Ten minutes later, Robert arrived, handcuffs on his wrists. He had that bouncy, nervous energy you saw only in first-time defendants. Career criminals were so confident, usually even more comfortable in court or prison than the lawyers who defended them. Not the newbies, though. You could pick them out a mile away. Like every other Mountjoy resident, Robert was dressed in standard-issue jeans and a cheap-looking check shirt worn over a gray cotton T-shirt. But that was where his similarities to the usual occupants of Mountjoy ended. Robert was, quite simply, ridiculously good-looking. Like a younger version of Jamie Dornan, stepping off the set of some gritty indie movie he was doing for credibility in between Fifty Shades films. It was disconcerting. Robert certainly didn’t look like the kind of man who could beat his girlfriend around the head with a rock, then throw her body into the fetid waters of a Dublin canal. Which didn’t make him innocent, of course, but might help him with a jury.

“I don’t know you,” Robert said. “I hired a different lawyer. Mr. Keyes.”

“Can we have those off, please?” Aifric asked, aiming her words at the retreating back of the prison guard and pointing to the handcuffs on Robert’s wrists. The guard didn’t comment, just turned, removed the handcuffs, and tucked them into his back pocket as he left the room.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Robert.” Aifric gave him a distant, professional smile.

“No offense to you, like,” Robert said, rubbing his wrists. “But you look as if you’re the same age as me.”

“It’s fine. And you’re twenty-two?” She waited for his nod, then gave him a flattering smile designed to infer that there was quite an age gap between them. “Well, I’m older than you, certainly.” By only two years, but that wasn’t something she was planning on sharing. “And Mr. Keyes is still your lawyer, Robert. But the law in Ireland requires that defendants in a murder trial be represented by a lawyer and at least two trial attorneys—a senior counsel and a junior counsel. Your senior counsel will be more involved as we get closer to trial. For now, I’m your junior, just here to introduce myself and discuss your case, now that it’s been sent forward for trial. All right?”

Robert took a seat. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Mr. Keyes said he was going to get the case thrown out. Before trial, I mean. He said they don’t have a leg to stand on.”

Aifric felt queasy. This was exactly the sort of thing Judge Hartigan had been fishing for—the kind of bullshit promises Keyes used to draw defendants in, before he all but abandoned them. “I’m not sure Mr. Keyes had seen the disclosure when he said that. I’ve been reviewing the prosecution’s case, and I’m sorry to tell you, but I think we will be going to trial.”

The words clearly hit Robert hard. His mouth opened as if she had slapped him. He sat for a moment in stunned silence, then drew in a deep, shuddering breath.