An hour later, Nat found herself at the Avondale barracks of the Pennsylvania State Police, chained to a wall. It was unreal. She was in a small, windowless room that looked like a normal office—except that one entire wall was covered with stainless steel from floor to ceiling. She sat on a stainless steel bench built into the steel wall, with her wrists handcuffed to a steel rail at arm height, and her legs, in boots, manacled to each other and looped through another steel rail, at ankle height. She was filthy, wet, and exhausted, and could barely process that the trooper had been killed before her eyes, and that Barb had been shot.

Be good for your aunt. One candy a piece, and that’s it.

Nat couldn’t get her thoughts together. She felt tears come to her eyes and didn’t try to wipe them away, even if she could. Barbara was a mother of three. Her boys could be orphaned. Who would have done that? Why? Was it connected to the burglary? To the prison riot? It had to be, but Nat was too stunned to piece it together. Water soaked her coat, mud covered her boots. Her hair dripped filthy water, and the warmth that she’d felt spatter her face was the trooper’s blood.

Please, step outside the car, Ms. Greco.

Nat tried to think. This would turn out all right. The troopers would come in and unlock her cuffs and leg irons, understanding that she’d had nothing to do with either of these crimes. They couldn’t seriously suspect her of murdering a cop. They would realize their mistake in bringing her in. She would go home to Hank. She closed her eyes but his wasn’t the first face that came to mind.

Natalie, listen.

Suddenly the main door opened, and a heavy-set man in a brown suit jacket, brown print tie, and khakis came in, smiling at her in a professional way and pulling over a metal chair. “Hello, Ms. Greco,” he said warmly. “I’m Trooper David Brian Mundy.” He sat down and gestured to the manacles. “Sorry the patrol officers had to lock you up like this. I know it’s uncomfortable.”

Nat felt her temper flare. “Trooper, new shoes are uncomfortable. Handcuffs and leg irons are another thing entirely.”

“Fair enough.” Mundy nodded. “Sorry about that, but it’s procedure. Security.” His voice was unusually soft for such a large man, and he had shoulders as wide as a defensive lineman’s. His face was open and honest, with the heavy cheekbones of a Native American, and his eyes were brown, his nose short and wide, and his complexion uneven. He asked, “Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks.” Nat had no idea how she’d hold it anyway.

“You’re not missing anything. It tastes like motor oil.” Mundy chuckled and eased back into the chair, his heavy thighs spreading in his slacks. He was about forty-five, judging from the lines around his eyes. He took a minute to appraise Nat, with evident empathy. “You’re quite a sight. My wife would say it’s a bad hair day.”

“Can I just ask, how is Barb Saunders?”

“The last I heard, she was still unconscious and in intensive care. She took two bullets to the chest.”

No. Nat regretted not asking for coffee. She needed something. She felt like crying but knew she had to watch her step. She didn’t know if this was an interview or a custodial interrogation, but the leg manacles were a tip-off. If it went south, she’d invoke her right to counsel.

“Would you like some water, or anything from the vending machines? Bag of chips?”

“No, thanks,” Nat answered, as another man entered the room. He was as tall as Mundy but leaner, in a dark gray suit and striped tie. A strip of graying blond hair ringed his bald head, and he had narrow blue eyes and thin lips. He didn’t smile, but nodded in Nat’s direction.

“I’m Trooper Edward Duffy. We’re both detectives here.”

“Nat Greco,” she said, as Duffy sat down in a far chair and put a steno pad and pen in his lap. He didn’t even look up. You didn’t have to be a professor to know who was the good cop and who the bad.

“So how do you know Barbara Saunders, Ms. Greco?” Mundy asked.

“She’s the widow of a prison guard, a C.O.” Nat straightened up on the slippery bench. “Why don’t you tell me why I’m locked up?”

Mundy nodded again. “Okay, well, it wasn’t long after Barbara Saunders was shot that Trooper Matt Shorney was shot dead, not far from her house. We have reason to believe you may know something about his death. He stopped you and called in your plate, so we can place that time, exactly.” Trooper Mundy paused. “Look, we saw the ID in your wallet, so you’re obviously an educated person. You have no criminal record. You teach at a law school. Penn, right?”

“Yes. I teach law. I study law. Do you really think I would kill a state trooper?” It was so absurd that Nat could barely control her tone.

“Nobody’s saying that yet.”

“Then why am I chained to a wall?”

“Like I said, it’s standard procedure.” Mundy glanced in Duffy’s direction, but the other trooper was taking notes. “I gotta tell you, I can’t figure you out. You don’t fit the profile. Not in the least.”

“Of course I don’t. It’s unthinkable.”

“But if you have information for me, you can help us both by talking to me. Come on, meet me halfway.” Mundy’s eyes softened. “Tell me what you know about Trooper Shorney’s death. I’m here to listen. You said something to the troopers about a man you saw shoot him.”

Nat wanted to trust him, but couldn’t. Red flags were waving from all quarters. “So I’m not a suspect?”

“Professor, let’s not play games. You’re smart enough to know that you’d be making it easier on yourself if you talked to me. If your story about the man is true, you’re a material witness. Tell me what happened.”

“So I’m not a suspect,” Nat said, and Duffy, on the other chair, sat staring, stone-faced.

“You’re a person of interest,” he interjected, his tone cold.

Wrong answer. “Then I want to make my phone call,” Nat said evenly.

They unshackled Nat, led her down to the basement of the barracks, and deposited her in a small white interview room with a few black chairs on either side of a fake-wood table, a stained gray rug, and a Panasonic videocamera in the corner, which was turned off. A phone sat on the table. She punched in Hank’s cell number again. She didn’t know any criminal lawyers, but they could find one together, and she wanted him to know what was going on. If the trooper’s murder had made the TV news already, he could have recognized the red Volvo, with its Penn Law parking sticker. She waited four rings, then he picked up.

“Hello?” Hank said, and Nat felt a warm rush at his voice.

“Babe, it’s me.”

“Nat? I can’t hear you too well. We’re in the middle of a game here. Lemme call you back.”

“No, wait—”

“Call you later. Love you.”

Great. The dial tone came back on. Nat tried again, but no answer. She checked her watch. Almost eleven o’clock. She had to get a lawyer, tonight. She thought of Angus. He’d been in the back of her mind anyway, taking up permanent residence. She called information for the hospital again, dialed his room, and he picked up. “Angus?”

“That you, Natalie? I’ve been calling your cell for the past hour. What happened with Barb?”

“How long you got?” Nat collected her thoughts and told him the story tersely. He listened in shocked silence. Then she got to the point: “I think I need a criminal lawyer.”

“Of course you do! Jesus, God. Listen, don’t worry. I know everybody in criminal defense. I wish I could be there myself.” Angus cursed in frustration. “You know the drill, though. Don’t say a thing.”

“Of course.”

“Not a thing! Don’t try to convince them, because you can’t.”

“I won’t.”

“God knows what’s going on out there. I can’t believe this.”

“And Barb? Can you imagine?” Nat felt sick inside, but she’d had time to think. “Somebody must want whatever it is she has. Did they try to kill her to get it? Or did she find it after I left, and they took it and shot her?”

“We’ll sort it out later. In the meantime, focus on yourself. I’ll have one of the best criminal lawyers in town there in an hour. Sit tight.”

“I don’t have much choice.”

“Natalie, everything’s going to be all right,” Angus said softly, which was exactly what she needed to hear.

An hour later, back in the interview room, the initial shock had worn off, and Nat was wrapping her mind around her own predicament. They couldn’t connect her to the murder, simply because there would be no evidence. She hadn’t done it, so she had nothing to worry about. Reason reigned, even in Chester County. The next time the door to the interview room opened, Trooper Mundy stuck his head inside, then admitted someone else.

“Ms. Greco, your attorney is here. We’ll give you a few minutes with him, then we’ll be back.”

“Thanks.” Nat rose as Mundy shut the door, leaving her alone with a balding, preppy sixty-year-old in rimless glasses. He wore a red paisley bowtie and a black topcoat that looked like cashmere, and he carried a leather envelope with an expensive patina. He was hardly what she expected, but top criminal lawyers made great money and appearances could be deceiving. For example, she was covered in horse manure.

“Hello, I’m Carter Brooke,” the lawyer said. He extended a hand, then stopped in midair with a slightest sniff. “Too bad they didn’t let you wash up.”

“They couldn’t.”

“Why not? It’s just rude.” Brooke’s eyes glinted gray as Nantucket Sound.

The question only confused Nat. “They’ll have to do a residue test on my hands, to determine if I fired a gun. Though the mud will mask the fact that I haven’t, so the lack of residue won’t prove my innocence. That’s not good.” She eyed her filthy hands with dismay. “They want everything according to procedure because they think I shot a cop, which of course, I didn’t.”

“Right. Let’s get down to brass tacks. We don’t have much time.” Brooke slid out of his topcoat, revealing a full-dress black wool tuxedo with satin lapels and red paisley cummerbund.

“A tux?” Nat asked, astounded.

“I was at dinner.”

“In a tux?”

“A firm dinner.” Brooke folded his topcoat carefully, then set it on the cleanest chair he could find, which was none.

“What firm are you with?”

“Dechert.”

“Really?” It was one of the best firms in town. For bankers. “They do criminal cases?”

“I do, most of them. I’ve represented major clients in antitrust probes and SEC investigations, from target letter to trial.”

But all white-collar work. “Have you ever tried a murder case?”

“Well, no.” Brooke pulled over one of the broken-down chairs. “But this shouldn’t be too difficult tonight. We’ll get co-counsel if they charge you. By the way, I hear you’re a fellow Yalie.”

Nat was stumped. “Angus said you were one of the best criminal lawyers in town.”

“Angus who?” Brooke withdrew a black Mont Blanc from inside his tuxedo, just as the door opened and the two troopers reentered the interview room.

“Okay, folks, let’s get this show on the road.” Mundy pulled up his chair, and the other trooper took a chair off to the side, but Nat wasn’t finished with her conversation.

“Angus Holt,” she said to Brooke. “He sent you here, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know any Angus, except steak.” Brooke sat down, brushed off his tuxedo pants, and extracted a fresh legal pad from his leather envelope. “I was called by your father. Greco Construction has us on retainer.”

Oh no. Mr. Tuxedo must’ve gotten here before Angus’s lawyer. “How did my father even know I was here?”

“I don’t know.” Brooke expertly twisted off the gleaming top of his pen between thumb and index finger.

“Wait, hold on.” Nat turned to the troopers, raising her hand like a nervous 1L. “Trooper Mundy, this isn’t my lawyer.”

“What are you talking about?” Mundy glared at Brooke, who stiffened defensively.

“Yes, I am.”

“No, I have another lawyer coming. I want to wait for him.” Nat turned to Brooke. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing personal.” But the other guy will know what he’s doing.

“We’re not playing games here,” Trooper Duffy interjected, his eyes hard. “You have a lawyer present and he’s more than qualified. We can’t wait anymore, and as long as you’re represented, we have no legal obligation to wait.” He turned to Brooke. “Are you willing and able to serve as counsel?”

“Certainly.” Brooke looked matter-of-factly at Nat. “Maybe I’m not whom you expected, but the sooner we get this started, the sooner you can get home.”

Nat considered it. She could probably represent herself at this stage. Hell, even Jelly could represent her at this stage.

Way to go, Dad. “Okay, let’s proceed,” she said, then braced herself.