It’s that practiced restraint that allows me to keep my standing lunch appointment, even though eating is the last thing I want to do. But it’s a ritual. Me, Sofia, Brent, and Stanton—the current fab four of criminal law. Sometimes it’s in our offices, most times it’s held at any of the taverns or cafés located within blocks of our firm. We’re sitting at one of those places now—at a round, checkered-clothed curbside table, the March air and afternoon sun just warm enough to eat outside. Stanton’s morning court session ran over so he’s late to the party.

Sofia stands up when he approaches, smoothing down her sleek black skirt, her four-inch heels lifting her to eye level with her boyfriend.

He kisses her with smiling lips and a sappy expression. “Hey, darlin’.”

She runs a hand through his blond hair. “Hi.”

Brent leans back in his chair, his dark blue gaze glinting with mischief. “I don’t get a kiss?”

Stanton pulls out Sofia’s chair for her, then sits in his own. “My ass is always available for you, Mason.”

“Actually, I was talking to Sofia.”

“Her ass is off-limits,” Stanton replies, scanning the menu.

Stanton Shaw is a good old boy—in every sense of the term. Originally a Mississippi farm boy, he’s honest, loyal, has a low tolerance for bullshit, and exudes an easy, genuine charm that women find irresistible—as do juries. We met in law school and became roommates shortly after that. He’s a heavy hitter around the firm—his record is as impressive as my own—and he’s got his eye on a partnership. But, unlike me, Stanton has baggage. Cool, sweet baggage, sure, but baggage all the same.

I don’t like kids—too needy, too whiny. Stanton’s daughter, Presley, is the sole exception. She lives back in Mississippi with her mother, Stanton’s ex, but she comes to DC often enough that my friend has more than earned his Daddy moniker. And he relishes it. If sunshine took human form, like some Greek myth, she would be Presley Shaw. She’s just a great fucking kid.

After we order, talk turns to our latest cases, the goings-on at the firm. Who’s stepping on whose toes, who has a figurative knife ready to perform a good backstabbing. This isn’t gossip; it’s intel. Ears to the ground to gather the information we need to know to make our next move.

Our food arrives and the conversation shifts to politics. DC may be a large city, but when it comes to strategy and alliances, it resembles an episode of Survivor. And everyone’s salivating to vote someone off the island.

But I’m only listening to them with one ear. My other ear is still ringing with the revelation of my unexpected visitor. Lainey. Not likely to forget her name again. I try to stay calm about it, but my sweaty palms betray me. And unless I’m hitting the bag at the gym or running my seven miles a day, I don’t fucking sweat. I consider the odds that I’m actually infected and what that means for me. I think about how I came to this point—the choices I should have made differently to avoid the sick feeling in my stomach that makes me leave my meal untouched.

Brent’s voice pulls me out of my head. “What’s wrong with you today?”

I meet his inquisitive stare with a bland one. “Why would you think something’s wrong?”

He shrugs. “You’ve gone way beyond the strong silent type and are approaching selective mutism. What gives?”

Brent is a talker. A sharer. He comes from a family of extreme wealth going back several generations. But his parents aren’t the cold, silent aristocrats you’d imagine. Sure, they’re kind of eccentric, which I find entertaining as hell, but they’re also warm, funny, giving people and they passed those qualities on to their son. Because they don’t actually work, Brent’s family members have way too much time on their hands—so they’re also way too involved in each other’s personal lives. There are no secrets in the Mason clan. Last month his cousin Carolyn emailed the family newsletter with her ovulation date attached, so everyone could keep their fingers crossed for her.

And I’m not even kidding. They’d make a fucking hysterical reality show.

When he was a kid Brent was in an accident, hit by a speeding car. He survived, minus the lower half of one leg. But he’s good with it—self-pity is not in his vocabulary. His pretty face probably helps in that regard—and the fact that women practically beg for him to screw them doesn’t hurt, either. He’s also a big believer in therapy. I suspect he’s dished out more cash to therapists over the years than he paid for his house.

I am not a sharer or a talker. But we still get along—a yin-and-yang kind of thing. Brent has a knack for dragging me out of my shell in a way that doesn’t make me want to punch him.

But not today.

“I don’t want talk about it.”

His eyes lock on me like a fighter pilot on a target. Or an annoying younger sibling. “Well, now you have to talk about it.”

“Not really,” I say flatly.

“Come on—spill. Tell us. Tell us. You know you want to. Tell us.”

Stanton chuckles. “You might as well just come out with it, Jake. He’s not gonna stop until you do.”

I offer an alternative. “I could break his jaw. Having it wired shut would stop him.”

Brent strokes his newly grown, manicured beard. “Like you’d do anything to mar this priceless work of art. That would be a crime. Just tell us. Teeeeeell us.”