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young cops in the department. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” said Vince.
    “I mean I’m afraid for us,” she said. “I don’t want this to take us back to the bad old days.”
    She was talking about a stretch of time before they were married, a few weeks after he became a hero, soon after the doctors removed the bandages—when Vince came to the frightening realization that he would never again see her smile, never look into those eyes as her heart pounded against his chest, never see the expression on her face when she was happy or sad or just plain bored. That was the same day he’d told her it would be best to stop seeing each other, and the unintended pun had made them both cry.
    Vince held her tight. “That’s not going to happen.”
    She unwound from his embrace and pressed her forehead against his, as if willing him to look her in the eye.
    “Do you promise?”
    It gave him goose bumps, this latest confirmation of how foolish he had been to push Alicia away, assuming as he had that it was only a matter of time before a beautiful young woman fell out of love with a blind man.
    “Yes,” he said. “I promise.”
    A strange noise reverberated near the dresser. They froze, each one processing it in a separate darkness, and then shared a laugh as they dove beneath the sheets.
    “Sam!”

Chapter Seven
    O n Thursday morning, two hours before the scheduled arraignment of Jamal Wakefield in Miami-Dade County circuit court, Jack went to the Pretrial Detention Center with just one objective:
    “I’m withdrawing as counsel,” he told Neil.
    The long prison corridor was lined with iron bars, and Neil had been waiting for Jack outside one of the attorney-client conference rooms. Charged with a capital offense, Jamal was held in a safety cell, away from the drunk drivers and petty thieves, which meant that he was allowed just two “under glass” visits per week. Inmates were allowed to meet and talk privately with their lawyers, however, and Jamal Wakefield was waiting on the other side of the locked door. Jack blurted out the words before Neil could even say hello.
    “I’m sorry,” said Jack. “I’ll do whatever I can today to transfer the case to you. But I’m out.”
    Neil just smiled, completely unfazed. “Like old times, isn’t it?”
    It was indeed déjà vu. Jack had probably resigned a dozen times from the institute before actually packing up and leaving. It wasn’t just the emotional drain of defending the guilty. As he’d told Neil more than ten years ago, he probably could have stuck it out if he had met just one guy on death row who was genuinely sorry for what he’d done. But those weren’t the kind of cases that the institute handled.
    “Give me one chance to change your mind,” said Neil.
    “It won’t work.”
    “I’ll cut off my ponytail if it doesn’t.”
    Whoa. That was serious. “You’re on,” said Jack.
    The guard unlocked the door from the inside, and the two lawyers entered.
    “I’ll be back in thirty minutes,” the guard said, and then he closed the door.
    The fluorescent lights overhead were so bright that Jack almost needed sunglasses. The floor was bare concrete, and the cinder-block walls were pale yellow with no windows. Seated at the Formica-topped table was Jamal Wakefield. The transformation since Gitmo was startling. A shave and a haircut alone made him look years younger, and even after three years of incarceration, it was easy to see how handsome McKenna’s boyfriend had once been. Jack truly didn’t recognize him.
    The silver-haired man seated beside Jamal, however, was another story.
    “Long time no see,” said Peter Swenson.
    In a classic case of overcorrection, Jack had literally switched sides after leaving the institute, spending the next two years of his career as a federal prosecutor. As Neil knew well, Swenson was the polygraph examiner that Jack had used regularly to test his informants.
    “With my ponytail on the line, I wanted Jamal