"I am not."

"I have a client coming in five minutes, MacKenzie. We can play twenty questions until then, or you can tell me what you're doing in my office when you ought to be on your way home."

"You have Merle to come home to. Had I such a compelling motivation, I might not be here." Whatever was on Mac's mind, it had him rattled enough to admit, in a pa.s.sing, sidewise Mac-understatement that he was lonely.

"You have my entire attention for another four and a half minutes."

"I like your Hannah. I respect her."

Trent hid his surprise, because Mac did not intrude into anybody's personal life without good cause-though she was his Hannah.

"Is there a but?"

"There's something," Mac said, turning the rhododendron ninety degrees, then rearranging the foliage so none of it was cramped by the window. "I usually make a little fuss over the new hires at the Christmas party, officially welcome anybody who's joined the company in the past year. Hannah is our most recent hire, so I looked up a few things."

"Things about Hannah?"

Mac nodded, and the unease in Trent's gut coalesced into an urge to strangle his older brother.

"I found no record of a Hannah Stark attending the University of Maryland in the past ten years."

UMD, where paintball and farm-team baseball qualified as dates. "Maybe she was married at the time. She has a child."

"About whom, we aren't supposed to say a word."

"Do you have something more on your mind, Mac?"

"Hannah Stark did attend law school."

Trent was not proud of the relief that admission engendered. "So she was married during undergraduate, and changed her name back when she divorced." Except she'd never mentioned a marriage, and Trent had good reason to believe she'd never been married.

"Maybe, but I did a quick search of the divorce records, and no divorce was granted to a party resuming use of the maiden name of Hannah Stark," Mac said, his tone level. "She's in good standing with the Maryland courts."

"Why are you telling me this?"

More to the point, why hadn't Trent allowed himself to do any of this digging?

Mac slid the rhodie half an inch closer to the end of the window ledge.

"Hannah's a lawyer, and a good one," Mac said. "My gut tells me she's also a good woman, but she has problems, Trent. The secrecy about the child, the lack of a past, the blanks on her employment application and human resources forms... They're troubling."

"You want me to grill her into admitting those problems?" A hypothetical question, because Trent wouldn't do it. If he attempted to turn inquisitional, Hannah would disappear from Hartman and Whitney, and from his life.

But not from his dreams.

Mac took a long, silent moment to study the rhododendron. It was a beautiful, thriving specimen, but Trent kept it in the office rather than have a toxic plant in his home.

"You'll do what you think is best," Mac said, "for you, for Merle, and even for Hannah and her daughter. I simply wanted you to know if James or I can do anything to help, we're here for you. And for Hannah and the child, if it comes to that."

He left, and Trent sat abruptly, hoping his d.a.m.ned five-thirty client no-showed. He'd had his dukes up, expecting Mac to lecture, warn and admonish-which Mac could do like a mother superior who'd forgotten her anxiety meds.

Trent hadn't expected Mac to offer help, though Mac's latest revelation only confirmed that Trent was falling in love with a woman in trouble.

And there was not one d.a.m.ned thing he was willing to do to stop himself.

Hannah got through her docket. By the time the last case concluded, half the lunch hour was gone, Hannah's stomach was growling, and the judge was barking at everyone except the deputies. Margaret finished the docket, packed up her files, and tromped past Hannah with a silent shake of her head, leaving Hannah alone in the courtroom, save for the bailiff.

And Trent Knightley.

"What are you doing here?" she asked as she shoved files into her briefcase.

"Ambushing you. I'll help you carry those to your car, but then I've got a shelter care hearing I need you to take because my benighted, d.a.m.ned domestic violence case got b.u.mped to the afternoon docket."

The very words "shelter care hearing" still had the ability to scare Hannah. When the Department of Social Services thought a kid was at imminent risk of harm, and couldn't find another plan for keeping that child safe, they popped the child into foster care first and answered questions from a judge, the child's lawyer, and lawyers for the child's parents later-usually a day later, seldom more than a week later.

"I wasn't aware shelters would be part of my case-load," Hannah said evenly. Many a family law specialist never set foot in a foster care proceeding. Hannah had desperately hoped to get through her six months in family law purgatory among that number.

"Don't poker up on me now, Stark. All you have to do is consent to have the kid stay in foster care for thirty days while the Department sorts the situation out. It isn't complicated, but I can't be in two places at once."

A child was torn from everything and everyone he knew and loved, and it wasn't complicated?

"Have you read the pet.i.tion, Trent?" Because even in an emergency child welfare situation, the Department of Social Services had to lay out the facts in writing for the judge and other parties.

"Not yet," he said, stuffing some of Hannah's files into his briefcase. "The social worker usually brings the paperwork to the hearing, which is scheduled for 1:30 p.m."

"If you haven't read the pet.i.tion, and haven't met with our client, how do you know we'll consent to thirty days of foster care?"

She put the question quietly, hoping Trent didn't hear the tremor in her voice.

He pa.s.sed her the last file, which Hannah could barely wedge among the others in her briefcase.

"The local Department of Social Services is not in the habit of s.n.a.t.c.hing children unless there's a strong suspicion of abuse or neglect, Hannah. I know these people, and they do a good job, contrary to what the newspaper sometimes implies."

Hannah knew these people too. "I want to do a good job as well, and until I meet with the child, I won't know whether the hearing is contested. Counsel for the parents might have something to say about it too."

Trent snapped his briefcase shut.

"n.o.body expects brilliant advocacy at a shelter care hearing, Hannah. The cases pop up without any warning, the rules of evidence don't strictly apply, and all the judge can do is deny shelter or turn the child over to the Department for thirty days. It doesn't have to be a big deal."

A shelter care hearing should never be anything less than a big deal. Hannah had sat through numerous shelter care hearings, her own-when her placements disrupted-and several times as a forgotten observer when other cases had been b.u.mped ahead of hers on a harried docket. Trent was right: they were usually handled efficiently, with little or no dispute as to the facts or the need for temporary placement.

And into foster care the child would go, which was a huge d.a.m.ned deal for the kid.

"If you're telling me you cannot do this," Trent said, "I'll juggle somehow. Patlack is reasonable about giving opposing counsel some scheduling leeway, and the judges are pretty understanding as well."

"Who's Patlack?"

"Brian Patlack represents the Department of Social Services. He's d.a.m.ned good, though not the most charming soul. He'll work with you if you're reasonable. Can you do this or not?"

Trent wasn't pushing, he was offering Hannah a choice, for which Hannah would never stop respecting him.

She could do it. She didn't want to, but now was not the time to disclose her history, or the fact that she'd supplied less than complete information on her employment application.

"I'll manage."

"That's my lady."

Trent toted files out to Hannah's car, bought her a bowl of soup for lunch, then disappeared to meet with his client and try to work out a settlement with opposing counsel in the domestic violence hearing.

Hannah tossed her soup away after half a bowl and nibbled the crackers, mostly to get her stomach to quit cussing at her.

The child support cases had shown her that she needed to face the family law dragon and at least twist its scaly green tail. Maybe she needed to chop off a head or two of the hydra in the foster care courtroom too.

If only she had a white charger to gallop around on.

Hannah made her way to Courtroom Four by one o'clock, and found the corridor deserted. No social worker, no Patlack, not even a bailiff or deputy to open the courtroom. At twenty-five minutes after one, a red-haired man in pointy-toed boots and a brown three-piece suit came striding around the corner.

"You from Hartman?"

Hannah stood. "I am."

To her consternation, he didn't offer a handshake but instead took a seat on the bench she'd just vacated and flipped open an alligator-finish briefcase.

"Hannah Stark," she said, "counsel for the alleged child in need of a.s.sistance."

Courthouse Cowboy began leafing through files. "Brian Patlack, attorney for DSS. The worker should be bringing your client, Tyrell Oliver, unless he's succ.u.mbed to a badly timed case of happy feet. We don't expect a contest from Mom, and Dad is, as we say, unavoidably detained." He pulled a slender file from the briefcase. "I'll let the judge know we need a few more minutes."

He strutted off to disappear behind the heavy wooden door that led to judges' chambers.

b.a.s.t.a.r.d. It was 1:30 p.m., Hannah had been cooling her heels for half an hour, waiting for Patlack, his social worker, and Hannah's client to show up-along with the paperwork necessary to try the case.

And now Patlack was back in chambers, telling golf stories because his worker was late, and he hadn't even had the courtesy to ask Hannah if she had a position on the case.

A bailiff hurried by to unlock the courtroom, and a tall, painfully thin African American boy, accompanied by a short, well-fed, middle-aged Caucasian woman showed up shortly thereafter-at 1:35 p.m.

"Tyrell?" Hannah held out a hand, which-give the kid credit-he shook. "I'm Hannah Stark, and I'll be representing you in this hearing. May I talk with you for a minute before the hearing gets started?"

Tyrell shot a look at the woman beside him, but said nothing.

"You're his worker?" Hannah asked.

"I am," the lady said, not offering a name. "You're from Hartman?"

"Mr. Knightley couldn't get free of another emergency case," Hannah said. "Tyrell and I need a few minutes to talk. We'll use the courtroom for privacy."

The worker looked uncertain, but Hannah didn't wait around to hear that she'd best watch her client lest he bolt, or whatever helpful invective the woman might spew.

Hannah sat on the counsel table and eyed the young man who'd followed her into the courtroom. "What's the deal, Tyrell?"

"Dunno," Tyrell muttered, hands in the pockets of his slacks. His V-neck sweater proclaimed him a student of the local Catholic school.

"Look, Tyrell, the judge will come prancing in here any minute, and the Department will ask her to keep you in foster care for the next month at least. Unless you tell me something different, I will agree to that on your behalf. Gimme a clue: Where do you want to be?"

Tyrell shrugged.

He was having the bad day to end all bad days, so Hannah waited. The first shelter care hearing was always the worst, walloping a kid's life sideways, even if his very survival necessitated that disruption.

"Maybe with my grandpa. He'd take me in."

Tyrell had thrown Hannah a bone. She leaped on it. "Who's your grandpa, and where does he live?"

"Lucien Medley. He lives over on Mulberry. They got a phone."

Another bone-a phone number.

"We'll call him, but first tell me what's going on at home, Tyrell, and don't pretty it up. What you tell me stays between us unless you give me permission to share it with the Department."

Tyrell was silent a minute. Hannah watched the change in his eyes as disgust overcame a young gentleman's reticence.

"That idiot my mom took up with over the summer, Ray, he smacks her around. She has a black eye now from when he got mad last night, but she'll say she fell against the refrigerator by accident. It wasn't any accident, Miss Hannah."

From a child facing foster care, that was quite a speech.

"You call your grandpa." Hannah handed him her cell phone. "Tell him to get over to Courtroom Four on the double-quick, unless he wants to see you in foster care. I'm going to talk to your worker."

She left, and she did not warn him not to take off. She knew the look of a runner. Tyrell didn't have it, not in his eyes, not in his body language, and Tyrell wasn't about to leave his mother alone with Ray if he could help it.

Out in the hallway, Hannah stuck her hand out to the worker.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance...?"

"Betsy Niederland. And your name again?"

"Hannah Stark."

A vaguely concerned look came over Betsy's round face. "Do you think it's a good idea to leave him alone in there? He's pretty depressed, and his mom says he can be explosive at times. She says he's absolutely out of control, but the school doesn't have a problem with him. He usually makes honor roll, and last year he finished up on distinguished honor roll. We're looking to get him into a group home here in the county, eventually, and maybe start some family therapy down the line. We have a bed for him in a shelter in Baltimore for now." Betsy offered this mixture of facts, opinions, and wishes with a befuddled air.

"What about Ray?"

"Ray? Mom's boyfriend? Oh, I don't think he'd want to serve as a resource for Tyrell. Tyrell has quite a mouth on him when he gets a mind to cut loose. Ray says he loves the boy like a son, but he can't stand to see the way Tyrell treats his mother. He's a big boy, for only fourteen."

Tyrell was tall, but he was about as big as a matchstick. "Where's Dad?"

"Down at Maryland Corrections, serving a sentence for a.s.sault with intent to maim. Mom was the victim, and Tyrell is the one who called 911. If he hadn't, she might have bled to death."

Tyrell came to the door of the courtroom, a ghost of a smile on his face. He gave Hannah a barely perceptible nod and pa.s.sed her the phone.