But this time my life really did change in an instant. The instant I walked out of the Women’s Unit at Valhalla and into Mark Ivins’s car.

Three weeks in, this was my new life.

I woke, early and well rested in my king-size bed, made a cup of coffee in the De’Longhi, and drank it standing at the French doors, where I could watch the first fingers of sunlight creep into the garden. The hyacinths were in bloom in the borders, and I opened the door to drink in their lush, intoxicating scent. But of course they were in bloom. Everything in this garden was forced in a hothouse and not brought here until its moment of perfect beauty, then whisked away when the flowers faded. There was never any awkward in-between phase in Mark’s garden. It was much like the women who worked for him. They all seemed to be at the peak of their beauty and were probably pensioned off when their looks started to fade. Nonetheless they all adored him. One of my favorite pastimes was guessing which of them he was sleeping with besides Phoebe. Maybe all of them.

After coffee I dressed in a T-shirt and leggings and went next door to the firm’s basement-level gym. Two of my coworkers were already there, spinning to the heavy bass beat of dance music. I greeted them with a nod and mounted the treadmill and watched the morning news while I ran five miles. Phoebe arrived as I was dismounting, and while we spotted each other on the weights, she updated me on all the office gossip, both professional (Mark’s settlement with Genco would give him five seats on the reconstituted board of directors; he’d be in control of that company just as he controlled a dozen others) and personal (Mark and his wife were having a rough patch; she had family money, but Mark’s net worth had outstripped hers, and that had to change the dynamic of their marriage).

We parted after the requisite reps, and Phoebe got on the treadmill while I went through the elevator and back to my apartment.

Next up in the schedule of my new life: a rain shower, followed by an hour at my desk responding to emails and reviewing pleadings. My office was here in my apartment. This was Mark’s solution for maintaining the Chinese wall between me and the Palmer team, but it suited me well. I didn’t care to fraternize with the rest of the & Associates; I didn’t plan to be with them that long.

I also spent some time poking into the firm’s electronic records. Except for the password-protected files, I had full access, and browsing through the various pleadings and correspondence and financial records was an easy way for me to get the lay of the land here. It was also the way I’d uncovered the mystery of how Mark happened to bail me out of jail only minutes before Barrett’s people would have: he’d been slipping money to the bail clerk at Valhalla from the first week of my incarceration. He’d known all along that I was in there, but until the clerk tipped him off that my bail was about to be posted by Jack Culligan, there was no reason for him to do anything about it. I didn’t blame him for that delay. Obviously he couldn’t be sure I’d be an asset to him until he learned that I was a liability to Barrett.