unrecognizable. The furniture had melted into shapeless forms. She couldn't focus on her diplomas. Her poster for the City Hall blood drive was a crimson blur and a banner for the organ donor drive read GIVE A LIVER, SAVE A LIFE GIVEALIVERSAVEALIFE.
Jen ran to her cluttered desk against the window. It faced north over the ornate Masonic temple and ordinarily she loved the view. Tonight she couldn't see it. She tore open the right-hand drawer and felt for her purse. It wasn't there, where she always put it. Oh, no. The injector was inside it. Where was her purse? Jen rifled through pencils, pens, and paper clips for the brown Coach bag. It wasn't there. Had she put it here? Where was it last?
Jen ripped through her personal bills. Nothing but paper. She threw them up in the air, frantic. She had put it here, hadn't she? Had she locked the drawer? There'd been thefts even in her office. Jen tried to think through the pain clenching like a fist behind her eyes. Of course she hadn't locked the drawer. It was unlocked when she came in.
Nausea bubbled in her stomach. She almost burst into tears. The snow and all, and the murders. She'd forgotten to lock the drawer. Now she didn't have the Imitrex. Fucking what was she going to do? She had only minutes before she'd collapse completely. Jen flung open the second drawer and ransacked it for her purse, then searched the third. Memos and other papers flew everywhere, floating to the carpet. Please don't be lost. Please be here. But it wasn't.
Jen leaned on the desk for support. Think. Yes! She had a spare injector in the ladies' room. She ran for the office door and flung it open, trying not to cry. Trying not to scream, not to puke. She took the hallway corner full speed and dashed flat out to the ladies' room. She wrenched the door open, slammed it behind her, and ripped open the mirrored medicine cabinet. Her vision was almost gone; she had to find the injector by feel. It was hidden in an empty Tampax cylinder and marked JEN ONLY OR DIE. Her whole world was dissolving. Dematerializing. Breaking up into a jagged kaleidoscope of light and pain.
Jen fumbled with shaking hands through the skinny glass shelves, knocking everything out. She heard the thunder of a toothbrush as it crashed to the basin. The din of a plastic cup as it smashed to the floor and rolled around the porcelain tile. Where was the goddamn syringe?
There! Jen grabbed the Tampax with the syringe and fell onto the toilet seat. She bit off the cap, spit it out, and jammed the needle through her panty hose and into the muscle of her thigh. In three minutes she would be human again. She closed her eyes and tears slipped from beneath her eyelids. Relief was on the way, except there were the sounds of a scuffle outside the bathroom door and then someone started pounding on the door.
'Jen, it's Alix! Alix Locke. I need a copy of that speech!'
24
Marta stood in the hotel room of one of her jurors, about to engage in conduct that would constitute jury tampering and obstruction of justice, as well as violate several key ethical and disciplinary rules. She didn't want to think about what would happen if she were discovered. Humiliation, loss of license and livelihood. As much as she needed to be here, Marta felt slightly stunned that she actually was. She scared herself at times.
Christopher was even more stunned than Marta. He couldn't say anything, and
'Do you mind if I sit down?' Marta asked, finding her voice.
'Yes. No. Sure. Suit yourself,' Christopher said. He gestured awkwardly toward the bed, then caught himself. What was the matter with him? Just because he thought about an affair with her didn't mean it was going to happen. Christopher was supposed to be a gentleman. He pushed his room service cart out of the way and patted the chair. 'Uh, here. Here, in this chair. I mean. Would be better.'
'Thanks.' Marta took off her knit hat and perched on the edge of the chair. She had to get to the point and fast. Maybe it was the beard that hid most of his features, but Christopher was so impassive Marta wasn't sure he knew she wasn't Lainie. 'Do you know who I am, Christopher?'
'Marta.'
'Right.' He'd called her by her first name, and Marta wasn't entirely surprised. 'I bet you think this is a little strange. Not to mention illegal.'
Christopher laughed, and it came out like a gulp. Of what? Fear? Hope? Love? His own laughter was a sound he didn't hear often, and it sounded odd. It made him aware that the ruckus from next door had finally stopped. They'd even turned off the TV. 'Well, yes,' he said, his voice low, out of caution. 'I was, well, wondering.'
'It's a surprise, I know.'
'Huh? Sure. Well, yeah. You look good,' he blurted out, and as soon as the words left his mouth he winced. He was a grown man with his own business and he was acting like a teenager. It was all because Marta was so beautiful, and dressed in casual clothes, she looked more friendly. Softer. Christopher could actually see them together. Married. Maybe because she was wearing clothes like his wife's. 'I mean, you look a lot like Lainie. You did a real good job. How did you know what Lainie looks like?'
'I have her picture in the file. It's from the newspaper. The photo of the two of you, above your engagement announcement.'
'How did you get ahold of that?' Christopher asked in surprise. 'It was only in our local paper.'
'One of the jury consultants got it from the computer. If it's published, it's on the computer. Local or not.'
Christopher wasn't sure he liked them spying on him like that, but he couldn't be mad at Marta. She looked so good, different. Her hair was all changed. The stiff blond cut was gone, replaced by a looser brown hairdo. Lainie used to call her haircut a 'shag,' but it didn't look shaggy on Marta. 'What did you do to your hair? Did you cut it? Dye it?'
'Not exactly. I didn't have much time.' Marta reached up and yanked the wig off her head. The shock of it brought another surprised laugh from Christopher.
'Oh, man,' he said, sinking onto the dresser in front of the bed. 'Man, oh, man.'
'I got the whole outfit at Woolworth's.' Marta scratched her scalp, relieved to have the itchy wig off even though it had kept her head warm. 'I remembered what your wife wore in the photo and the way she kept her hair.'
