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dysfunction treatment and low-rate mortgage offers, but then I worked on the first floor so maybe I wasn't privy to its more intellectual applications. I went back to nosing through Dougie's desk drawers before I said something stupid. Like this: "I'll be happy to mention it to Ken next time I talk to him, if you want."
    I could be wrong, but it looked for a second like she levitated right off the floor. "You'd do that for me?"
    Sure, I could fit in right between finding a husband for my sister and a new location for Paige's desk. "You deserve some credit around here," I said, and I meant it. I just wasn't sure I was the one to get it for her. I didn't have Missy's seniority or Janice's personality or Paige's looks, but hey, I could always type a note and slip it under Ken's door
    Just when I was feeling virtuous over the whole thing, she said, "Then this afternoon he dropped the bomb."
    Uh-oh. I stopped snooping in Dougie's desk and waited for the proverbial other shoe to drop. Now that I'd evidently committed myself without all the facts, it was probably about to drop on my head.
    "You know I sit in on all of Doug's trials," she said. "I help him locate documents, keep exhibits and witness lists straight, that sort of thing." She sneaked a glance at me, so I nodded. "Well, Lezenby's set for next week." Her toe dug into the carpet. "He told me he doesn't want me in the courtroom anymore. He said my looks are a liability with the jury."
    Jeez.
    Her eyes lifted to meet mine, and I had to work hard to keep sympathy off my face. "What's wrong with my looks?" she asked.
    In a perfect world, there was absolutely nothing wrong with her looks. She was bright and capable and very professional, even in her long-sleeved, high-necked, floor-length granny dress. And with her hair drawn back so tightly into a bun that her eyes were slitted. Okay, so she had a little work to do in the looks department. But that shouldn't have kept her out of a courtroom, and it certainly shouldn't have any effect on a jury. My guess was in Dougie's world, without benefit of makeup and push-up bras and the brazen flashing of skin, she was a piece of furniture. My skin prickled at the injustice of it.
    "I can't answer that," I said, which was true enough. "But I think Dougie's being very short-sighted not recognizing your value to this firm."
    A small, resigned smile flitted across her lips and was gone, swallowed up by a massive sigh. "Story of my life," she said. "Look, I don't think the Biederman file is here. I'll just find it tomorrow. Thanks anyway."
    I circled Dougie's desk, my ransacking intentions forgotten, and caught up with her at the doorway. I've always had a soft spot for underdogs. "Are you going to be alright?"
    She seemed a little surprised, maybe even touched by my concern. "I'm always alright," she said. "But I'd be better if Doug would fall down the courthouse steps someday."
    Which is when I began to like Donna a whole lot more.

 
CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    I haven't carried too many childhood traumas into my adulthood. Long ago I came to grips with the fact that I couldn't cook like my mother, I didn't yearn to give birth like my sister, and I wouldn't ever preside over a diversified and profitable retirement account like my father. I didn't hold a college degree. I was single, and I lived in a shoebox. Some people would call this failure. I called it opportunity. I lived on a street in a town called Mapleton that was lined with trees and filled with bungalows, some of them expanded to two stories. My shoebox was on the second floor of a bungalow owned by Curt Emerson. It had lots of lawn, beige vinyl siding and a brown roof, and Curt kept the lawn mowed and the leaves raked, which was good enough for me.  Curt was a package delivery driver by profession, a confirmed bachelor by preference, and a landlord by sheer luck. Mine. If I earned an actual living wage, I'd have to come up with reasons not to buy a place of my own, and I liked