The Moreno case was to be her way of validating sacrifices like those. Okay, and of making a name for herself too. Amelia had nailed it right when she’d sussed out the political career track. The ambition remained even if her name ultimately decorated no ballot.

Yet even a loss at the Metzger trial would have succeeded in a way. NIOS’s Kill Room would have been exposed. That might have been enough to sink the assassination program forever. The hungry media and more-starved congressmen would have been all over NIOS like flies.

She’d have been sacrificed—her career would have ended—but at least she would have made sure the truth of Metzger’s crimes came out.

But now, this? Her boss pulling the case? No, there was nothing good to come of that.

She supposed the whistleblower had vanished and there would be no more identification of other victims in the queue. Sorry, Mr. Rashid.

What was in her future? Laurel laughed at the question. Returned to the kitchen and this time actually brewed a cup of tea. Adding two sugars on the grounds that rose hips were tart. The future, right: an unemployment period she’d spend with Seinfeld reruns and dining on one then what the hell a second Lean Cuisine. One glass of Kendall-Jackson too many. Computer chess. Then interviews. Then a job at a big Wall Street firm.

Her heart sank.

She now thought of David, as she often did. Always did. “The thing is, look, you’re pushing me for an answer, Nance. Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s you’re kind of a schoolmarm. You know what I mean? I can’t live up to that. You want everything perfect, everything right. You correct, you find fault. There, sorry. I didn’t want to say it. You made me.”

Forget him.

You’ve got your career.

Except you don’t.

On her bookshelf—half law books, half novels, one cookbook—was a picture of her and David. Both smiling.

Below that was a boxed chess set, wood, not plastic.

Throw it out, she told herself.

I will.

Not yet.

All right. Enough of that. Self-pity was what she saw in the most depraved of sex perverts and murderers and she wasn’t going to allow it to seep into her soul. You’ve still got your caseload. Get to work. She—

A noise in the hallway.

A tap, a click, a faint thud.

Then nothing.

Mrs. Parsons dropping her shopping bag. Mr. Lefkowitz juggling toy poodle and cane.

She stared at the TV, then at the microwave, then at the bedroom.

Get out the fucking brief in State v. Gonzalez and start editing.

Laurel jumped when the doorbell rang.

She walked to the door. “Who is it?”

“Detective Flaherty, NYPD.”