Chapter 1

Did someone die? My phone shows three missed calls. All within the last hour, and all from a blocked number.

After bagging my groceries, I walk outside to a brisk spring evening. There should be some daylight left, but the sky is rapidly darkening, mobbed by angry clouds. My pace quickens.

Home is a twelve-story apartment building in Chicago’s Lakeview neighborhood, where the elevator deposits me on a friend’s floor. Halfway to his apartment, my phone rings. Unknown Caller. I’m already late. After a moment’s hesitation, I swipe the green icon.“Hello.

”Silence.

I comb a hand across my forehead sweeping dark brown hair from my eyes, bangs from an unruly bowl cut. “Hello?” I say again.

“Joey?”

Joey? What in blazes? No one’s called me that in years. “Who is this?”

“It’s me.” Soft and tentative. “Kristine.”

No, it can’t be. Not after twenty years.

———

We were alone under the football bleachers, bundled up on a chilly winter day. The bell rang, signaling that we should be in Calculus class, but who cared. Our faces inched closer. As Kristine’s lips parted, her breath misted. I closed my eyes, because everyone said you’re supposed to, but we bumped noses. A moment later, I tasted my first kiss. Cherry.

———

The phone is no longer in my hand. Where the— Oh, by my feet. I stoop to retrieve it from the carpeted floor, fighting a sudden wave of vertigo.

“Joey? Are you still there?”

“Kristine? I never expected—How’d you find me?”

“I googled attorneys. There’s no listing for a Joseph Grue, but I recognized your picture. And Maxwell is your middle name, so it made sense. Should I call you Joey or Maxwell?”

“Max is fine. What do you—What’s on your mind?”

“Oh.” She pauses again. “Do you still hate me?”

“What? No, just surprised.” Me hate her? That’s a joke. It’s the other way around.”

“I was hoping to see you. Could I stop by your office? Maybe tomorrow?”

“Why there?”

“I’d also like to discuss a legal matter.”

All at once, it’s hard to breathe. How badly did I screw up her life?

“Max?”

“What? Oh, tomorrow. OK, I guess. Nine o’clock?”

“Perfect. By the way, I changed my name too. And I look different.”

“What’s your new name?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. It was great hearing your voice again. Bye for now.”

It’s been forever, but it suddenly feels like nothing, like we met only yesterday….

———

The freckle-faced little girl who’d moved in next door was playing in her sandbox. When she saw me, she waved me over. “Hi. I’m Kristine and I’m five.” Her smile revealed a large gap between the two front teeth. 

“Hi, I’m Joey.” I held up two plastic dinosaurs. “This is Thunder, and the T-rex is Fang. They’re my favorites. Wanna play?” I offered her Thunder.

“Sure. But can I have Fang?”

Then she chased me around the yard, giggling and yelling, “Rawr!”

———

When I finally rap the brass knocker, the door opens instantly. “It’s about time,” grouses Mr. Crenshaw, my elderly neighbor, whose crusty exterior conceals a warm soul molded by an austere childhood. He’s become a shut-in since a stroke left him temporarily wheelchair bound.

“Sorry, Mr. C.” I lumber into his kitchen with four bulging bags. “The pharmacist was on a break, so I had to wait for your prescriptions. And then I had to take a call.”

Trailing behind, he struggles to push himself over the kitchen threshold while I set aside dirty dishes before plunking the bags onto his counter.

“Careful!” he barks when the stack of plates clatters. “That’s fine china.”

“Sorry.” I was careful, but I get it. This dinner service was his late wife’s favorite, a wedding gift from her grandmother that holds precious memories. After putting away his groceries and loading the dishwasher, I hand him a small bag filled with medications.

“Oops,” says a not so little voice inside my head. “Someone’s a bit distracted tonight.”

Oh, shit! The pharmacist put my prescription in that same bag. Did I just—

My hand shoots to my pocket. When my fingers close around a small plastic bottle, the tension in my chest subsides. For a moment, I thought I’d given Mr. C. my pills, too. No one knows that I take chlorpromazine, and he’s a bit of a busybody. I’d die of shame if he googled it and found out what condition it’s used for.

“Max, are you OK?” he asks quietly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I did. I think I freaking did.”

Normally, I’d stick around for dinner and a game of chess, but not after that call.

“Raincheck?”

Kristine. The girl who introduced me to Ayn Rand and popcorn dipped in ketchup. The girl who stood by my side every day until she wasn’t there at all.

Everyone has their one that got away. Kristine is mine. My best friend growing up. My first love. My partner in everything that mattered. But that was twenty years ago, and a lot has happened since then. Why has she come back? And why now?

Chapter 2

“Why has she come back?” taunts a voice only I can hear, mimicking my words in a crybaby tone. It’s Lance, the gang leader of my invisible tormentors. “That’s easy. REVENGE. And she’s had twenty years to plan it. I can’t wait to see this.”

“You’ll finally get what’s coming to you,” adds one of Lance’s nameless minions, another of the many voices inside my head.

The technical term is auditory hallucinations. I’ve been diagnosed with schizophrenia, and they’re the main symptom. When it’s just Lance, sometimes I can reason with him, but debating his echo chamber is futile. Besides, what could I say?

The way things ended with Kristine, they’re probably right.

My stomach is churning like a volcano. The cold pizza on my dining table will live to see another day, having survived dinner with only one minor bite wound. After cracking open a ginger ale, I sprawl out on an overstuffed Lawson sofa with faded, ink-stained cushions.

My apartment has two bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths. Do I need all that space? Not really, but it was the only way to finagle the second bathroom for guests. That’s crucial. If I only had one bathroom, visitors could snoop through my medicine cabinet—and that could turn into my worst nightmare: everyone seeing me as “the crazy guy.” It’s happened before. Long ago and far away—when my name was different, thank god.

Is Lance right? Is Kristine out for revenge? If that’s it, who could blame her. I’ll never forgive myself, so why should she?

———

“Joey, did you hear me? I said I’m pregnant…. Joey, say something, please…. Joey?”

———

“So, have you thought about it more?” Four weeks later, Kristine’s voice carried traces of hope. “I know it’s sooner than we expected, but I always assumed—You and me, someday.”

I rubbed at my temple feverishly, one hand obscuring half my face. Why couldn’t she just accept the obvious solution? So what if her fricking father would disown her? She hated him anyway.

“Me too, but we’re too young. How would I support you and … it?”

“I could get a job, and we could live with your parents. They’d let us.”

“Yale is five hundred miles away.”

“Oberlin is a good school, too. Or Case Western. You could go there.”

“Kristine, stop. You can’t expect—”

“I can’t expect? I didn’t expect any of this.” She burst into tears. “How can you do this to me?”

I hated myself. But we’d had this same damn argument so many times, and the blood pounding in my ears—my head was about to explode. I took off, slamming the door behind me.

———

The sorriest act of my life, and the timing could not have been worse. Heartbroken and scared to death, Kristine failed her exit exams. Lost her spot at Stanford, shattering her dream of becoming a doctor. We never saw each other again. Soon after our break-up, a car accident left me in a coma. Then the voices started, requiring another lengthy hospitalization. Afterwards, my parents said Kristine had miscarried. It was a relief at the time, but later—

A family portrait floats before my eyes, one that has mocked me countless times. Kristine in a yellow sundress. Me in a navy polo shirt. And between us, smiling shyly, a brown-haired little girl with Kristine’s emerald eyes and my dimples. What could have been.

The next morning finds me awake when dawn creeps in, and pulling the covers over my head doesn’t help. Once up, getting ready takes forever: half-a-dozen tries to get the tie knot straight, a lot of fussing before my hair looks right. Well, right by my standards. No one’s ever used my name and the word chic in the same sentence.

Running behind, I finally reach the skyscraper where I work and dash into an elevator, only to watch as a curly-haired little boy pushes all the buttons for one floor after another, all the while jabbering enthusiastically.

Something stirs within my chest, and a moment later my throat thickens. I’ve always thought I’d make a good father, but after blowing it with Kristine and then getting diagnosed, that hasn’t been in the cards for me.

When the elevator door opens, I take a deep breath. I’m about to get a close-up reminder of what I’ve lost.

How much longer? The digital display reads 8:59. My office is buried in dreary shade, courtesy of two neighboring buildings packed together so tightly that only a sliver of sunlight can wriggle through. I drain the last of my coffee. Still 8:59. Come on, already. Did 9:00 get lost?

Suddenly, the phone intercom squawks. “Mr. Grue!” says a breathless receptionist. “It’s Crystal—I mean, she said to say Kristine, but we—She asked for you.”

The path to the lobby takes me along a speckled marble floor. Past sleek Italian sofas. Past an etched-glass partition demarcating the reception area. Past the ancient portrait of our founder scowling down in godly judgment.

Thirty people are milling about, supposedly waiting for elevators, everyone from senior partners to support staff. It’s never been this crowded here, and the buzz is frenetic. But where is Kristine? And why did the receptionist sound so flustered?

“I knew it,” Lance gloats. “She set you up.”

“Everyone’s here to laugh at you,” says another voice. “They’ll all laugh at the freak.”

My body goes rigid. Is this all a cruel prank?

Ignoring my glare, our receptionist smiles reassuringly. “She’s just freshening up.”

Walking to the window, I use it as a mirror, straightening my red paisley tie for the umpteenth time. The window offers a spectacular view of the Chicago River winding alongside Wacker Drive, where one of the drawbridges has been raised so several tall ships can sail by.

All at once, the chatter crests as a woman appears in the arched entryway. She has beachy copper locks, a dewy complexion, a cover-girl face.

Wait a second. That’s Crystal Wells, the movie star. No wonder my co-workers are falling all over themselves. But why is she staring at me?

She waves tentatively. To me?

Oh my god. “Kristine?”

A smile streaks across her face. “It’s Crystal now.”

Chapter 3

This can’t be possible. How in the world—

I gawk as she walks over. Moving in slow motion, my arm extends for a handshake.

“I’d prefer a hug.” She looks up at me. “I mean, if that’s OK with you.”

The next instant, we embrace fiercely. Closing my eyes, I drink in the fresh lavender of her silky hair. For a moment, I’m back in her basement making out on that lumpy sofa.

And yet, this grown woman bears little resemblance to my teen sweetheart—so little that I’ve never recognized her in the movies. A few things haven’t changed, like those sparkling, deep-set eyes. But this tiny button nose looks nothing like its predecessor, and the endearing gap between her teeth is gone. Kristine had practical, short brown hair, nothing like Crystal’s tousled ginger waves. And Crystal is so thin, her face has morphed from round to oval.

Kristine Winslow was an unabashed nerd, a straight-A student who favored flat shoes, thick-rimmed cat-eye glasses, and plaid pleated skirts. Crystal Wells usually looks like she just stepped out of the latest issue of Vogue, although today she’s wearing a simple green sweater.

Crystal steps back, her eyes echoing a million-watt smile. “Oh my gosh. Look how you’ve filled out.”

“Me? What about you? I can’t believe—How?”

“Once my effing dad couldn’t stop me anymore, I finally got orthodontia. Plastic surgery too, plus dieting and exercise, of course, and dyed my hair.” When I don’t respond instantly, her forehead creases. “You don’t like it?”

“You’ve always looked amazing. Then and now.”

On the way to my office, she gestures to a jagged discoloration on my left cheek. “That wasn’t there before. It adds character. How’d you get it?”

“The car accident.” Rounding a bend in the corridor, we come to a half-closed door.

My cramped office greets us with a musty reminder that a large man sweats through his suit in this stuffy space. Instead of cringing, Crystal breathes in deeply, closing her eyes as if the scent has triggered a memory.

She used to know me so intimately. Every inflection, every mannerism. When Lance speaks to me, will she notice something is off? Suddenly, the hot air blasting from the vent is suffocating. I remove my suit jacket and loosen my tie.

We’re seated on opposite sides of a maple desk. While she fiddles with her skirt, I shift my weight, mentally rehearsing some deflections to questions she’s sure to ask. The real reasons are off limits since they involve my diagnosis and breakdowns. She knows nothing about that.

“Why’d you change your name?” she finally asks.

“Oh, you know.” A casual shrug, as if it’s no big deal. “Joey’s not the most dignified name for a lawyer, and I never liked Joseph or Joe. That left my middle name. What’s your excuse? You changed both names.”

“Couldn’t ditch my frigging father’s surname fast enough. Wells was mom’s maiden name, of course. And Crystal’s a better stage name.”

She had a rocky relationship with her parents, especially her strict, controlling father. I was about to ask how they’re doing, but she’s already cursed him twice.

“I’m so sorry about everything,” I finally say, breaking an uncomfortable silence. “There’s no excuse for what I—”

She inhales sharply. “Apology accepted. We both did things we’re not proud of. But please, can we save the heavy stuff for another time?”

During another awkward pause, her eyes roam my walls, no doubt searching for vibrant family photos but finding only colorless diplomas. “Your degree is from Westminster? What happened to Yale?”

“I transferred. Long story.” Another deflection. My chest feels hollow. We used to tell each other everything.

“So, how’s life treating you?” she asks.

“Not bad.”

“Have you been with this firm the whole time?”

I shake my head. “Bounced around a bit. Kept finding greener pastures.”

“I’m not surprised. You’re so brilliant, I’m sure there were bidding wars for your services.”

“What about you? I’ve seen your movies, of course, but what’s it really like?”

She leans forward. “Oh my god, you’ll never believe what goes on behind the scenes. I’ve worked with some real characters. Like Henley Grogan. That man— We’re filming this romantic scene. It’s set on a Southern plantation. I’m playing a brunette, so the makeup girl applies temporary mascara to my eyebrows—everything has to match. The scene was scripted for indoors, but last minute, we decide to try it outside. Hot, humid day, not to mention the camera lights beating down. No one gives it a second thought, how that changes things.

“We’re face to face, moving in for the big kiss, when I feel something trickling over my eyelids. My mascara melted. Not smudged, but literally melted. Flowing like a river.” She hoots. “I can feel Henley fighting the urge to crack up, but he’s a pro. His index finger brushes my nose. A lover’s caress, except he wipes off a bit of mascara, then licks his finger. One eyebrow shoots up. ‘Not bad.’ He turns to the crew. ‘Can we get donuts in this flavor?’

“Oh, and the wardrobe malfunctions. Epic. Like this one time, I’m supposed to wear this skintight leather bodysuit, but the zipper breaks. It’ll cost a fortune if we postpone filming, and replacing the zipper would be dicey, so they sew me into the damn outfit. Well, everything’s fine until it’s time to remove it. They have to cut it off, but it’s so tight, the damn thing won’t fall off even after they’ve snipped away half of it. I’m not letting those fricking scissors get any closer to my private parts, right? So what’s left?” She cocks her head. “Some clown suggests maybe if I fast for a few days. Thanks, asshole. Another guy says tuck in my tummy—like I haven’t thought of that. Did I mention that Hollywood is full of geniuses? Finally, the director calls his brother-in-law, who happens to be a surgeon, and he gets it off with a scalpel.
“Another time….”

This is the Kristine of old. The animation, the perfectly timed punch lines, the infectious laughter. This is how I always got swept away in her whoosh, my heart dancing like confetti. Just like it’s doing now.

“How did you get your big break?” I ask when she finally comes up for air.

She scooches her chair closer. “Don’t tell anyone, but I owe a lot to my late husband’s connections. Certain doors never would’ve opened without him whispering in the right ears.”

Oh, damn. It was all over the news two months ago. He died in a mass shooting. “Forgive me for not saying this sooner: condolences for your loss. How are you holding up?”

“I’m not in the best place, but that began before David passed.” She sits up straighter.

“I’m glad you brought him up, though, because that’s why I’m here. I want to sue the bastards responsible for his death. Will you be my lawyer?”

Chapter 4

My jaw goes slack. “I’m honored, but you could have any lawyer. Why me?”

“I had my agent ask around. Everyone says you’re amazing. I knew you would be.”

“That’s very kind, but I meant, after everything that happened.”

“My therapist thinks it’s a good idea.” A grin sneaks across her lips. “Who am I to argue?

“No, seriously.”

“Max, please, I’m not ready to have that conversation. For now, isn’t it enough that I’ve worked through some things and realized how much our friendship meant—” Her voice cracks. “Don’t you ever miss that?”

“Every day.” The words squeeze past a lump in my throat.
“I’ve forgiven you, and I really do need a great lawyer. So what do you say?”

Helping her get justice would make things right between us. Not to mention, we’d have a chance to rebuild the friendship that defined me for years.

“I’d need to run a conflict-of-interests check. Who are you thinking of suing?”

“The shooter, of course. Billy Bates.”

I key his name into our client database. “All clear on that one.”

“Guns’R’Us. That’s the store where he bought the weapon.”

“Clear again.”

“And the manufacturer, TyrThor Arms.”

This time, when I click Enter, a red flag flashes onto my screen. I stare at the monitor in disbelief, deflating as my limbs go limp.

“My firm represents TyrThor in a slip-and-fall case. Ethics rules—we can’t sue a client.”

I look up slowly, just in time to see her face fall. “So you can’t help me?”

“Could we leave TyrThor out of it?”

Eyes downcast, she shakes her head. “They’re the most important.”

“Then I can’t. Not without leaving my firm.”

“Worthless coward,” says one of the voices. “You always let her down.”

“Oh. I couldn’t ask you to—”

“I’m not saying no. If there’s any way—Just give me a few days to think about it. OK?”

“Of course, take as long as you need. And thank you for keeping an open mind.”

A few minutes later, it’s time to say goodbye. This time, our hug is more confident.

“It was really great seeing you again,” Crystal says. “Whatever you decide.”

Kristine Winslow is Crystal Wells. The movie star. And she’s forgiven me. The sun takes up residence in my chest, filling me with its warmth. We could be friends again.

I’m weightless. Floating.

Sometime later—a minute? an hour?—a human body comes into view. Far away, just a shadow suspended in time.
There’s motion on the periphery, and a sound. A human voice. “Max!”

I blink rapidly. My secretary. Standing in the doorway, eyebrows pinching in.

“Why are you still here? You’re due in court in ten minutes.”

Oh, shit.

Chapter 5

”An injured little boy is counting on me.

I sprint down Clark Street, briefcase in hand, weaving between cars snarled in traffic. With this gridlock, it’s faster on foot. Only one more block. Breathing hard, I slow to a walk the moment I’m inside. You can’t run in here, not with the metal detectors and armed guards.

The Daley Center, Chicago’s main courthouse, is a thirty-one-story steel office building, a coldly efficient successor to the marble columns of yesteryear. On the nineteenth floor, a courtroom’s rear door opens to a hallway lined with offices. The judges’ private chambers.

This is the day ten-year-old Novak Jovik gets justice, at least if I have anything to say about it. He’s my client, and I’m just in time for his settlement conference. As I reach for the intercom, someone tugs at my elbow.

“Max, wait.” It’s Novak’s mother, Patti. “Everything’s changed.”

Judges aren’t known for tolerating tardiness, but one look at Patti…. I steer her back into the courtroom. “What’s wrong? Is Novak OK?”

Her lips tremble. “No,” she says in a small voice.

I’m helping Patti and Novak sue First Illinois Hospital for malpractice. Novak’s psychiatrist prescribed lithium to treat his bipolar disorder. Two years ago, when Novak began stumbling into walls, the psychiatrist referred him to Dr. Yang, a neurologist at First Illinois. After a battery of tests, Dr. Yang couldn’t find anything wrong and sent Novak home.

His condition deteriorated, but Dr. Yang refused to order more tests. It got so bad, Novak couldn’t hold a toothbrush and started speaking in gibberish. That’s when Patti rushed him to the emergency room. This time, blood tests revealed lithium poisoning. They took Novak off the lithium, but too late; he’d already suffered permanent brain damage.

“What happened?” I ask, pouring Patti a glass of water.

“Broken neck. He fell off the roof. Needs surgery soon, or he’ll never walk again.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Will your insurance cover it?”

Dissolving into sobs, she shakes her head. “They said … on purpose.”

Damn. Her policy doesn’t cover self-inflicted injuries.

“This changes things. I need whatever we can get today.”

My stomach sinks. Our case is worth millions, but if anyone senses Patti’s desperation, we’ll get pennies on the dollar. That would be catastrophic for Novak’s future. He’s more than a client to me. Without charging extra, I helped negotiate his individual education plan, helped find the best doctors, even babysat a few times. He’s such a sweet kid, but lately you could see the fight draining out of him.

Kneeling to avoid towering over Patti with my hefty 6’1 frame, I take her hands. “You trust me, right?” She nods. “Good. I have a plan. There’s no time to explain, but do not, under any circumstances, tell anyone in there what happened. That’s our secret. Understand?”

After she nods again, we head back to the judge’s office.

“Glad you could finally join us,” the judge says, the extra spoonful of sugar in his voice dripping sarcasm. I’m not his favorite lawyer. And it’s mutual.

“Sorry, Your Honor.” I nod a greeting to my defense counterpart, Andrew Hinckley, who introduces me to the hospital’s vice president and the lawyer for their malpractice carrier.

Patti flinches. Everything about this room can be intimidating if you aren’t accustomed to it. Thick leatherbound treatises lining the bookshelves. Photos of the judge shaking hands with governors. The black robe hanging from the door.

“Anything we need to discuss before getting started?” the judge asks, his perfunctory tone dictating that the correct answer is no. He likes to do things his way.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I say firmly.

He rolls his eyes. Seems to do that a lot when I’m around. “What now, Mr. Grue?”

“I’ve got new evidence that changes everything. I’d like to walk everyone through it.”

“Keep it brief.”

“Yes, sir.” Remaining seated, my focus turns to Andrew. “In Dr. Yang’s deposition, I asked if the insurance company pressured him not to order more tests. He said no, insisting the decision rested solely on his medical judgment, not cost concerns. In interrogatory answers, First Illinois swore to that same denial. Well, they both committed perjury. Dr. Yang knew further tests were necessary and sought approval to run them, but the insurance company vetoed it.”

Andrew comes partway out of his chair, but the judge is the one who speaks. “That’s a serious accusation. You’d better have serious evidence to back it up.”

“Oh, I do.” I pass out copies of an affidavit. “This is from Dr. Yang’s long-time office manager. She says the doctor was frustrated by the insurer’s veto, but the hospital wouldn’t get paid if he ran more tests. When she urged him to do it anyway, he said he’d previously gotten in trouble for that. The hospital threatened to fire him if it happened again.”

After huddling with his colleagues, Andrew says, “That assistant is lying. Dr. Yang fired her last year, and this is her way of retaliating.”

“Not so. Two patients corroborated her story; Dr. Yang told them he got in trouble for ordering their tests.” Those affidavits come out of my briefcase.

“Let me see that!” Andrew snatches them away.

“This is a blatant HIPAA violation,” the hospital administrator says.

“Wrong again. She didn’t tell me any confidential information, not even their names. She contacted both patients herself and gave them my card. Then they chose to share their stories.”

The administrator’s look, a mixture of rage and shock, is quite satisfying. Andrew, however, seems disturbingly calm. “As long as we’re sharing, we know about Novak’s recent injury. You can’t afford to wait until trial; he needs money for surgery. So, let’s negotiate.”

Panic spills from Patti’s eyes.

Fortunately, when she was unreachable for the past week, I suspected something like this might have happened and developed a contingency plan. It’s time to play that trump card.

“To make sure you couldn’t leverage Novak’s tragic injury, I’ve arranged another option.” I hand out one last document. “This is a binding offer from Bobrow & Sons, a litigation funding company. As you know, they pay plaintiffs who need cash immediately.”

Basically, Patti can sell them most of her case. In exchange for giving her a lump sum payment now, they’ll get 75% of whatever a jury awards her.

“Bobrow has offered us $3.6 million. If you do the math, factoring in their standard profit margin, that means their experts think our case is worth six million. With the new evidence, we all know a plaintiff’s verdict is a sure thing. The only question is how big.”

Patti stares at me, shellshocked. Since she didn’t return my calls, this is the first she’s heard of Bobrow’s offer. A moment ago, she was resigned to accepting a pittance. But now.

“What’s your number?” Andrew asks.

“Four million. Anything less, Patti might as well go with Bobrow, so take it or leave it, no negotiations. After today, it’s off the table. We’ll accept Bobrow’s deal, and they’ll insist on going to trial. They can afford to wait you out.”