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client was handcuffed and led from the building – the ever-present press finally getting a return on their five-hour investment. David and Sara walked behind the doctor as he was led to a waiting police car – as much to provide ‘support’ as to make sure their client did not decide to repeat his ‘
I did it
’ mantra to every local and national media outlet in the country.
    The voyeurs – hundreds of people who, for some reason, had nothing better to do on a Friday night than roll up to play ‘extras’ in the real-life drama starring the most popular shrink on TV – went crazy. It was a circus, backlit by floodlights, filmed by the cameras as hundreds of flashbulbs popped like fireworks on the fourth of July.
    And that was when they saw her, bounding up the road. Amanda Carmichael was already making comments to the press, providing sound bites she knew would headline the morning shows. She hadn’t even been properly briefed and already she was taking command of what she knew would be the highest profile case of the year. David looked around for Joe, hoping his detective friend could rein her in. But it was too late. WithLogan ensconced in the now departing police car, Carmichael had everyone’s attention.
    â€˜Jesus,’ said Sara, eyeing the ADA with distaste. ‘First Katz and now . . . this.’ She gestured at the stunning-looking prosecutor before them.
    David looked at the ADA, as she cleared her throat and called for quiet so that she might make the first official statement in the Stephanie Tyler murder case. In that second, as David’s head still reeled from the death of his friend, the scene of her family and the somewhat unnerving behaviour of her husband, Carmichael met David’s eye and gave him the slightest of smiles. And then, on top of everything else, he remembered the last time they spoke . . . and the proposition she had made.

5
    K atherine de Castro was exhausted. She had been up for most of the night. The police had finally allowed her to take the two Logan children back to her apartment at midnight (given they had no other immediate family and there was nowhere else for them to go) and she spent the rest of the night wondering what the hell to do with them.
    J.T. had said nothing since the ‘accident’ but he obviously felt the need to stick as close to his older sister as possible, for when de Castro had gone to check on him, around 2am, she’d found he had left the living room couch to set up camp on the floor next to Chelsea’s bed in de Castro’s rarely used spare room – his body taut, his jaw clenched, his eyes wide, staring at the ceiling.
    And wanting desperately to help, but having no real maternal instinct to draw upon, she’d gotten a blanket and put it over him before slipping quietly out of the room, and back into her own king-sized bed down the hall.
    How had it come to this?
she asked herself now, as she tightened the blue silk robe around her and poured another strong black coffee from her Italian percolator. She was perched on the edge of one of her designer stools, the early morning sun making its way into her stylish brownstone kitchen, wondering how in the hell she, Katherine de Castro, the forty-year-old,over-achieving, Stanford business grad, ‘
Premiere Magazine
Female Media Executive of the Year’, had ended up trying to ‘comfort’ two grieving teenagers who had just seen their mother blown to bits.
    She could not focus. Any moment now they would be calling and she did not know what to say. The personal assistant to the network’s powerful CEO had rung at 7.15am – just over an hour ago – to tell her that CBC’s head honcho, one Allen Greenburg, had requested a transcontinental conference call at 8.30am Eastern Standard Time – a communication that would involve Greenburg, the President of CBC News, Bob Prescott, the President of Network