The phone rangwhile we were cleaning up dinner.
Michael answered it in the living room, and I heard his tone shift. The voice he used for sources.
When he came back to the kitchen, his face was different.
“Who was it?” I asked, loading plates into the dishwasher.
“My editor. They’re getting calls about the piece.” He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “Good calls, mostly. Other journalists wanting to follow up. The police department asking for clarification on sourcing.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Yeah. It’s good.” But his jaw was tight.
I dried my hands and turned to face him. “Michael.”
He held my eyes for a beat too long. “There was one strange one. Someone calling themselves a ‘concerned citizen,’ asking questions about my family.”
My stomach dropped. “What kind of questions?”
“Where we live. Whether I have kids. How to contact me directly.” He reached for me, pulling me close despite my belly between us. “My editor shut it down. Told them the paper doesn’t give out personal information. But Shell?—”
“It’s probably nothing,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like my voice.
“Probably.” But his arms tightened around me.
Rose kicked between us, and Michael went still.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said quietly. “To any of you. I promise.”
I believed him.
I believed we were safe.
San Ramon,California, January 1998
The subpoena arrived on a Tuesday.
Michael stood in our kitchen holding it, his face completely shut down. Behind him, through the window, Blaze was pushing Rose on the swing set Patrick had built last summer. Her squeals drifted through the glass. Two years old and fearless, demandinghigher, higherin the voice that meant she’d throw a fit if she didn’t get it.
“When?” I asked.
“March fifteenth.” He set the paper on the counter like it weighed something. “The trial’s been scheduled. They’re calling everyone who contributed to the investigation.”
I wrapped my arms around myself. Sunshine pouring through the kitchen window, and I was freezing. “You knew this was coming.”
“Knowing and seeing it in writing are different things.” He turned to me, and I could see it. Something grinding himdown that he’d been hiding from me. “Shell, I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
“There’ve been new... incidents.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Letters to the paper. Hang-up calls on my direct line. And I think someone followed me from the office last week.”
My knees went soft. “You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Well, I’m scared now!” My voice came out louder than I meant it to. Through the window, Blaze’s head turned toward the house. I dropped my volume. “Michael, Ochoa’s people don’t just send letters. You documented what they do. You wrote about the bodies, the threats, the...”
“I know.” His hands found my shoulders, and they were steady even though mine wouldn’t have been. “I know what they’re capable of. That’s why I’ve been careful. That’s why I talked to the FBI field office, why I told my editor, why I’ve been varying my route home.”
