Page 55 of The Guilty Trial

Jason stared through the windshield at the ribbon of highway stretching back to Tacoma. “I don’t know, Allie. A sitting federal judge protecting a corrupt prosecution? That’s pretty extreme.”

“Of course it is. But who would have believed that at least two members of the prosecution compelled witnesses to lie on the stand? Either way, what if someone figured that out? Someone who cared enough and was angry enough. It explains why the judge and the prosecutors are being targeted.”

Jason settled into the drive for a few miles before he glanced at her again. “You doing all right?”

Allie shot him a glance. “Fine. Why?”

“You’ve been fidgeting since we got in the car. And you keep checking your phone.”

She self-consciously stilled her hands and put her phone face down on her thigh. “I’m not fidgeting.”

“Allie.”

She exhaled and turned toward the window, watching the evergreens blur past. “I’m having dinner at Ethan’s tonight.”

Jason’s mouth curved into a slow grin. “That’s what this is about? You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are absolutely nervous. You’ve been squirming since we left the boutique, and it has nothing to do with what Donatella told us.”

She pressed her lips together, trying to hold back the warmth creeping up her neck. “There’s something good happening between us, and I don’t want to mess it up. I’m not exactly known for being great at this part.”

Jason laughed, a genuine sound that filled the car and cut through the gravity that had settled over the day. “Allie, you track serial killers for a living. You can handle dinner.”

“Cases have protocols. There are no protocols for this. Sometimes I feel like a relational klutz.”

“Just be yourself. It’s not like you don’t know him. It’s Ethan we’re talking about. Don’t overthink it. And whatever you do, don’t be awkward.”

“Great. Very helpful.”

“I’m serious.” His voice softened, and when she looked at him, the teasing had given way to something steadier. “Ethan’s a good guy. He knows who you are, and he likes who you are. You don’t need to perform or be anyone other than Allie Bishop.” He paused. “Just maybe leave the case files in the car.”

She almost smiled. “I’ll consider it.”

“That’s all I ask.” He turned the radio on low, a jazz station he favored on longer drives, and the miles passed in comfortable silence. Allie leaned her head against the window and let her thoughts drift from the polished woman in the Olympia boutique to the quiet house in Pickens where a man and his dog would be waiting for her.

Chapter Thirty-One

Residence of Ethan Pierce

Pickens, Washington

“Touchdown!”

The boy caught the football clean after Ethan launched it in a high spiral across the yard. He tucked it against his ribs and juked an invisible defender before spiking the ball in the grass with a celebration dance that involved too many limbs and not enough rhythm.

“Solid catch!” Ethan called back. “Make sure to keep two hands on the ball through the tackle. One arm makes you vulnerable.”

Shepherd scooped up the ball and launched it back, his arm surprisingly strong for a kid his age. The throw wobbled but found its mark, and Ethan caught it at his chest. He was about to send another one downfield when a cottontail bolted from beneath the porch steps and darted across the open ground toward the tree line. Duke was gone before Ethan could even open his mouth, the black lab’s ears pinned back and his legs churning through the tall grass in gleeful pursuit.

“Duke, get back here!” Ethan shouted, but the dog was already disappearing into the brush, his bark echoing through the property like a car alarm in a church parking lot.

Shepherd doubled over laughing. “He’s never going to catch it.”

“No, he is not.” Ethan shook his head and tucked the football under his arm. “But he’ll come back smelling like he rolled in something that’s been dead for a week, and then he’ll want to sit on the couch.”

He headed for the house and checked the smoker on his way past. The ribs had been on for nearly five hours, the hickory smoke curling up through the vents in thin blue ribbons. He lifted the lid, and the heat rose in a wall, carrying with it the deep, peppery sweetness of the dry rub he’d applied that morning. The meat had pulled back from the bones just enough to tell him they were close. Another thirty minutes, maybe forty.