I have problems sleeping that night - the thoughts from the case running furiously through my mind. Peter, next to me, doesn't seem to have any such problems.

Several times I almost wake him, almost try and use him as a sounding board the same way he sometimes uses me.

In the end, though, I don't.

Both because talking to him about the case would raise the obvious questions, and the answers might get Leela into trouble.

And also because this case is *mine*, mine and mine alone in a way that nothing has been in this household for far too long a time.

It's completely irrational I know - I'd be surprised if he didn't know more about this case than even Leela.

But our ownership doesn't overlap - doesn't even touch - in a way that almost feels a little illicit.

I give up on sleep sometime after two, and quietly get out of bed and go down to the study. There are some facts, some half-remembered case law and some potentially interesting interactions between the two that have been buzzing around my head for the last hour or so. And if they're not going to leave me alone long enough to get a good night's sleep, I may as well try and dig up the relevant references.

I'd forgotten how much fun this kind of detail work can be and, before I know it, I've been sucked into a world of references and cross-indexing, notes filling up the pages of a pad that has long since been abandoned by one of the kids. (Zach, I absently think.)

"Having fun?" Peter's voice asks from the doorway. He's looking sleepy but not tired.

I blink and realise that there's natural light coming in through the curtains. All of a sudden, I'm feeling as tired as he isn't.

"What are you working on?" he asks, coming over to the desk, which has papers and books scattered artfully across it.

I manage to resist the urge to cover them up with my arms, and just smile up at him. "Just felt the urge to exercise my brain a little. I thought I'd work on something theoretical."

He gives me a half smile. "You'll have to tell me all about it later," he says, then scrunches up his face. "Tomorrow, maybe. There are some meetings I've got to attend tonight."

"A State Attorney's work is never done," I say, smiling a little as I quickly sort the desk, then get to my feet to make us some breakfast.

And from thence, it's going to be a couple of hours before I'm going to be able to catch a nap, despite the wall of fatigue currently hitting me.

The kids will be up shortly, and then it's morning coffee with the neighbourhood housewives.

None of which I'm actually feeling like facing in my current state, but appearances must be maintained.

Speaking of which, I make a mental note that I really must apply the makeup extra heavily today.

The things I must do.


Leela smirks a little that afternoon when she sees how much work I've done.

"You really have been busy, haven't you?"

"Hard work is what earned me top place at Georgetown," I say, with only a trace of sharpness about my voice.

She looks at me for a moment, clearly evaluating me, before saying slowly. "You obviously earned it."

I can feel myself relaxing. "Just so." I hand her one of the printed documents. Relevant sections are highlighted, and I've added a few careful notes. "Now, I think you'll find this particularly interesting..."

This sets the pattern for the next couple of weeks.

She doesn't come around every day, but even when she doesn't, she phones me, just to let me know the state of play and if there's anything she thinks that I might want to know.

It's strictly professional, though. She doesn't offer any personal details, and neither do I, beyond what she obviously already knows.

Peter never does bring up my overnight project, and I don't poke that hornet's nest. I can't imagine that he'd be pleased that Leela was consulting with me behind his back, not on this kind of case, and I...

I'm relishing the kind of challenge I haven't had - not quite - in many a year.

It makes me feel whole in a way that I hadn't realised I was missing.

And then Leela's investigation finishes.

Or, at least, she doesn't need my help any longer.

Her last visit, with an almost apologetic air, makes that clear enough. The case is going to court, and she's going to be shuffled off onto the backlog of other cases that have been mounting up ever since she was tied up with this one.

The calls and the visits stop.

I could phone her - I could - but my pride won't let me.

It won't even let me make discreet inquiries of Peter, to find out how the case I worked so hard on is going.

The first few days are the worst.

I may even drink more than my customary one glass of wine when three rolls around, just to try and dampen the analytical side of my brain again.

But slowly, *slowly* I manage to get back to my old state of normal.

The me who existed before this, and was content with this life.

It's not that hard.

Not really.


It's takes about two weeks for there to come a knocking on my door just after three.

Standing on the porch, looking almost hesitant, is Leela. And any respectability her usual pantsuit may give her is completely negated by the brown paper bag in her left hand, obviously concealing a bottle of something alcoholic.

"Hey," she says.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Tahiri," I say, and she winces a little. Unexpectedly, it draws forth some sympathy from me. Despite myself, despite the normal that I'd almost managed to return to, I *am* pleased to see her. "I wasn't expecting you," I add in a somewhat softer tone.

"Sorry," she says. "Work's been a little hectic, and this is the first afternoon I've been able to get away for an hour or two. Even with my flexible schedule."

I open the door more fully for her and step back. "Well, come in. You're making the porch look untidy."

She shrugs and half smiles. "Wouldn't want that," she says as she steps inside.

"Tequila?" I ask as she unwraps the bottle. "Isn't it a bit early for that?"

"Thought it'd make a change from red wine," she says. "'Sides, I was planning on helping you with it."

I hover for a moment, undecided. "Well, I can have a shot, I guess," and bustle off to the kitchen to grab a couple of glasses, which I then place in front of Leela.

She hands me one after deftly filling the both of them, then raises the other to her lips.

I can't help feeling this is more than a little insane, but I follow her example and we both swallow at the same time.

"So," I say after blinking for a moment. "Did the case go well?"

Leela grins for a moment before ducking her head. When she raises it again, she's turned it down to just a slight smile. "Yeah. Yeah, it did. Thanks to your help. Even got a commendation from the State Attorney himself."

"Nothing to do with me, I assure you. I haven't even mentioned that you've been here more than once."

"Thanks."

There's a pause, which I feel impelled to swiftly fill. "So, what're you working on at the moment?"

It seems to work. She gives me a look, maybe amused. "The usual this and that. Nothing you'd be interested in."

"Why don't you let *me* decide that?"

She nods. "Sure," she says, shrugging. "First of all..." and she proceeds to go through her current caseload.

In a way, she's right. Nothing she recites seems desperately interesting. Nothing calls out for a lawyer's touch.

But...

They're the things I never get to hear about from Peter. The real things. The things that aren't political or worthy of media attention, but the things that matter nonetheless to those whose lives they touch.

The little things that count.

So as she talks, I listen, I question, I comment.

Many of my suggestions are irrelevant by this point - the office isn't going to allocate any more of Leela's time to these cases.

But Leela listens to me as well, she considers, she makes notes.

What I say will make a difference in the future. May even make the difference between a guilty man going to jail or being let off, or an innocent being brought to trial in the first place.

An hour or so later, the kids due back in the not amazingly distant future, the bottle in front of us untouched except for those first shots, Leela gets to her feet.

"Thanks," she says. "For the help."

"Maybe we can do it again sometime," I say, screwing the cap back on the bottle. My tone isn't quite as casual as the words - she *owes* me.

She owes me at least this much.

She waves the bottle away as I offer it to her. "Keep it. We can open it again next time."

"Sounds good," I say, smiling.


Thus begins our pattern.

Thus begins our dance.

Leela comes over to visit as her schedule permits.

Sometimes once a week.

Sometimes even twice.

And sometimes she's just too busy and skips a week.

And when she does, we talk.

About cases she's working on.

About methodology and other technical advice.

Even just about her workplace in general.

Not about personal things, though.

She never brings anything like that up.

And neither do I.

It's a truce, unspoken, but no less bound in iron for that.

It's because...

Well, for me at least, it's because she's an escape from my normal life.

A way of escape.

A way of *being*.

A way of having to think half like a lawyer, half like an investigator.

(Or, at least, learning to think like the latter.)

A place where I don't have to be *me*.

For a while, at least.

And nothing changes, nothing at all changes, like I feared it might, for a good few months.


Leela's been a bit more fidgety this meeting than most.

I'm not entirely certain whether it's one of the cases she's been working on, or something else entirely.

I'm thinking about testing the bounds of the agreement and making an indirect inquiry, when she suddenly says, "So, do you think that you can find a babysitter for Friday night?"

I blink.

We've never met outside the afternoon.

We've never even discussed the possibility.

Until now, apparently.

I complete a quick riffle through my mental calendar. We don't have anything planned for that night, and Peter usually stayed out quite late on those nights, networking.

"Probably," I say cautiously.

There's a service we use when we have an evening function.

Just a local teenage babysitter isn't good enough for our kids, after all.

"Why?" I ask.

She gives me one of her half smiles. "Wondering if you'd like to have an evening out. Let your hair down for once."

I blink again.

That was... not what I had been expecting.

Not that I'd had any expectations whatsoever, but...

My brain briefly glitches with the out of context problem.

It's so completely unlike anything I've done for years and years...

But I can't deny that the idea has some allure.

"Okay," I say, making the decision on impulse. "Sure."

She scrawls down something in her notepad, then tears out the page and hands it to me.

It's the address of a bar.

"Be there at nine."

I find myself smiling back at her, an illicit pleasure flickering in my stomach.

You're on, Ms. Tahiri.

You're on.


Peter raises his eyebrows when I tell him that I'm going out for the evening on Friday. "Oh?" he asks. "What are you doing?"

"A girls' evening out," I temporise, pausing from stressing out about what I'm going to wear to come over and kiss him on the lips. "I can't let you have all the fun on a Friday, can I?"

"Oh, if I could give you all my fun, rest assured I would," he tells me dryly. "Well, have a good time."

"Thanks. I will."


The bar is loud and shadowy and honestly kind of dingy.

And so completely not the kind of place I'd ever go voluntarily that I have to recheck the address twice when I enter, bobbing in and out of the entrance to use the streetlight.

But it's the right place and, as I enter properly and allow my eyes to adjust to the dimness, I can see Leela waiting for me at the bar, a drink in front of her and a drink in the empty space next to her.

"Hi," I say as I make my way next to her.

"Hey," she says.

"To be honest, I'm feeling a little overdressed," I admit.

She glances down at my clothing, then gives a soft laugh. "Yeah. I see that."

I may have dressed down a little to go to a bar.

But this is more than a little lower than that.

"Why are we meeting *here*?"

She shrugs. "I like the ambiance. Plus, I can afford the drinks on my salary."

"Maybe I should talk to Peter about getting you a raise," I say, looking into my glass a little dubiously, before taking a swallow.

Another laugh. "Yeah. I'd appreciate that."

We spend much of the evening just chatting again.

But it has a different quality here.

Maybe it's the semi-darkness.

Maybe it's the different environment.

And maybe it's the excuse to actually talk like friends for once.

But the topics are different.

More personal.

Leela twists away from anything about her past before a year or so ago, but she does talk about her life here a little.

Just sketchy details, but enough to make me feel warm inside.

We're friends, I think. We're actually friends.

And maybe it's something that I should have realised before now, but I really hadn't been sure.

And then, abruptly, we're talking about work again.

Or, more precisely, one of Leela's more recent cases.

"I can't believe that she hadn't already left him," Leela says moodily, staring off into middle distance.

I shrug. "Well, it's lucky for you she hadn't. Otherwise she probably wouldn't have agreed to testify against him."

Her lip curls. "Doesn't she have even the least bit of self-respect? Why would someone stay with someone who hit them?"

"Fear?" I suggest. I might have thought loyalty, wanting to see things through, no matter how bad they might seem at the moment. If Leela hadn't managed to persuade her to turn on him. "I can't really understand why she wouldn't just be out the door, myself."

Even in the scant light and the soft edge of alcohol, I can see Leela's grip tighten on my grasp, and she turns to look at me. "It's not necessarily that easy," she says, staring at me with a veiled heat in her eyes. "I wouldn't expect *you* to understand."

My brain stutters for a few moments, her quick reversal indicating a hitherto unsuspected minefield, not sure of which direction to leap.

"You're right," I finally settle on. "My marriage is good. I can't imagine Peter ever laying a finger on me."

She relaxes abruptly, looking away then draining her glass. "Yeah," she says, waving the bartender down. "Yeah, I can't imagine that either."

"So," I say, looking for a less dangerous topic of conversation. "Do you have anyone? A boyfriend? Or a girlfriend even, I guess."

She snorts. "Not really the relationship type," she says and drains the new drink as well. "There's someone at the office that likes me, though."

My stomach clenches a little. "At the office? What does he do? Is he a lawyer? Clerk? Paralegal?"

She laughs a little. "She's a lawyer."

Oh.

She.

Well, that answers some questions I guess.

And, though Leela was kind enough not to put too much emphasis on the pronoun, I can't help feeling a little stupid.

"I think that it'd be a bad idea," I say, ignoring the heat rising in my cheeks.

"Yeah?" she asks, her eyes dancing a little with what is undoubtedly amusement at my discomfort.

"If it gets out, or if anything goes bad, if she's a lawyer, then you're going to be the one to suffer."

Don't dip your quill in the company ink, and all that.

Or whatever the equivalent is for professional women.

She considers for a moment, then nods. "Yeah. You're probably right."

And I feel myself relax a little.

I've come to like Leela, almost depend on her.

I don't want anything, anyone, to risk harming her job, and risk losing this.


And this, too, becomes part of our routine.

Once or twice a month, maybe more if there's something to celebrate, we go out for an evening.

Not necessarily to the same place, thank god.

Sometimes I can persuade Leela to go a little more upscale.

But these excursions become our place to relax a little, and talk about the things that neither of us seem to able to talk about in my house.


Leela fiddles with her glass before looking back up at me. "I've got a question for you."

It's towards the end of one of our evenings out, and Leela's been drinking a little more than usual.

Not excessively so, but...

I've been wondering if something like this was coming.

"Yes?" I prompt, as non-committal as I can manage.

"I've got a friend who has a problem." 'One of her friends.' Right. "The husband of one of *her* friends propositioned her, and she's wondering... Should she tell her?"

"Whether she should tell her friend about the proposition?" I ask, just to make sure that I've got the situation down correctly.

Leela doesn't bother saying anything, just nods.

"And does either one of them work at the Attorney's office?"

She hesitates a moment, before nodding again.

Well.

The morally correct thing to do would be to get Leela to tell her friend.

That's what friends should do for each other.

On the other hand...

"Don't get involved," I tell her. "No matter what happens, you'll undoubtedly be blamed."

My first priority has to be Leela.

And, really, if a wife doesn't know that her husband is cheating on her, she's probably half at fault anyway.

"Yeah," Leela says. "You're probably right." Her gaze is focussed on her drink, though, and there's still a tense, unhappy air about her.

I lean over and hug her. "If it helps, I'll get the next round," I whisper into her ear.

She laughs a little, and untenses a little. "Thanks," she says. "Free alcohol always helps."