The Prosecutor. Adrienne Giordano

died last week?”

      “That’s him. Brain cancer. He apparently refused to face his maker without clearing his conscience. He sent Emma Sinclair a video—starring himself— telling her the witness who ID’ed her brother wasn’t sure he got the right guy. According to Steve, detectives pressured the witness into saying he was positive.”

      Zac took his time with that one, let it sink in. “We locked up Brian Sinclair for murder and now we’ve got deathbed revelations?”

      “Something like that. The State’s Attorney called me at six this morning after seeing her newspaper. She wants the office bulldog on this. That’s you, by the way. You’ll have all the case files this afternoon.”

      More files. Every open space in Zac’s office had been jammed with stacks of folders containing all the lurid details of crimes ranging from robberies to murders. Where he’d put more files he had no idea, but as one of nine hundred assistant prosecutors in Chicago, a city plagued with over five hundred murders last year, he had bigger problems than storage space.

      Not for the first time, his responsibilities settled at the base of his neck. He breathed in, gave that bit of tension its due diligence and put it out of his mind. Unlike some of the attorneys around him, he lived for moments like this. Moments when that hot rush of scoring an important case made him “the man,” marching into court, going to battle and kicking some tail.

      The cases were often brutal, not to mention emotionally paralyzing, but his goal would always be telling the victim’s loved ones they got a guilty verdict. No exceptions. In this case, they’d already convicted someone. Zac had to make it stick.

      Adding to the drama was Chelsea’s father, Dave, who was a veteran Chicago homicide detective. A good, honest cop who’d lost his child to a senseless act of violence.

      In short, Zac wanted to win.

      Every time.

      “We’re already behind the curve with this article,” Ray said.

      “I’ll get us caught up.”

      When Chelsea Moore’s murder occurred, Zac had been grinding his way through misdemeanors. After getting promoted to felonies, he’d worked like a dog to win his cases and it paid off. Big-time. Ray had just assigned him a politically and emotionally volatile case that he’d bleed for in order to keep Chelsea’s killer behind bars.

      No matter how hard Emma Sinclair came at them, Dave’s daughter deserved justice. And Zac would see that she got it. He’d study the trial transcripts and learn the facts of the case.

      “The P.D. will go to the wall for Dave Moore,” Ray said.

      “Yep. The guy breaks cases no one else can. He won’t tolerate his daughter’s murderer going free. His buddies won’t, either.”

      Ray pointed. “Bingo.”

      If Emma Sinclair managed to get her brother’s conviction overturned, the Chicago P.D. would not only be angry, they’d also make sure Helen Jergins, the new State’s Attorney who’d promoted Zac, got run out of town. Hard.

      Ray shifted toward the door then turned back. “Whatever you need, you let me know. We have to win this one.”

      “I got this,” Zac said. “Count on it.”

      * * *

      EMMA STOOD IN FRONT of the huge whiteboard she’d rolled to her mother’s basement wall and contemplated her revised list of target defense attorneys. Given the newspaper article, today would be the day to once again get cracking on Project Sinclair.

      Eighteen months ago her twenty-two-year-old brother, a guy who had nothing but love for those around him, had been convicted of strangling a young woman outside a nightclub. Unable to withstand the injustice of the circumstantial case—no fingerprints or DNA—Emma started banging on the doors of defense attorneys all over the city, trying to win a reversal. No matter how many times she was told no, she would not be silenced. Not when her innocent brother was rotting in prison.

      She flicked her finger against the whiteboard. The new video evidence would lure one of these lawyers in. It had to. The case suddenly had all the political melodrama—corruption, false witness testimony, withholding information—defense attorneys thrived on.

      She spun back to the oblong folding table, shoved aside an open banker’s box, grabbed the binder with her latest set of research and made a note to study up on Brady and Giglio material. Being a first-year law student, a field she’d never imagined for herself, she hadn’t yet mastered the concepts, but they involved impeaching a witness and items prosecutors were required to share with the defense. Maybe in the next few days she’d have a defense attorney—preferably pro bono, considering that she was broke—to help her slice through the technical aspects of the case.

      Above her head, the exposed water pipe clunked. Her mother flushing the toilet. Emma sighed. She should move all this stuff upstairs to Brian’s old room, but her mother didn’t need to see a daily reminder that her son was a convicted murderer. Bad enough the poor woman had to think about it, never mind see it every time she walked upstairs.

      So Emma and her effort to free her brother would stay in the cold, dreary basement, surrounded by cobwebs that, no matter how many times she brushed them away, kept returning. When the time came for her to move out on her own again, she’d have a finished basement. No doubt about it. For now, she’d left her cute little apartment in Wrigleyville so her widowed mother wouldn’t have to face her demons alone.

      A rapid click-click-click of heels hitting the battered hardwood came from the first floor. Emma had spent countless hours listening to her mother’s footsteps above. Whether early morning or the darkness of night when sleep eluded them, Emma recognized the sound of her mother’s shoes. The ones she’d just heard didn’t belong to her mom. Someone’s here.

      “Emma?” her mother called from the doorway.

      “Yes?”

      “There’s a Penny Hennings here to see you.”

      Emma froze. Penny Hennings. She perused her whiteboard, where she’d alphabetized the lawyers’ names. Hennings. There it was. Not Penny, though. Gerald, from Hennings and Solomon.

      Maybe Penny was a relative sent to check her out for Gerald Hennings, who might want to take the case. And if said relation fought downtown traffic on a weekday morning and hauled herself to the North Side, to Parkland, it had to be serious. Emma linked her fingers together and squeezed. Please, let it be.

      “Be right up, Mom.”

      She glanced down at her sweats, torn T-shirt and pink fuzzy slippers. Great. She’d have to face some snazzy lady from a big-time law firm in this getup. She plucked a rubber band from the little bowl with the paper clips. Least she could do was tie back her tangled hair.

      Rotten luck.

      Forget it. She had to put her appearance out of her mind. For all she knew, Penny Hennings could be a cosmetics saleswoman.

      But what were the chances of that? Particularly at 9:00 a.m. on the morning an article about Brian ran?

      “Emma?” her mother called.

      “Coming.”

      She straightened. If Penny Hennings was from Hennings and Solomon, Emma had to go into full sales mode and convince this woman that her firm should take Brian’s case. After eighteen months of studying overturned convictions and hounding lawyers, it was time for their odds to change. And Hennings and Solomon could make that happen.

      Emma ditched her slippers at the base of the stairs and marched up. She looked like hell, but she’d dazzle this would-be-lawyer-slash-cosmetics-saleswoman with her powers of persuasion.

      The basement door stood open and Mom’s voice carried from the living room. Emma closed her eyes. This could be it. After a long, streaming breath, she stepped out of the short hallway.

      A minuscule woman—maybe