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and trust.”
    Antonio nods at his grim reflection in the darkened window. “I know you will.”

Chapter Eleven
    B riley giggles as Timothy’s lips, cooled by the ice cream he’s just finished, nuzzle the side of her neck.
    â€œThat tickles,” she says, sliding out of his embrace. “You should warm up those lips before you start breathing down my throat.”
    His smile widens in approval. “Got any ideas about how I could do that?”
    Briley laughs. They are standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk on Chicago’s “Magnificent Mile,” surrounded by shoppers and employees who, like her, really should get back to work.
    She wags a gloved finger at him. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”
    â€œSounds promising.”
    â€œCome on, walk me back to the office.”
    Timothy sighs and grabs her hand as they begin to walk. “Thanks for making time for lunch. And for ice cream.”
    â€œYou’re welcome. Maybe we could do it again sometime.”
    â€œIf we’re lucky.”
    She’s about to suggest that they make it a regular date when the tinkle of a cell phone spoils the silence. She groans. “Yours or mine?”
    â€œNot my ring tone. And Dax shouldn’t be calling for at least another half hour.”
    â€œOhmygoodness.” Briley stops walking and yanks her purse from her shoulder. “My boss. I programmed that ring tone for Mr. Franklin, never dreaming he’d actually callme.” She finds the phone at the bottom of her bag and presses it to her ear. “Hello?”
    She listens, hears her boss’s voice, and strides to a granite planter edging the sidewalk. After dropping her purse on the rim of the planter, she slides the phone between her shoulder and her ear, then rummages for a grocery list at the bottom of her bag. She looks at Timothy, frantically pretending to write on the air.
    â€œNo, sir,” she tells her boss. “You didn’t catch me at a bad time.”
    Timothy hands her a pen, which she clicks. With his shoulder as a support, she’s jotting a client’s name on the back of the grocery list when a chill strikes the marrow of her bones.
    â€œDid you say Erin Tomassi?” She grips the phone. “The state senator’s wife?”
    â€œThe state senator’s widow,” her boss answers. “And, according to the state’s attorney, his killer. She was arrested this morning, so you’ll need to get over to the jail ASAP.”
    Briley winces, not sure she’s heard correctly above the sound of tires hissing on the wet asphalt. “You want me to go to the jail? Am I filling in for Morton or Hubbard?”
    â€œWhat’s the problem? Aren’t alleged killers entitled to your representation?”
    â€œThat’s not what I meant. Of course I’ll go. But I’ve never handled a murder case. And this trial—”
    â€œWe need you to get over there and give us a full report as soon as you can. The Tomassis are highly valued clients, so we need to know what the state’s attorney knows. See if you can get a summary of the case and a copy of the police report.”
    â€œRight. Okay.” Briley disconnects the call and drops the phone back into her purse. She looks at Timothy, aware that most of the sunshine has just gone out of the day.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” he asks.
    â€œA client,” she says, a sense of unease settling over her like a dark cloud. “A murder charge.”
    He whistles. “That’s not your usual gig, is it?”
    â€œNo.” She frowns at the name on the paper in her hand. “It involves the Tomassi family. This trial is going to be huge, so why did he call—”
    â€œBecause you’re good.” Timothy takes his pen from her grip and puts it back in his pocket, then laces his fingers with hers. “Come on, let’s get you back to the office.”
    Briley walks