Page 3 of Jury Woman, Part 2 of 6

"Shhh," I warned her. "I haven't told Warren. He'd explode."

She frowned. "I'd like to see that."

"Besides, I'm just an alternate."

"Stop downplaying your role—you're important."

Elaine laid the garment bags across the bed and unzipped the first one. Structured blazers. Silk blouses. A pair of dark trousers I would never have bought for myself.

"I'm not sure I should be gone this long," I said. "The kids—"

"Will survive. We survived summers with just Dad when Mom was sick." She held a blazer up against me. "They need this, Isabel. Not your absence specifically, but the experience of your absence."

I sat on the edge of the bed. "I know you're right."

"I usually am." She wasn't wrong often enough for me to argue. "Besides, I'll be nearby."

"That might be more than you're bargaining for."

"I'll bill you later." She unzipped the second bag. "Now. Tell me everything about this case."

"Elaine."

"Just the broad strokes."

"No broad strokes. No narrow ones either."

She looked at me with barely-contained delight and drew her fingers across her lips in a slow zipper motion. Then she gave a little squeal.

I couldn’t help but laugh. And I gave in to the little thrill of anticipation bubbling in my chest.

August 2, Sunday

I'D PACKED and repacked my suitcase three times, which is a little insane since I was only allowed to bring essentials. After perfunctory, sullen hugs and mumbled goodbyes, the kids had scattered in opposite directions. I don't think they still fully understood the situation, but I had hope they would acclimate.

I wheeled my bag into the garage and pressed the garage door opener, then loaded my suitcase into the back seat. When the garage door raised, Warren stood beside his fancy new car in the driveway. I sighed.

"This is absurd," he said, by way of hello. "And it violates the custody agreement. I have a life, Isabel. A business to run."

"I have confidence in you. And it'll be good for the kids."

"Good for the kids, or good for you?"

That stopped me. "That's not fair."

"I think you're trying to punish me."

I straightened. "Warren, you get six uninterrupted months with your children. Most divorced dads would call that a gift."

His mouth tightened.

"Think of it as an opportunity," I added, opening the door to my SUV. "Get to know them. They can be great sometimes."

I swung inside and closed the door, then backed down the driveway. When I pulled away, I watched him shrink in my rearview mirror, arms crossed, standing in front of the house like a man guarding a fort he didn't want.

The hotel was nothing like I'd pictured. I'd imagined a Best Western with vending machines and fluorescent lighting. Instead, marble floors gleamed under chandeliers, and a bellhop reached for luggage that federal marshals promptly intercepted.

A stocky man with a lanyard and a clipboard introduced himself as Randall Mott, the jury coordinator, his handshake firm and his smile the practiced kind of professionals who manage groups of anxious strangers for a living. Behind him stood Deputy Wells, unreadable as ever, offering me nothing more than a curt nod that somehow still managed to land somewhere near my sternum.