A memory of the lawyer came back. He didn’t like the man one bit. Rothstein had been retained by a firm in Washington, it seemed. But he wouldn’t say which one. When they’d met after Laurel had left, the attorney had suddenly grown distracted, taking and sending several text messages as he explained to Shales how the case was going to proceed. It seemed that his attitude had changed: as if whatever he said or did, Shales was fucked.

It was odd that the man hadn’t known much about Shreve Metzger, though he was very familiar with NIOS. Rothstein seemed to spend more time in Washington than here. His advice at this point had been simple: Don’t say a word to anybody about anything. They would try to make him cave, Nance Laurel was a duplicitous bitch, you know duplicitous, you know what I mean, Barry. Oh, don’t trust a thing she says.

Shales had explained that Metzger may have done some pretty bad things in trying to cover up the case. “Like, I think he might have killed somebody.”

“That’s not our issue.”

“Well, it is,” Shales said. “It’s exactly our issue.”

The lawyer had received another text. He regarded the screen for a long moment. He said he had to go. He’d be in touch soon.

Rothstein had left.

And Barry Shales was brought down here and deposited, alone in the silent, pungent room.

Moments passed, a thousand heartbeats, an eternity, when he heard the door at the far end of the corridor buzz open. Footsteps approached.

Maybe it was a guard to summon him to another meeting. With whom? Rothstein? Or Nance Laurel, who would offer him a solid plea bargain.

In exchange for giving up Shreve Metzger.

Everything told him he should do it. His brain, his heart, his conscience. And think of the torture of living this way: seeing Marg and the boys through a greasy glass window. He’d never see the kids learn sports, never see them on holiday mornings. And they’d grow up enduring the torment and taunting of having a father in prison.

The hopelessness of the situation bore down on him, surrounded him and strangled. He wanted to scream. But the consequences were his own fault. He’d made the decision to join NIOS, to kill people by pushbutton from half a world away.

But ultimately it came down to this: You didn’t give up your fellow soldiers. Right or wrong. Barry Shales sighed. Metzger was safe, at least from him. Cells like this one would be his home for the next twenty or thirty years.

He was preparing to give Nance Laurel the news she didn’t want to hear when the footsteps outside stopped and the door clanked open.