A/N: This story is not connected with "All's Fair In Love And War" for those who might have read that story first. :)

This chapter has been rewritten with some new things being added and others changed or reworked. It's longer than the original chapter with the changes, omissions and new additions and is, in effect, a new chapter.

Miles has returned and all hell is going to break loose in chapter 13 when Phoenix finds out. [Note: Miles' and Phoenix's inner voices are enclosed in : as Mercedes Lackey does in her Valdemar novels.]

Thanks to my readers and all those who have favourited, reviewed, story alerted, favourite author or author alerted me. I appreciate it more than I can say! :)

Special thanks to my beloved husband, DezoPenguin, for all his help, support, advice, nagging (when necessary) and encouragement! I appreciate it more than I can say! Love you!

Any and all comments will be appreciated and are enthusiastically welcomed! Hope you enjoy the new, revised chapter! :)

Rated NC-17, male/male relationships, Phoenix & Edgeworth

The man stood off a little to the right, carefully hidden behind the large tree that stood in the front yard of the house closest to the curb. He watched the man in front of him breaking down and crying, his shoulders shaking violently as the storm in him finally found release.

He stepped back quickly, his lips trembling, his hands clenching into fists, with his heart hammering double-time in his chest. He felt the man's deep set grief and ache as if it were his own, envying the other man's ability to let his emotions free and find release whereas he preferred to keep them bottled up and under control.

Control... he thought, his lip twisting with distaste. Is it really worth all of the pain that I've caused to both myself... and him?

If he was honest with himself, and something he didn't really wish to explore at this point in time, he would have to admit that he was the cause of this man's pain and deep-seated anguish. Hadn't he been the one who left without a word? Did he recall what he had left behind?

He hadn't thought that it would have caused him as much pain as it did but was that really true? He knew it would hurt; there was no way he could deny it. Regret washed over him in a raging tide, long buried feelings once again rising to the surface. How could he make it up to him, who had suffered so much? Would he even let him explain why he had done what he had? Maybe he would although it was much more likely that he wouldn't and he had to face the fact that he might never forgive him for what he had done.

He would accept that as a just punishment-one he thoroughly deserved, truth be known-if it came down to it but he hoped with all of his heart that it wouldn't. He wanted to make things right with him again-he owed him that much, at least-and he missed him; it had surprised him when he realized just how much he had missed him and this fact was disquieting.

Who am I trying to fool? he thought, regret spreading through him, clenching his left hand into a fist as he looked down at the ground. It was my fault in the first place; I have no one to blame but myself. He slowly looked up at the sky, his thoughts racing over one another, tumbling over one another aimlessly in the corridor of his mind. I and I alone am responsible for my actions; I can only hope that he will be able to forgive me for what I've done since I'm not sure I can forgive myself.

With a deep sigh, he lowered his head and looked upon the sobbing man on the bench, a mixture of compassion and agony gracing his handsome face, his heart breaking as he saw the man he loved more than anyone in the world dissolve into grief at his supposed death. How could he ever attempt to explain the inexplicable when he really wasn't certain himself what the real truth behind the reason for his disappearance was?

He had his reasons although he really wasn't sure that any of them were either very good or wholly unselfish ones and he couldn't table them as such in that category.

He had lived with the regret of what he had done for nearly three years; he wondered how he was able to live with it this long and shied away from the harsh answer that his mind flung back at him. Because you wanted it this way. You didn't trust him, you didn't trust his love; you let fear overcome your basic common sense-he winced-and you ran away from your life, your career and him. You're a fool, Miles Edgeworth; you always have been a fool and you always will be.

His internal voice's next words dripped with undisguised venom. :Why are you here, skulking around behind a tree when you should be over there comforting him! He doesn't look at all well.:

Miles' face flushed a dirty red at that last volley, his jaw tightening, his hands clenching into angry fists; he took a deep breath to tell his interfering internal voice that he most certainly was NOT skulking anywhere, behind a tree or otherwise! He really didn't appreciate that tone but, as soon as he opened his mouth to speak, he snapped it shut again, shame flowing over him.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, feeling the unmistakable sting of tears beginning to well up behind his closed lids, swallowing hard. He couldn't argue with what the voice had said, unkind and harsh as it may have been, it was nothing more than the brutal, honest truth.

He had abandoned the one he'd loved because he was afraid. In those terrible days following the conclusion and resolution of SL-9, he'd been buffeted by unsettling feelings: fear, sorrow and self-loathing combining in an overwhelming wave that had crashed into his open wounds and the resulting maelstrom had sent him reeling.

He'd reacted almost instinctively in his flight from the world he knew and the person he loved but he couldn't think clearly or logically with the emotional storm that had broken with such violence within him at that point in time. He'd been in too much psychic pain for anything else to really register in his conscious mind.

He'd run, as far away and as fast as he could, not stopping to think how his actions might affect his lover or even the possibility that he might be hurt by his disappearing without a word. What had he honestly expected to happen: Phoenix rejecting him after he left and going on with his life sans Miles?

Did he honestly, in his heart of hearts, expect Phoenix to write him off and out of his life on little more than out of sight, out of mind? Maybe on some level he did but, as he thought of it now, he reflected on how much of a fool he was for even thinking it in the first place. Phoenix wasn't like that and he knew it given that Phoenix had changed his life plans and had become a lawyer in order to save him from himself.

How could he, in all good conscience, ever expect Phoenix to do something as heart-wrenching as writing him out of his life completely when the man simply didn't have it in him?

No, if there was someone who was wrong on all counts, it was Miles himself. He acknowledged this, cursing himself repeatedly over the past three years for being such a fool for throwing everything he had away, especially Phoenix.

How could he ever hope to atone for that? How could he expect Phoenix to forgive him when Miles couldn't even forgive himself for abandoning him? The reasons for his leaving, that seemed so important then, really weren't when he looked at them in the cold light of logic he'd once been so proud of.

Miles slowly lowered his head, trying very hard not to let the tears he could feel welling up in his eyes fall down his face. He could feel hurt, regret and nostalgia twisting together in his gut, a sour taste in his mouth that wouldn't go away, no matter how many times he tried.

He had been a fool... and now he was alone. No matter how many times he had tried to convince himself otherwise-and he had over the years-he knew that he was at fault. He'd been a coward and ran from his life, from his past but, most of all, from Phoenix.

He'd visited him every night for the past week while he was at home sick with the flu, watching him through the window that looked into the bedroom, pressing his hand against the glass. It gave him some measure of comfort, at least, that he could watch over his sleeping lover from outside but he couldn't erase that desperate longing within, all the while wishing that he could be in the room with him.

Tears sprang to his eyes as he leaned his forehead against the branches, his fingers tightening around the flaking bark, small bits of wood slowly drifting to the ground.

I was wrong, Phoenix... Oh god, how I was wrong! And there's nothing I can do to make it up to you. How I wish I could... how I wish I could!

:It's too late for that, Miles. And you're the one who's going to have to live with it for the rest of your life.:

He winced but couldn't deny the truth of that statement, his hands curling into fists once again.

Never, he thought bitterly as he turned to leave, his heart in raging turmoil, were truer words ever spoken.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

A few days later...

November 1st
Phoenix Wright's residence
9 A.M.

I woke the next morning to my clock radio blaring The Police's "King of Pain" with a-thankfully-less pounding head and a settled, though hungry and complaining, stomach. I blinked drowsily until I realized that I was in my own bed, in my own room and began to relax, chuckling quietly to myself.

It's a good thing that there isn't anything breakable close by... I thought with some embarrassment. I'd go broke trying to replace it all!

I turned over, laying my arm across my eyes and lay still for a few minutes, letting the music wash over me, wrapped very comfortably in the comforter. Once it had finished, I rolled over onto my left side and pushed the snooze button, sinking back down underneath the thick comforter with a happy sigh.

I definitely felt much better than I had the previous week although my eyes felt like they were gummed together; I struggled to open them, my knuckles rubbing them to try and get rid of whatever gunk was blocking my vision.

A few minutes later, I managed to clear it enough that I could see, blinking a few times to clear anything else that still remained and I was quite relieved when the walls in the bedroom slowly came into focus.

Well, at least I don't have to add "going blind" to my list of worries... I've enough of them as it is. I sighed, burrowing further under the covers, trying to ignore that stab of pain that, although it wasn't nearly as sharp as it used to be, still hurt even now three years after the fact.

I tried to push away the pain and sorrow that always came calling at this time of year but I had no more success now than I had in the first two years after he died. My heart ached for the one I loved and he was gone. No matter how many times I tried to tell myself that, it never really seemed to work.

Turning over, I buried my face in the large pillow, my shaking fingers gripping the sides of the pillow, trying to get a hold of my racing emotions. I didn't want to break down and cry; I didn't have any tears left... or so I thought.

I was surprised to feel my eyes welling up and there was nothing I could do to stop it; they slipped silently down my cheeks like rain, a choking sob torn from my throat as I cried bitter tears, despair raging through me like a tidal wave.

Questions pummeled me: Would I ever be free of this grief that never quite left me? Would I ever be free of the memory of Miles? I supposed I would be when I no longer shed tears of any kind for him but that seemed like an impossible dream at best.

It didn't matter how many years had passed since he'd died: the pain was always there at this time of year, as fresh and raw as if his death had happened only yesterday.

It still hurt even after all these years and, as I took a deep breath in order to try and regain some matter of control over my warring emotions, I doubted that I would ever stop grieving for Miles Edgeworth. Just the same, I knew that I had to get a grip and spent the next fifteen minutes doing just that until I had managed to regain some visage of control. I lay there for some time, my face pressed into the tear-soaked pillow, my heart in turmoil. If someone would have said to me six years earlier that I would be tearing my heart out over Miles Edgeworth, I would have thought that they were crazy.

I groaned and pressed my face deeper into the pillow, berating myself in my mind. Stop it! Just let it go! There's nothing you can do to bring him back!

I squeezed the ends of the pillow until my knuckles turned white, feeling that hard-won peace start to slowly slip away and I fought with all my might to bring it back. Why do you keep on grieving for him? He obviously didn't love you if he took his own life, knowing full well just how much it would hurt you.

The truth really hurts sometimes, I mused as I got out of bed and dressed in silence. I went over to the window to draw the open drapes and gasped in surprise when I saw the hand print left on the window glass. It was faded, like it had been there for some time.

My brows furrowed, my hands beginning to tremble although I wasn't really sure why. That's odd, I thought, my brow creasing as I leaned in closer to get a better look, this wasn't here last night! I wonder who could have put it there?

I shivered slightly as I stood up, a cold chill running down my spine, looking at the hand print with trepidation. Who's could it be? Who left it there... and why?

I didn't like questions without any answers, particularly when they began and ended at my window. I stood there for a few more minutes before shrugging uneasily and turning away, adding yet another mystery to be resolved when I had the time to do so on top of so many now, I had a client to defend and anything else would have to wait as a consequence.

I took a deep breath as I walked out the door, turning the key in the lock, turning and looking at the yard; seeing no movement of any kind, human or otherwise, I nodded with satisfaction and started down the stone steps. I went over the case file in my head as I did so and wondered how we were going to resolve the apparent disconnect between my gut feeling and the evidence that the police had collected.

My thoughts tumbled over one another as I waited for the bus to arrive to take me to the police station and during the forty-five minute trip. I hadn't the slightest idea how I was to form a defence when, to all intents and purposes, Mr. Carstairs, my client, looked very guilty, indeed, if what the good detective and I had discussed earlier was any indication.

The first thing I'm going to do once I get there is talk to Detective Gumshoe, find out what they have and then talk to my client and see where we go from there. I sighed loudly. And if my gut feeling is correct or not as to his innocence.

It was going to be a very long day.

XXXXXXXXXXX

10:45 A.M.
Police Headquarters
Downtown Los Angeles

As I walked into police headquarters later that morning in search of Detective Gumshoe to get the autopsy report from him, I reflected that it had been awhile since I'd been here last. It still looked the same but, at the same time, it was different somehow but I couldn't quite put my finger on exactly why.

I shrugged and continued on my way, nodding a greeting at police officers and employees alike who stopped to greet me, giving their sincerest condolences. My face tightened but I answered them with a wan smile and thanked them for their kindness before moving quickly on. I knew that they meant well but I didn't want to break down in front of them; I preferred to do my grieving in private, away from the world's view.

I knew they meant well but it was hard when my heart was hurting so much. I dreaded this time every year when the anniversary of Miles' death came around although my heartache began at least three months before with the dread increasing until the actual anniversary, leaving me an emotional wreck for a week or so afterward.

They say that "time heals all wounds," I reflected as I strode through the warren of offices, they obviously didn't bother to check with me first. I could have, very easily, disabused them of such a ridiculous and trite notion.

:Bitter today, aren't we?:

I ignored the snarky voice at the back of my head as I took a left at the end of the hall, walking over to the door that had "Detective Richard Gumshoe" printed in thick, black block letters on the window. I lifted my curled hand and rapped at the door lightly with my knuckles, walking in when I heard him call out.

Gumshoe looked up from some papers that he was currently engrossed in, his lips curving into a welcoming smile.

"Morning, pal," he said pleasantly, standing up and coming over to where I stood, shaking my hand enthusiastically. "How're you feeling today?"

"Better than I was," I said honestly and sidestepped his query of how I was doing otherwise, "thank you. I really appreciate what you did for me the other day and I wanted to thank you for looking out for me."

He waved my thanks away with a bright smile. "No problem, pal. It was the least I could do."

We stood in silence for a few moments before he broke it by turning around and picking up a file which he handed to me which I took from him, thanked him and opened it quickly, thumbing through the various pages until I came to the autopsy report right in the middle of the sheaf of papers.

I quickly scanned it, my eyebrow raising slightly. Gumshoe leaned against the edge of his desk, his arms folded across his chest, watching me in silence. When I turned with some surprise to look at him, he merely nodded.

"Something's really screwy here, pal," he said, unfolding his arms, his right hand scratching the back of his neck perplexedly, "and, I don't mind tellin' you, it bugs me."

I nodded in agreement. "I know. It bothers me, too." I put down the autopsy report with a sigh, rubbing my eyes tiredly with my fingers. "The problem is that I don't know, exactly, what it is that feels so wrong about all of this." I looked away for a moment. "I only know that something is but, without definitive proof, my hands are tied."

Not to mention that my client looks even guiltier.

Gumshoe nodded sympathetically, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder. I looked at him gratefully; of all people, he understood what I was going through and I found his presence to be a comforting one.

"Anyway," I continued a few moments later after the silence became too long to bear, "I'll have another look at this autopsy report later on today"-I looked at my watch-"since I have to go meet my client in a few minutes to talk to him and hear his side of the story." I sighed as I flipped the manila envelope shut.

Gumshoe nodded. "It looks real bad for him right now, pal," he remarked as I nodded in agreement, "and... it seems all the evidence points to him and that makes him look even guiltier."

My thoughts exactly.

"I know but..."

"You don't believe he's guilty."

I shook my head. "No, I don't. I can't explain why but my gut tells me that he's innocent." I thought a moment. "That and the fact that this doesn't feel right convinces me that he probably blundered into it after the fact and isn't involved directly."

Gumshoe nodded in reply and I changed the subject from the case to other things: we commiserated about work; we talked about Gumshoe's date with Maggey that evening and where they were planning to go (they were going to go to that new French restaurant that recently opened in L.A.); his plans to rebuild the Blue Badger into the best one ever and talked for half an hour conversation about Maya and Pearls' latest letter from Kurain and catching up on how things were going there. (They were fine and doing very well but missed us and hoped that everyone was well. They'd be down to visit in a couple of weeks and looked forward to meeting me at the station.)

I was trying very hard not to think about what next week was while we talked and, at least on my end, the conversation was stilted. I was well aware that Gumshoe knew, too, if the sympathy I could see in his eyes was any indication. I acknowledged his concern with a wan smile and gamely started another conversation about the Blue Badger which Gumshoe immediately-and ecstatically-pounced on. While he talked excitedly about his plans for rebuilding after the Blue Badger's unfortunate demise a few weeks earlier (apparently the Chief of Police had 'accidentally' backed over it under 'suspicious circumstances'), I was trying not to give in to despair although it was proving to be a very difficult thing to do.

I tried to keep my mind on the conversation and not on Miles' ghostly presence that always hovered in the back of my mind but he kept interrupting, breaking into my stream of consciousness whether I wanted him to or not. I knew that today was going to be hard but reminders kept slipping in through the barrier I had erected about my broken heart and the fresh wounds cut me to the bone. It was bad enough that Miles was dead; it was even worse that he'd killed himself. I couldn't help but berate myself for not being able to stop him and it wounded me deeply... when I didn't hate him for abandoning me.

Three years... it's been three years and I'm still grieving, I thought despondently, looking at the floor for a moment, trying to get myself under some kind of control, anger mixing with despair as Detective Gumshoe hovered near me, his face wreathed in sympathy. This is ridiculous... I'm so tired of this but I can't forget, no matter what I do. I just wish I could get on with my life!

"I'm sorry you're having such a rough time today, pal," Gumshoe murmured sympathetically, his hand lying on my shoulder. "I wish that things were different."

So do I.

I opened my mouth to say something but thought better of it, simply murmuring, "Thank you, Detective."

After few minutes later, I looked at my watch and saw that I needed to go to my appointment with my client shortly and bid Detective Gumshoe a good morning which he warmly returned as I slowly walked out of the office and down the hallway.

Had I waited a few more minutes, I would have been privy to a conversation the good detective had on the phone with a mysterious person... a conversation that would have explosive repercussions for me and break my heart anew.

XXXXXXXXXXX

12:00 P.M.

Gumshoe watched in silence as Phoenix made his way out of the office after their chat, biting his lip, conflicting emotions battling within him. He felt like a traitor, knowing how much pain he was in but he had given his word that he would say nothing of the phone calls he had been receiving as of late. He was torn, though, and it made him distinctly uncomfortable whenever his conscience pricked him.

He hated keeping the truth from Phoenix but he'd given his word that he would stay silent; for the tenth time that day, he was left wondering if that was really such a good idea. Phoenix was in so much pain that it hurt Gumshoe to see him like that; they were friends, after all, and it was this that kept nagging at him even as he waited for the phone to ring which it did a couple of moments later.

His hand dove into his pocket, snatching the phone and flipping it open quickly, pressing the "talk" button firmly as he brought it to his ear.

"Yes?" A pause. "Yes, he just left, Sir." He tilted his head slightly to the right, looking up at the spackled ceiling, his brow furrowing slightly. "When? A few moments ago; he's pretty upset." Gumshoe's eyebrow rose. "I don't mind tellin' ya that I don't like doing this..." He sighed resignedly, his free hand reaching up behind his head to scratch his neck. "I know, Sir; you have your reasons but he's in a lot of pain, too, and I can't help thinkin' I might be contributing to it, somehow. And it doesn't make me feel real comfortable."

He winced, holding the phone away from his ear for a bit. "I know, Sir, I know... I said I would keep your secret and I have. I just don't feel good about it, that's all..." He idly scratched the outside of his nose. "Yes, Sir. When will you be coming back?" He nodded and then jumped when the secretary's puzzled voice asked him where the copy room was, giving him a strange look as she turned and walked away. He looked after her for a bit and then shrugged, his attention returning to the impatient voice that was on the phone. "Okay. Do you need me to pick you up? What time? This afternoon, 3 o'clock, L.A. airport? Okay, I'll be there."

Gumshoe pressed the "talk" button and the connection faded before he flipped it shut and put it in his pocket, sighing loudly as he did so, pushing his hands deeply into his trench-coat pockets before turning on his heel and walking towards the entrance of the police station.

He didn't like what he was doing and his conscience nagged him something fierce but he'd given his word to Mr. Edgeworth that he wouldn't reveal his secret and he was determined, come what may, of keeping his promise... even if it hurt one of his closest friends.

Gumshoe sighed once more as he pushed the entrance bar on the front of the double doors, stepping out into the slightly overcast morning, his expression unhappy and his shoulders slumped. He hated being put in this position, having to choose between loyalties to two friends since he both loved and held them in the highest esteem.

But who else could Mr. Edgeworth have trusted with such a delicate task? Even though he may not have appeared to be very bright, Gumshoe was discretion itself and, as Mr. Edgeworth was well aware of, he would keep this knowledge to himself.

He knew well that, if Phoenix found out that Mr. Edgeworth was still alive and that he, Gumshoe, not only knew it but had known about it for some time, it would put an indelible strain on their friendship that he wasn't sure would survive it.

He also knew that Phoenix wasn't going to be happy when he found out, that much he was sure of and, for once, he was happy not to be anywhere in the general vicinity when Mr. Edgeworth would meet him again in the cemetery...

He had said to Mr. Edgeworth that perhaps this wasn't the best way to reestablish contact with Phoenix after so long but, after the combination of a verbal tongue-lashing and an icy glare, he'd kept any more objections he had to himself.

Gumshoe shuddered as he plunged his hands deep into his pockets once more, hurrying out the door and across the street toward his parked car, hoping that, once Mr. Edgeworth had revealed himself and explained the reasons for his disappearing, that Phoenix could find it in his heart to forgive him for this deception.

He also hoped that Phoenix would forgive him, too, should it come to that.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

11:45 A.M.

Police Headquarters
Holding Room

I held the file in my left hand as I slowly opened the door to the prisoner holding room with my right, stepping quickly through the door and pulling it shut behind me. I walked quickly over to the chair that stood in front of an open room with a plexiglass divider and sat down, getting my first real look at the person who sat there.

The suspect, Richard Carstairs, aged forty-five, sat slumped in the chair behind the plexiglass, his face haggard, dark circles under his eyes indicating that he hadn't been sleeping well since he'd been arrested, a week's worth of beard covering his sallow, sunken cheeks and rumpled clothing all spoke of a man who was near the end of his rope.

A police officer stood guard silent sentinel in the corner directly behind Mr. Carstairs, his face expressionless although I was sure that his sharp eyes were constantly scanning the room, keeping a close watch on both the prisoner and myself. I couldn't help shuddering a little when I felt the guard's eyes rest directly on me.

I swallowed hard as the guard's eyes met mine over the top of his sunglasses: they were a hard, flinty agate, and I noticed a slight twitch of the right hand corner of his mouth but he merely nodded in my direction and then went back to his original position, his head looking over the top of my client's head.

My heart went out to my client; I knew well what is was like to face scrutiny of this sort and, although my gut feeling was that he wasn't guilty, I needed to tamp that part of me down and follow the evidence that we had. Which, admittedly, made Mr. Carstairs look incredibly guilty.

I sighed and rubbed my red eyes tiredly, blinking a few times to try and clear my vision. Another in a long line of sleepless nights coupled with long, exhausting work days were taking their toll; I desperately needed some down time to relax and recharge but that wasn't possible at the moment and very likely not for the extended future. My client stood accused of the savagely brutal murder of his wife and, although the evidence against him was mostly circumstantial, it was solid.

Just what I needed, I thought morosely, pulling out the chair slowly as I sank down into it, putting the file on the desk in front of me, more problems. Why can't my life be simpler or, better yet, my cases be that way? I sighed inwardly, my fingers lacing together and lying on the desk in front of me. Too many things to check, too many questions to ask. God, I hate my life sometimes...

After a few moments of silence, I took a deep breath and looked through the plexiglass at the shattered man who sat on the other side of it. Richard Carstairs looked blankly at the floor, his eyes wide open but not seeing, his mouth working but no sound emerged. This was a man on his last tether and I knew that confinement certainly wasn't helping him; I had that strong feeling in my gut again that this was an innocent man but, so far as I could tell at this point in time, the evidence stated otherwise.

I hate my job sometimes... I took another quick glance at the wreck of humanity that sat across from me, my face creased in sympathy. This was definitely one of the aspects of my job that I really disliked. I know he isn't guilty but I have to prove it and that isn't going to be an easy task since the evidence that we have is stacked solidly against him.

I unlinked my fingers and rubbed my eyes tiredly before linking them together again. Here goes...

"Mr. Carstairs?" I asked gently, keeping my voice low so as not to startle him since he seemed lost in himself. "My name is Phoenix Wright and I'll be defending you in court." When he made no reply, I repeated my query. "Mr. Carstairs?" Nothing. I repeated my query again when he remained unresponsive, over and over until, five minutes later, he slowly lifted his head to look at me.

I nearly reared back in shock at the pitiful wreck that stared back at me. If I had thought that the man looked as if were going around the bend, this merely confirmed it. He looked incapable of coherent thought, let alone coherent speech and I wondered how I was going to question him in this state.

For several minutes, he sat there as if he were in a trance, his wide, blank eyes staring off into space. I could see his mouth moving and strangled half-words and phrases were coming out of his mouth. The guard made a move to come toward him but I waved him off; he needed some time to come to himself and I didn't want anyone interfering with that process. With a skeptical look, the guard stepped back, taking his place back in the corner of the room, keeping a close eye on Mr. Carstairs.

He seemed to pull himself together slightly at first, struggling to throw off the invisible bonds that bound him, twitching wildly and he shimmied back and forth in the chair, moving it slowly in half-circles in an arc around the front of the plexiglass.

The guard half-turned to look in my direction and I shook my head in the negative at the unasked question; with a stiff shrug that spoke volumes, the guard resumed his place once again and we both watched in silence as Mr. Carstairs fought to overcome whatever it was that was holding him back. After a tense few moments more, he finally collapsed forward in his chair, his arms falling onto the desk in front of him and his head following soon after, panting hard.

I nodded to the guard who went to Mr. Carstairs' side, gently lifting him up and wiping the perspiration from his face with a black handkerchief. Once he had done this, the guard stepped back into his corner and I got my first good look at my client. He looked a little the worse for wear although I couldn't really blame him; incarceration of any sort wears on one's spirit, as I was well aware of, and, moreover, he also stood accused of a most brutal and horrific crime.

At first glance, Mr. Carstairs was in a world of trouble and, if the evidence that I had in my possession in the file in front of me was any indication, his day was about to go from bad to worse. I felt a pang of guilt that it was I who would be the bearer of the bad tidings and I hated to see the desperate yet hopeful look cross his face when he said, "M-Mr. Wright? Are... are you-you here to... to... defend me?" He struggled to sit up, several expressions flickering over his face. "You... are my-my... attorney?"

I nodded. "Yes, Mr. Carstairs. I have been hired to represent you in the upcoming trial." I sighed and shook my head. "It doesn't look good for you right now, I'll admit that straight off."

Richard Carstairs' face crumpled. "I'm... innocent..." he whispered, so softly that I had to lean forward to hear what he was saying. "I-I... didn't... kill... my... my... wife, Mr. Wright... I swear I didn't!"

I believed him. There was something so intrinsically wrong about this case that even Detective Gumshoe was able to pick up on and that firmly cemented my belief that Richard Carstairs was innocent of all charges. Still... there was the evidence that had been collected and I laid my hand on top of the file, my lip quirking at the edges. How to account for it was going to be another matter altogether when I knew, without any doubt, that he was innocent of the charge of murder.

The question was: how was I going to prove it when what we had seemed to indicate otherwise?

I bit my lip, noting that Mr. Carstairs' eyes had gone very wide, as if he knew in which direction my thoughts were going. His lips trembled as he leaned forward, desperation marked clearly in his face, his hands knotted together.

"I... didn't... do it!" he cried desperately, his face haunted. "All I know is that... that, when I came home, Amy wasn't at the door to greet me like she usually is. I thought it odd, yes, but I wasn't angry with her or anything like that..." He lifted his head to look at me, tears welling up in his eyes. "I... I loved her very much, Mr. Wright, and I would never do anything to hurt her in any way." From the passionate look on his face, I believed him and waited for him to continue.

Richard Carstairs looked at me, his eyes full of pain. "I … I... just wondered where she'd gotten to and thought it very odd that she wasn't there to greet me when I walked in through the door after work; I can count on that like clockwork." He hung his head. "All I remember is I came into the house, she wasn't there to greet me at the door and I looked for her. I walked into the living room and then-" He paused.

"Yes?" I prompted, my eyes narrowing as I studied him.

"I-I... don't... remember," he finished helplessly, spreading out his hands. "I woke up in the wrecked living room, my finger covered in blood and Amy's battered body near me." Tears spilled down his cheeks like rain as he remembered the horrific scene. "I-I have no idea what happened, Mr. Wright, and I don't know why the back of my head hurts like the blue blazes, either."

My eyebrow raised. "Oh?" I knew what had happened, of course; it was all in the written report. What I wanted to see was if he knew.

He nodded slowly. "Yes." He touched the knot on the back of his head gingerly. "Obviously I was knocked out but I don't remember seeing anyone in the house."

I nodded quietly and listened as he told me all he knew which, admittedly, wasn't much. He reiterated his statement that he had come home and, not seeing his wife at the door to greet him as she was in the habit of doing, went in search of her. That was all he remembered until he came to in the middle of the wrecked living room, his wife's lifeless and savagely beaten body lying some inches away from him.

The perpetrator must have been waiting for him inside the house, I thought, biting my lip thoughtfully once Richard Carstairs had finished speaking, there's no other explanation. The one who committed the crime was already in the house somewhere, waiting for him. Or... could it be that he had arrived at the house some time earlier, when Amy was still in the house? Could she have even let the perp in? There was no mention of forced entrance so its a possibility and its also possible that she knew him, letting him in of her own free will...

"Did your wife know anyone?" I asked suddenly, Mr. Carstairs' head snapping up immediately, shock written plainly on his face at the question. I knew that I had worded the question the wrong way and opened my mouth to say so but he didn't give me a chance to say anything before his temper flared.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded, his eyes reflecting his all too real pain, his mouth twisted in anger. "Are you saying that my wife was having an affair with someone else and this is why she died? Is that what you're saying, Mr. Wright?"

He glared at me with such hatred that it made me quail a little inside. I wasn't implying what he thought I was-that his wife was being unfaithful and had found her demise at the hands of her lover-and I waited for him to calm himself which he did a few minutes later. He slumped back in his chair, a hurt and defeated look on his face, all energy spent. He looked so tired and lost that I ached for him, all too well acquainted with that particular feeling.

I wish I didn't.

I took a deep breath and looked him square in the face. "No, Mr. Carstairs, that is not what I'm saying," I replied primly. "What I want to know is if your wife had any friends that you knew of in the general vicinity." I leaned forward, my eyes locking onto his, my mouth narrowing into a thin line. "There were no signs of forced entry so that leads to the conclusion that your wife either knew intimately, or was an acquaintance of, the perpetrator. She let him in so she had to have known him at least a little to do so; I can't see her letting anyone in she didn't know."

Richard Carstairs shook his head numbly. "She wouldn't have let in anyone she didn't know," he said quietly, "and I can tell you that for a fact." He took a deep breath. "She is-was-a very cautious woman, Mr. Wright; she wouldn't let anyone she didn't know into the house or even the front yard, for that matter." He shrugged his shoulders. "I confess that I'm having a great deal of trouble trying to reconcile the fact that there wasn't any forced entry when, as far as I know, Amy didn't have any close friends in the vicinity at all."

"Where is the closest friend she have live?"

"In Santa Barbara. Her name is Melisande Browne and she and Amy grew up together as kids in Carmel."

I nodded, lifting my hand off of the file and flipping it open, pulling out a pen and began writing notes as Richard recited Ms. Browne's address and telephone number. We talked a half hour more and, by the time we had finished, I was certain that my gut feeling was right. Richard Carstairs was not the person responsible for the savage death of his wife although I had no idea how we were going to find the one who was responsible or prove that he was the guilty party. All we had to go on at this point in time was the evidence in the file that the police had collected at the crime scene... and that evidence pointed to Mr. Carstairs as the one responsible for his wife's death.

"Mr. Wright?" a small voice asked, breaking into my thoughts. I lifted my head up quickly to see Mr. Carstairs looking at me, with a sad expression on his face.

"Yes?"

"Do you believe me?" he asked quickly, cheeks flushing a brick red as he did so. "Do you think that I...I... killed... my wife?"

I shook my head. "No, I'm pretty sure you didn't kill your wife and, yes, I believe that you're innocent." I stopped for a moment, his sad eyes starting to light up with hope. "The only problem I have is that all the evidence we have to go on at this time points to you being the guilty party," I continued and he gave a strangled squawk, his eyes widening. "I don't know how I'm going to prove it, Mr. Carstairs, but my gut's never been wrong yet. I'm convinced of your innocence and now I have to find a way to prove it."

"How does it look for me?" he asked plaintively.

"Not good at this point," I replied honestly and he nodded, as if that was what he was expecting me to say all along, "but I intend to press on until we get the answers to who killed your wife and why."

Mr. Carstairs smiled faintly, a flicker of hope shining in his eyes. "That's all I can ask of you," he said softly, "and thank you for believing in me. My life is in your hands, Mr. Wright; I'm trusting you to do the best you can and, hopefully, you can ferret out the real killer and bring him to justice."

"I certainly hope I can, Mr. Carstairs," I said, rising from my seat as Mr. Carstairs did the same on the other side of the glass, the guard coming silently to his side to escort him back to his cell, "and I promise you that I will do the very best I can to find out who the real killer is and bring that person to justice. You have my word on that."

"Thank you, Mr. Wright," he replied quietly, turning away from the plexiglass, the guard's hand gently wrapping itself around his arm as he escorted him out of the room and back to his cell.

Once he was gone, I turned and began walking out of the room, wondering how in the world I was going to prove him innocent when all of the cards were stacked against us. I was so deep in thought as I walked down the corridor that I nearly collided with a secretary laden with an armful of paper, apologizing quickly as the flustered woman stared at me in hostile silence for a few moments before her eyes softened, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile as she nodded before continuing on down the corridor. I watched her until she turned a corner and was lost to sight and I smiled I continued on my way, now paying more attention to my surroundings than I had before.

We'll deal with that problem once we come to it, I decided, walking quickly out of the door once I had reached it, my heart lighter than it had been that day as I exited the building, but, right now, we have work to do.

Everything else, for the moment, could wait.