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isn’t a lawyer, and he doesn’t give off a lawyer vibe. He’s doing okay, though. No tapping of the feet, no tics, no hand gestures. Either for professional or personal reasons, he’s grown good at hiding what he’s feeling. But it’s there: It’s in his eyes.’
    ‘Did you learn how to do that from your ex-girlfriend?’
    ‘Some of it. She taught me how to put words to sensations.’
    ‘Well, you both did good. That man outside has been concealing truths about himself for a very long time. He has a story that I’d like you to hear.’
    ‘I’m always happy to listen.’
    ‘There’s a complication. I’ve acted on his behalf in the past – nothing serious, a DUI that we had quashed, and a minor dispute with a neighbor – and I’ve agreed to act for him in this matter too, insofar as I can, but I need someone with your skills to work on the ground.’
    ‘So I hear his story, and decide if I want to take the job.’
    ‘I want you to decide before you hear his story.’
    ‘That’s not how I work. Why would you want me to do that?’
    ‘Because I want you to be bound by the same duty of confidentiality as I am.’
    ‘You don’t trust me?’
    ‘I trust you. I’m just not sure how you’re going to react to elements of his story. And if the police become involved I want you to be able to say that you’re working for me, with the consequent protection of privilege.’
    ‘But if I decline to take the case, what’s the problem? How are the cops going to know?’
    She took her time before answering.
    ‘Because you might feel compelled to share with them what you learn here.’
    Now it was my turn to pause.
    ‘No, that’s not my style,’ I said at last.
    ‘Do you trust me ?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You’ll want to take this case. You’ll have reservations about the client, perhaps, but you’ll want to take the case. What he did, he did a long time ago, but it may have ramifications for an investigation that’s ongoing.’
    ‘What did he do?’
    ‘You’ll take the case?’
    ‘What did he do ?’
    She grimaced, then sat back in her chair.
    ‘He murdered a girl.’

4
    H e entered with his body slightly hunched, as though tensed to receive a blow, and there was an almost childlike aspect to his demeanor. He reminded me of an errant boy who has been called to the principal’s office in order to explain his actions, and doesn’t believe that he has a plausible excuse. Such men and women were a familiar sight to me, and to Aimee Price. Lawyers’ offices have something of the confessional about them; in their confines, truths are revealed, justifications offered, and penances negotiated.
    He was wearing dark-rimmed spectacles with the faintest of tints. The lenses did not look thick, and the magnifying effect on his eyes was barely noticeable. They struck me as a shield of sorts, an element of his armory of defenses. He called himself Randall Haight. It was the name on his business card, and the name by which he was known to his neighbors, with whom, for the most part, he maintained distant yet cordial relations, the only exception being Arthur Holden, the other party in the old boundary dispute that had left a lingering bitterness hanging like a miasma over the adjacent properties. According to Aimee, Haight had backed down before it could become a matter for the court, and therefore increasingly messy, and expensive, and public.
    Public: That was the important word, for Randall Haight was a most private man.
    Haight took a seat next to me, having first shaken hands in a tentative manner, his body leaning away from me even as his hand was extended, possibly fearful that I might be the one to strike that long-anticipated blow. He knew that Aimee would have told me enough to give me an adverse opinion of him, should I have chosen to form one. I tried to keep my face neutral because, in truth, I wasn’t sure how I felt about Haight. I wanted to hear what he had to say before I reached any conclusions, but