Phoebe twisted to face Ivins. “That discrepancy in the fourth quarter—”

His forehead creased. “We always wondered how Bartman stumbled on that.”

“Maybe he was led there,” I said.

Phoebe chewed her lip. “Should we ask to adjourn pending discovery?”

We’d reached Foley Square, and as the driver pulled up to the courthouse, Phoebe handed back a silk tie, already knotted, and Ivins looped it over his neck and slid the knot up to his throat. She closed a briefcase on her lap and handed that back, too. “Good luck,” she said.

“Thanks.” He reached up to lay a hand on her shoulder, and she smiled up at him, and that was when I knew they were sleeping together.

“Thanks,” he said again, this time to me. He hopped out at the curb to jog up the courthouse steps.

“WHAT WAS THAT about Internet stuff?” I asked Phoebe as the driver made a U-turn and headed north.

“You don’t know?” She smiled. “You’re something of a sensation. There’s a bunch of message boards debating your case, and the pro-Shay side is winning. You have your own hashtag. #FreeShay. And somebody even started a GoFundMe to raise money for your defense.”

“What? Who?”

She shrugged. “Probably some dork in his basement who’s fantasizing about you. But the thing is, it caught fire. I think it’s raised close to fifty thousand dollars.”

“What?” I exclaimed again, even louder. “Why?”

“Because your story’s so compelling. It could happen to any of us—being stuck in an elevator with a suicide. And then getting blamed for it.” She shuddered at the injustice. “And of course it helped how you looked.”

“What?” I said again.

“Never underestimate the power of a good mug shot. It went viral, you know.”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

“Left up here, Lonnie,” Phoebe said to the driver, and he nodded and turned the wheel. “I thought you’d like to get your hair and nails done first. I know that’s the first thing I’d do if I—” She caught herself.

“Just got sprung from jail?”

She gave a wide-eyed nod. She had perfect winged eyeliner, so precise it could have been applied by a pinstriping machine in an auto factory. “Was it awful?”

I shrugged. “I made some friends.”

She didn’t know what to do with that information. “Oh, well,” she said. Then, brightly, “Here we are!”

The driver pulled up beside a pink awning that flared out over the storefront windows of a swanky salon and day spa. I climbed out after Phoebe. A stylist was waiting at the door with a smile—“You must be Shay. Welcome!”—and so was a manicurist—“I’m a big fan!”

Over the next two hours I was draped and washed, foiled and trimmed, soaked and dried, clipped and polished, and served a Cobb salad and a glass of pinot grigio. All while my attendants chattered brightly about my ordeal, and how great I looked, considering, and how amazing I was going to look and feel when they were done with me.