My husband hurled a porcelain plate against my head at a Blackwood family dinner.

Grant's formal arraignment was on a Thursday.

I didn't go.

There was no reason to, and Reeves had advised against it.

But I knew the time — 10 a.m.

— and I sat in my office that morning with the door closed and worked through a contract review that needed to be done, and at 10 a.m.

I set my pen down and looked at the window for exactly one minute.

Then I picked the pen back up and kept working.

Reeves called at noon.

"He entered a not guilty plea," he said.

"His attorney is already filing motions.

It's going to be a long process."

"I know."

"Eleanor entered the same plea.

Her attorney is arguing she had no operational knowledge — that the signatures were administrative, not directional."

"Forty-seven signatures," I said.

"We're aware.

The argument won't hold, but it will take time to demonstrate that." A pause.

"Ms.

Crane.

I want to prepare you for something."

"Go ahead."

"Grant's attorney reached out to our office this morning.

Grant is willing to cooperate — partial cooperation — in exchange for a reduced charge and sentencing consideration."

I was quiet.

"What does partial cooperation mean?" I said.

"He's willing to provide information on two other individuals connected to the offshore structures.

People outside the Blackwood family.

In exchange, he wants the conspiracy charge reduced and a sentencing recommendation of seven to ten years instead of fifteen."

"And Eleanor?"

A pause.

"He is not offering information about his mother."

Of course not.

"What does your office want to do?" I said.

"That's not my decision alone.

But I want to know how you feel about it."

I looked out the window.

The city below moved the way it always did — indifferent, continuous, unconcerned with any single person's reckoning.

"I think Grant Blackwood has spent his entire life making deals," I said.

"I think he believes there is always a way to negotiate the consequences down to something manageable.

I think he is doing exactly what he has always done." I paused.

"I also think the decision about whether his cooperation is worth a reduced charge is yours to make, not mine.

I gave you everything I had.

What you do with it is your job."

"That's a very measured answer," Reeves said.

"I've had a long week."

He almost laughed.

"One more thing.

Grant asked — through his attorney — whether you would be willing to speak with him.

Before the process goes further."

"No."

"I told his attorney as much.

I wanted you to hear it from me directly."

"Thank you."

After I hung up, I sat for a moment.

Then I opened my desk drawer and took out the card Grant's attorney had sent two days earlier — a formal, lawyer-drafted request for a meeting, phrased carefully, asking me to consider the impact of a prolonged trial on both parties.

I tore it in half.

Then in half again.

Then I put it in the bin.

My assistant knocked and opened the door.

"Your two o'clock is here."

"Send them in," I said.

I closed the drawer.

I straightened the contract on my desk.

I stood up to greet my client with a steady hand and a clear face, and the morning — Grant's arraignment, Reeves's call, the torn card in the bin — folded itself into the past where it belonged.

That evening I walked home.

It was cold, and the walk was twenty minutes, and I had not walked home from work in years because there had always been a car, a driver, a Blackwood schedule to maintain.

My phone buzzed once.

I looked at the screen.

Grant.

Not his attorney.

Grant directly.

One message.

*I never thought you'd actually do it.*

I read it once.