Holly finds she can be much more forceful when she can write “our” and “we” rather than “my” and “I.” She’s working on that, but as her grandfather was wont to say, “Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was Philadelphia.”

She sends off the email—whoosh—and shuts down her computer. She glances at the clock. Seven to three. She goes to the little fridge and takes out a can of Diet Pepsi. She puts it on one of the coasters the firm gives out (YOU LOSE, WE FIND, YOU WIN), then opens the top left drawer of her desk. In here, concealed by a pile of junk paperwork, is a bag of Snickers Bites. She takes out six, one for each commercial break during her show, unwraps them, and lines them up.

Five to three. She turns on the television but mutes it. Maury Povich is currently strutting around and inciting his studio audience. She may have low tastes, but not that low. She considers eating one of her Snickers and tells herself to wait. Just as she is congratulating herself on her forbearance, she hears the elevator and rolls her eyes. It must be Pete. Jerome is way down south.

It’s Pete, all right, and smiling. “Oh, happy day,” he says. “Somebody finally got Al to send a repairman—”

“Al did nothing,” Holly said. “Jerome and I took care of it. It was just a glitch.”

“How—”

“There was a small hack involved.” She’s still got one eye on the clock: three minutes to three. “Jerome did that, but I could have.” Once more, honesty compels her. “At least I think so. Did you find the girl?”

Pete gives her two thumbs up. “At Sunrise House. My first stop. Good news, she wants to go home. She called her mom, who’s coming to get her.”

“Are you sure? Or is that what she told you?”

“I was there when she made the call. I saw the tears. This is a good resolution, Holly. I just hope Mom’s not a deadbeat like that guy Edwards.”

“Edwards will pay,” she says. “My heart is set on it.” On the TV, Maury has been replaced by a dancing bottle of diarrhea medicine. Which in Holly’s opinion is actually an improvement. “Now be quiet, Pete, my show is coming on in one minute.”

“Oh my God, are you still watching that guy?”

Holly gives him a forbidding look. “You are welcome to watch, Pete, but if you intend to make sarcastic remarks and spoil my enjoyment, I wish you would leave.”

Be assertive, Allie Winters likes to tell her. Allie is her therapist. Holly saw another therapist briefly, a man who has written three books and many scholarly articles. This was for reasons apart from the demons that have chased her out of her teens. She needed to talk about more recent demons with Dr. Carl Morton.

“No sarcastic remarks, roger that,” Pete says. “Man, I can’t believe you and Jerome bypassed Al. Took the bull by the horns, so to speak. You rock, Holly.”

“I am trying to be more assertive.”

“And you’re succeeding. Is there a Coke in the fridge?”

“Only diet.”

“Uck. That stuff tastes like—”

“Hush.”

It’s three o’clock. She unmutes the TV just as her show’s theme song starts up. It’s the Bobby Fuller Four singing “I Fought the Law.” A courtroom comes on the screen. The spectators—actually a studio audience, like Maury’s but less feral—are clapping along with the music, and the announcer intones, “Steer clear if you’re a louse, because John Law is in the house!”

“All rise!” George the bailiff cries.

The spectators get up, still clapping and swaying, as Judge John Law comes out of his chambers. He’s six-six (Holly knows this from People magazine, which she hides even better than her Snickers Bites) and bald as an eight-ball . . . although he’s more dark chocolate than black. He’s wearing voluminous robes that sway back and forth as he boogies his way to the bench. He grabs the gavel and tick-tocks it back and forth like a metronome, flashing a full deck of white teeth.

“Oh my dear Jesus in a motorized wheelchair,” Pete says.

Holly gives him her most forbidding look. Pete claps one hand over his mouth and waves the other one in surrender.

“Siddown, siddown,” says Judge Law—actual name Gerald Lawson, Holly also knows this from People, but it’s close enough—and the spectators all sit down. Holly likes John Law because he’s straight from the shoulder, not all snarky and poopy like that Judge Judy. He gets to the point, just as Bill Hodges used to . . . although Judge John Law is no substitute, and not just because he’s a fictional character on a TV show. It’s been years since Bill passed away, but Holly still misses him. Everything she is, everything she has, she owes to Bill. There’s no one like him, although Ralph Anderson, her police detective friend from Oklahoma, comes close.

“What have we got today, Georgie, my brother from another mother?” The spectators chortle at this. “Civil or criminal?”

Holly knows it’s unlikely the same judge would handle both kinds of cases—and a new one every afternoon—but she doesn’t mind; the cases are always interesting.

“Civil, Judge,” Georgie the bailiff says. “The plaintiff is Mrs. Rhoda Daniels. The defendant is her ex-husband, Richard Daniels. At issue is custody of the family dog, Bad Boy.”

“A dog case,” Pete says. “Right up our alley.”

Judge Law leans on his gavel, which is extra-long. “And is Bad Boy in the house, Georgie my man?”

“He’s in a holding room, Judge.”

“Very good, very good, and does Bad Boy bite, as his name might indicate?”

“According to security, he seems to have a very sweet nature, Judge Law.”

“Excellent. Let’s hear what the plaintiff has to say about Bad Boy.”

At this point, the actor playing Rhoda Daniels enters the courtroom. In real life, Holly knows, the plaintiff and defendant would already be seated, but this is more dramatic. As Ms. Daniels sways down the center aisle in a dress that’s too tight and heels that are too high, the announcer says, “We’ll return to Judge Law’s courtroom in just a minute.”

An ad for death insurance comes on, and Holly pops her first Snickers Bite into her mouth.

“Don’t suppose I could have one of those, could I?” Pete asks.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a diet?”

“I get low sugar at this time of day.”

Holly opens her desk drawer—reluctantly—but before she can get to the candy bag, the old lady worrying about how she can pay her husband’s funeral expenses is replaced by a graphic that says BREAKING NEWS. This is followed by Lester Holt, and Holly knows right away it’s going to be serious. Lester Holt is the network’s big gun. Not another 9/11, she thinks every time something like this happens. Please God, not another 9/11 and not nuclear.

Lester says, “We’re interrupting your regularly scheduled programming to bring you news of a large explosion at a middle school in Pineborough, Pennsylvania, a town about forty miles southeast of Pittsburgh. There are reports of numerous casualties, many of them children.”

“Oh my God,” Holly says. She puts the hand that was in the drawer over her mouth.