He jotted that down and asked his next question without looking up. “It must be awful, having to come to work here every day. On that elevator.”

I took a sharp breath and slowly let it out. “Well. Let me say first that it’s an honor and a privilege to come to work here every day. I wouldn’t have it any other way. But as for the elevator? Yes, that’s difficult. I mean”—I let my voice falter a bit—“that poor woman.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Poor woman? The one who sold almost two thousand human beings?”

“On orders from above, not that that’s any excuse. Obviously. But she had enough innate decency that she couldn’t live with herself afterward. And that makes me sad for her.”

“But not for—” Najarian waved toward the balcony.

“No,” I said tightly. “Not for him.”

He cupped his chin in his hand and gave me a long, probing look. “Can we go back to that day? February second? Describe how it happened.”

I half-spun in my chair. “I’d rather not.”

“It’s not something you like to remember. I understand. But you must realize. There are some people who will always wonder what really happened in that elevator.”

“Do you?” I parried. “Wonder?”

“Oh, well—” He gave a shrug.

“There were only two possibilities, right? Murder or suicide. And one of them was eliminated by both the police and the district attorney. Do you know the legal term stare decisis?”

He shrugged again.

“Already decided,” I said. “Whatever question there was has been settled. Lucy killed herself.”

“But some people—”

“Let me tell you about our new worldwide labor standards.”

He sighed, and with a resigned nod, he scribbled some notes while I held forth about the company’s global initiatives into fair labor practices.

The interview—in fairness, by that point it was a diatribe—wound down after an hour. He pocketed his notepad and thanked me for my time, and I buzzed my assistant to show him out.

After he was gone, I strolled out onto my balcony. The potted trees wore autumn colors now, and the air was crisp with the promise of fall. From here I could see thirty stories down to the miniature cars snarled in a traffic jam at the intersection. But the blare of their horns was too faint to register, and the smell of their exhaust would never reach me up here. It was a bright clear day and I could see the skyline of Manhattan, the spires and crags of the buildings that housed the biggest and best law firms in the world. Once I wouldn’t consider working anywhere else, but no more. Now those law firms worked for me.

Still, there was a shadow over my mood, cast by that reporter asking about the incident. His question triggered a flash of images and sensations that cut like lasers through my brain. I felt faint with hunger again and almost delirious with exhaustion. I felt the rage that burned inside me as I stared into Lucy’s wild animal eyes. I felt the chill of the cold metal trigger against my index finger, I heard the reverberating roar of the gunshot, and I smelled the spicy metallic zing of the gun smoke. My eyes squeezed shut as the flood of memories threatened to swamp me.