that, of course. He said it anyway, so she could feel sure that he knew; women, black women especially, often had to prove they hadn’t somehow caused the crime against them before anyone would help or even listen. He’d learned this from Betsy, who’d made him a better cop in so many ways. She’d made him a better man, too.

Gabrielle said, “He’s curious about a lot of things. He’s been getting curiouser and curiouser. Ever since Charlotte left him.”

“What do you want to do about it?” Marshall held her gaze, steady, with no expectations or pressure. Ready to follow whatever lead she took.

She shook her head, both disgusted and angry. With herself, in part, he thought. Of course she wanted to call Spencer to account. If she did, though, she could tank her whole career. He saw the complications, same as she did.

“I don’t know yet,” she said, her look daring him to judge her. When he didn’t, she added, “He was always the kind who would call a woman ‘hon,’ but he was never this offsides. Maybe he’ll calm down when the divorce stuff does? Or when he gets an actual girlfriend. For now I’m trying to stay out of his way. But if it gets worse . . .”

“If it gets worse, what?” Marshall tried to keep the same tone, but her temper sparked.

“Oh, what do you know about it?”

“Nothing,” he said, holding up his hands. “All I mean is, if it gets worse, I saw what I saw. And I’ll back you, whatever you decide.”

“And get fired with me? That sounds chummy,” she said.