The Enemy Who Saved Me

1. Janet

JANET

"You can hide from the truth for a while, but sooner or later, it finds you."

The jury watches me like I'm the only solid thing in the room. I pause, giving them time to reflect on that before I continue.

"He didn't lose control that night." I let the silence sit for a second before I keep going. "He planned it. He drove to that apartment with a knife already in his pocket. He waited outside for forty minutes. That's not rage. That's patience."

Diallo doesn't look at me. His lawyer keeps whispering things he isn't listening to.

I walk along the jury box, slowly, my heels quiet on the floor.

"The defense wants you to believe this was a crime of passion. A man who snapped." I stop. "But you don't bring a knife to a moment of passion. You bring it to a moment you've already decided on."

Juror Four, an older woman in a green cardigan, nods before she catches herself doing it.

I take that nod with me back to my table.

"The People believe the evidence shows premeditation beyond a reasonable doubt. We're confident you'll see it the same way."

I sit. My pulse is steady.

The judge calls a recess, and the room exhales around me — chairs scraping, papers shuffling, someone's phone buzzing in a pocket they forgot to silence.

Peter is waiting by the doors when I push through them, arms crossed, that look on his face he gets when he's pleased and doesn't want to spend too many words saying so.

"Good," he says.

"We'll see."

"I watched juror six. She was halfway to guilty before you finished your second sentence." He falls into step beside me, his voice dropping the way it does when he's about to say something he means. "You know I tell the other ADAs to watch your openings."

"Who am I supposed to watch?"

"Me."

I almost smile. Almost.

"I knew you were going to say that."

"Drink?"

"No, I want to get started on the Tomlin case."

“You know I’m not hitting on you, right?” he says.

“I’m good.”

"I have to say that.”

“No, you don’t, but…”

“Hey, go home and Netflix the hell out. Find one of those reality shows and binge that."

He says it like he's done me a favor, handing me an evening off I didn't ask for. But he's not wrong. There's nothing left to do tonight except wait.

The supermarket near my apartment is too bright at seven o'clock, the fluorescent light that makes everyone look a little guilty.

Basil. Garlic. A box of pasta. Two lemons.

I'm reaching for parmesan when I feel someone behind me; I notice before I see him.

"Let me guess." A man's voice, low and amused. "Lemon garlic pasta. Maybe a little white wine in the sauce too, not just the glass."

I turn. He's tall, dark hair, a gray Henley that fits like it was made for him and not bought off a rack. He's looking into my cart like it's a puzzle he already solved.

"Good guess."

"That's not a guess." He nods at his cart. Basil, garlic, lemon, and parmesan.

"Huh."

"But it takes more than the right ingredients."

"What does it take?"

"The right pans and the right YouTube videos."

Up close, his eyes are the dark brown that doesn't give much away, but his mouth is already halfway to a smile, like he's used to people enjoying him and doesn't see a reason tonight would be different.

I nod and walk away.

"Can we have a sidebar, counselor?"

"What?"

His eyes drop, briefly, to the lanyard still clipped to my blazer. Manhattan District Attorney's Office. "Counselor."

Heat moves up my neck.

I rip the badge off my blazer. I almost laugh.

"Too late, I saw it, Janet Graham."

He says my name slow, testing the shape of it, like he wants to make sure he'll remember exactly how it sounds. "I'm Mike. I'd ask if I could buy you a drink, Janet, but I have a feeling you'd object."

"You're out of order."

I walk away. Smiling.

I turn back. I don't see him.

I go to check out.

I take out my card. There's a picture of Joe tucked behind the plastic, the edges soft from years of being handled.

I hear his voice, clear, like he's standing right behind me instead of six years gone.

"But that makes little sense; she quit her job for him," I say.

"He promised to marry her and changed his mind." Joe grabs my arm before I walk into traffic, not even looking up from his phone.

"They had a contract."

"He asked her to marry him. That's not a contract."

"It's a verbal agreement to marry, and the ring was a gift."

"If they got married."

"She shouldn't have to give it back."

"What if she broke it off?"

"She should still keep the ring. It's a gift."

The ring catches the streetlight first.

We're three blocks from our apartment, his hand warm around mine. Laughing.

Sirens somewhere far off. A couple arguing two doors down. Steam rising off a grate like the sidewalk is breathing.

A man steps out of the dark so fast I don't have time to be afraid before I'm already afraid.

He pulls me into the alley.

He points a gun at Joe.

Grabs my purse. "Wallet," he says to Joe.

Joe moves in front of me. No hesitation, like his body decided before his mind caught up.

Joe hands the wallet over.

"Okay," Joe says, both hands up, calm, careful. "Okay, that's it, you have everything."

"Her ring."

"No," Joe says.

The man grabs for my hand. For the ring. Joe's wedding ring, the one we picked out together, the one that's supposed to mean we have forty more years of nights like this one.

Joe shoves the man's arm away.

The gun goes off before I understand what happened.

The man bolts. Footsteps. Gone.

Joe falls into me in slow motion. For one stupid, suspended second, I think he tripped. I think we're going to laugh about this later. I think nothing has actually happened yet?—

I feel the wet heat soaking through his shirt onto my hands.

Joe. Joe. Somebody help! Help!

I'm pressing down on the wound with both hands, hard, the way you're supposed to.

Joe's eyes find mine. He's trying to say something. I lean down so close our foreheads almost touch, begging him to finish the sentence, to stay, to not leave me alone on this sidewalk with his blood on my hands and my ring still on my finger because the man ran before he could finish taking it.

He doesn't finish the sentence.

The sirens that were far away are close now. Too late. Always too late.

"Hey, lady!" a voice behind me on line yells.

I'm gripping the cart so hard my knuckles ache.

A woman throws me a look that says move, and I realize I've been standing frozen who knows how long.

I make myself breathe. In for four. Out for four. The therapist taught me years ago.

My hands stop shaking by the time I reach the register.

I pay and get out of there.

At home, I make dinner.

Basil, garlic, lemon, and parmesan. I don't need a YouTube video.

I pour a glass of white wine.

I sit on the couch and watch Netflix the hell out.

That guy was right. What was it? Mike.